The world is on fire, and I am living between two places right now.
After 10 weeks under the governor’s stay-at-home order in Flint, I traveled last Sunday to Louisville, my former city, to be with Hannah for a little while. In these days since, U.S. cities have seen ever-amplifying voices of pain and grief, signs that perhaps the nation’s black community has reached its limit on racist policing.
In Louisville, over the weekend, people marched for Breonna Taylor, shot to death in her own bed by police executing a no-knock warrant for someone who wasn’t there. The people chanted and tried to draw attention to the racist policing, while police taunted and provoked those peacefully gathered, even stealing cases of milk the protesters had brought along to counteract the tear gas they were certain to face.
Late Sunday night, amped-up cops left the downtown protest area (because everyone had gone home), and moved their operation to a black neighborhood where people typically live their lives outdoors, congregating on street corners and convenience stores (a community where I used to work). About midnight, for reasons still not clear, shots were fired, and a local barbecue vendor, David McAtee, was killed. Interesting, pointed out my friend and colleague on the scene, interesting how the police were shooting pepper capsules at the downtown rally, but switched to actual bullets as they moved into a predominately black neighborhood.
As I write this at 1 pm today, 13 hours later, Mr. McAtee’s body is still in the street, surrounded by police, who are now back in riot gear and goading the gathering mourners.
These incidents are representative only – representative of cops with deadly toys they cannot bear not to use, steeped in racism and violence their entire lives, the same violent proclivities that killed Breonna Taylor in the first place – only the latest in a centuries-long litany of murder by law enforcement.
Meanwhile, in Michigan, a different story. Prettier for national consumption, maybe, but dismissive and racist nonetheless.
In Flint, people gathered for protest and were met by white sheriff Chris Swanson and his troops, who fist-bumped and knelt and smiled and all that. “I want to make this a parade, not a protest,” Swanson said. As if what white people want is the answer. As if co-opting a protest is an act of solidarity. As if he weren’t representative of the problem in the first place. National media are giving him all kinds of credit for de-escalating, but local activists I spoke with are less enthralled with his takeover of a demonstration. Worth noting, too, this is the same sheriff who said he would not enforce Gov. Whitmer’s stay-home order, and this weekend he wasn’t wearing any kind of mask as he breathed directly into the faces of the people in the street – a crowd of people disproportionately vulnerable to a virus this sheriff refuses to take seriously. That’s not solidarity. That’s not peace-making.
Then there’s the governor. In a video message that I wondered might be lampoon, she and the lieutenant governor talked about the power of showing up to vote in November, and reminded us all of the value of speaking truth to power. And I just kept thinking you all ARE the power, you ARE the elected officials. That seemed like some strategic buck-passing to me, really. Who the hell does she think we’re supposed to be directing that truth to, if not her?
Something’s gotta give. Maybe this is the moment.
So part of the story for me is me. Maybe the “two places” I’m living between are not Flint and Louisville, but safety and solidarity.
I went to a demonstration Friday, a “stay safely in your cars with signs and noise” event, but went home when the organizers asked, and haven’t been out since. Coronavirus is still a real threat, and I have stayed home out of fear. Which is surely among the whitest things I’ve ever done – and which is certainly a privilege not shared by my black friends and neighbors whose lives are threatened on a constant basis.
I’ve protested quite a lot over the years. But this time, there is coronavirus. I have been conflicted certainly; I have been sweating and pacing, agonizing over this choice, but I have been doing all that agonizing safely at home, while I have avoided the places of more intense agony of my black siblings. I have consoled myself with the belief that preaching can be my contribution this week to the cause of racial justice. But that is insufficient. What is really needed is for white people to show up, to put our bodies on the line.
I have lived in fear of a virus for 3 months, and have let that fear guide my actions. But our black neighbors have lived in fear far longer. The death toll of the coronavirus is far outpaced by the death toll of racism.
As the disciples learned after Jesus’ death, holing up in fear can’t work. Today, it ends for me. Or more accurately, the “holing up” ends; the fear remains. Louisville’s black leaders are asking white people to show up today. Hannah and I plan to go.
Nothing will change until we make it change. Avoiding beaches, barbers and ballparks is still the most safe and responsible thing for the one virus. But in the face of the other virus, responsible engagement is the only way.