dots
"What does Daddy's sign say?"
"It says, I can't breathe."
"Why?"
I inhaled sharply under my mask, my eyes filling up behind my sunglasses. "Well," I said, "because the man who died a few days ago died because he couldn't breathe."
"Why couldn't he breathe?"
"Because the people were kneeling on his body, and when your body is pressed on, it makes it hard to breathe, and so he died."
*
It was late afternoon on a lazy Saturday in May. Kevin had gone out for a walk downtown, and I expected him back any minute. In fact, I was desperate for him to return. I had reached my threshold for imaginary play with our 4.5 year old, and was ready to have him home.
I texted. Status?
He was still downtown. He'd run into a group of people protesting racism in the name of George Floyd, and had decided to join them to show support. Of course, I loved this and was proud of him. But I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought was annoyance. I wanted him to come back and "rescue" me from my perceived torture.
He asked if I wanted to come and bring Jolene. And then, Or is that too much to put on her?
I wavered. Of course I did want to bring her, but we were in the middle of a game and it was getting close to dinner time and did I really want to spring this giant thing on her and was I prepared to go down this road today, with no warning? The inherent privilege in that wavering crushed me, but it was there.
Kevin texted, Maybe it's enough just to show her that people are anti-racist.
When I asked if she wanted to go meet Daddy downtown, to my absolute amazement, she said yes.
*
In January 2017, we hadn't thought twice. We dropped Jolene off at my in-laws' house, and joined the Women's March in Boston. And again in March 2018: Jolene was dropped off, we put on our March for Our Lives t-shirts, and protested gun violence along with thousands of others in Boston. With both events, the decision to go was easy, as was the decision to leave Jolene behind. She was young, vulnerable, too young to understand. We had agreed it was important to be able to tell her someday that we were on the right side of history, without bringing her into it.
But she's older now. Aware. Endlessly questioning and trying to make sense of the world.
*
When I saw the group of 6 people holding signs in a wide median in the center of town, I put the car in park and turned to face Jolene. "Do you remember the books we've read about Martin Luther King and Harriet Tubman? And about how they fought against racism?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what racism is?"
"It's when people treat other people differently because of what they look like."
"That's right. Not just differently, but badly."
I explained that recently some people had died because of racism, and that some people in our town wanted to say that we didn't think it was ok. She was quietly compliant, putting on her pink mask and allowing me to carry her over to the group.
*
The demonstration continued peacefully, people honking and waving as they went by. Jolene asked question after question, and we did our best to answer them directly and honestly, using age-appropriate vocabulary but not hiding the truth that a black man was killed by a white man because of racism.
She was struck by an idea and her face lit up. "I hope some police show up and tell the white people not to kill any of the black people anymore!"
Kevin and I exchanged looks. "Well honey, the person who killed George was a police officer." Her face was pure confusion. In her world, community workers and leaders are heroes. We know them, we thank them, we pray for them every night.
"But this is important," we quickly said. "Most police officers are good men and women who make good choices and are not racist. But this police officer was racist and he killed George Floyd instead of just arresting him the way he was supposed to, and that's why we're here, because it's not ok with us, and it's not ok with God." We then reminded her of the police officers she actually knows in our community, listing them by name, and assured her that they made good choices and would never do this kind of thing.
Then came the follow-up questions about the police officer, and what became of him. We explained that he wasn't allowed to be a police officer anymore and he would probably go to jail. Then questions about jail: Are there fruit cups? Can you bring a blanket and a lovey to snuggle?
The sun was hot and she was tired of standing, but still we stayed, until the organizer deemed it time. We gathered, the organizer thanked everyone for helping to do our part, and we dispersed.
*
I struggled internally the whole ride home. About how privileged I was to even think about being annoyed by my husband stopping at a protest instead of "rescuing" me. About how proud I was that our small, overwhelmingly white town had taken a stand. About how we went over and above to make sure Jolene knew that most police officers are good, so that she'll trust them, and about how different that conversation is and always will be for black children, who learn early that they are inherently and immediately suspicious to any police officer who sees them. About how tiny and inconsequential our little act seemed--after all, what change could possibly come from 6 masked people holding signs?
And then I thought about Jolene, and her questions, and confusion, and the pain she felt as she sorted through the hard truths we presented. And realized that change could possibly come from her. From a generation of kids confronting racism head on, instead of being shielded from it because they're able to. From a preschooler who can't accept that a police officer would choose to keep hurting someone who is shouting, "I can't breathe."
*
I recently talked to a friend who gave birth 3 weeks ago. Like every new mom, she was anxious and frustrated and questioning herself because it's so much all at once and the stakes are impossibly high. I told her that each decision she was making--about sleeping, feeding, pacifiers--was one out of a million decisions she would make for her son, and it was the sum total of those decisions that would make a difference, not any single choice. I had the image of a large mosaic, or a pointillism painting: up close, you can see each single, tiny dot, but one tiny dot doesn't make the painting. It's all of those tiny dots--moments, choices--together that make the picture clear, coming together to create something of beauty.
Today, we added a tiny dot to the largely still empty canvas of Jolene's life, and to the greater canvas of humankind. That tiny dot isn't going to do much on its own; the picture isn't completed with this single stroke. But we have a million more dots to add. And my hope for us as parents is that we're brave enough to keep adding dots, painful and confusing as they may be in the moment, so that when we step back, we'll see that each of these tiny moments mattered, and that our picture has become not only a thing of beauty, but a force for good.
*
"It says, I can't breathe."
"Why?"
I inhaled sharply under my mask, my eyes filling up behind my sunglasses. "Well," I said, "because the man who died a few days ago died because he couldn't breathe."
"Why couldn't he breathe?"
"Because the people were kneeling on his body, and when your body is pressed on, it makes it hard to breathe, and so he died."
*
It was late afternoon on a lazy Saturday in May. Kevin had gone out for a walk downtown, and I expected him back any minute. In fact, I was desperate for him to return. I had reached my threshold for imaginary play with our 4.5 year old, and was ready to have him home.
I texted. Status?
He was still downtown. He'd run into a group of people protesting racism in the name of George Floyd, and had decided to join them to show support. Of course, I loved this and was proud of him. But I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought was annoyance. I wanted him to come back and "rescue" me from my perceived torture.
He asked if I wanted to come and bring Jolene. And then, Or is that too much to put on her?
I wavered. Of course I did want to bring her, but we were in the middle of a game and it was getting close to dinner time and did I really want to spring this giant thing on her and was I prepared to go down this road today, with no warning? The inherent privilege in that wavering crushed me, but it was there.
Kevin texted, Maybe it's enough just to show her that people are anti-racist.
When I asked if she wanted to go meet Daddy downtown, to my absolute amazement, she said yes.
*
In January 2017, we hadn't thought twice. We dropped Jolene off at my in-laws' house, and joined the Women's March in Boston. And again in March 2018: Jolene was dropped off, we put on our March for Our Lives t-shirts, and protested gun violence along with thousands of others in Boston. With both events, the decision to go was easy, as was the decision to leave Jolene behind. She was young, vulnerable, too young to understand. We had agreed it was important to be able to tell her someday that we were on the right side of history, without bringing her into it.
But she's older now. Aware. Endlessly questioning and trying to make sense of the world.
*
When I saw the group of 6 people holding signs in a wide median in the center of town, I put the car in park and turned to face Jolene. "Do you remember the books we've read about Martin Luther King and Harriet Tubman? And about how they fought against racism?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what racism is?"
"It's when people treat other people differently because of what they look like."
"That's right. Not just differently, but badly."
I explained that recently some people had died because of racism, and that some people in our town wanted to say that we didn't think it was ok. She was quietly compliant, putting on her pink mask and allowing me to carry her over to the group.
*
The demonstration continued peacefully, people honking and waving as they went by. Jolene asked question after question, and we did our best to answer them directly and honestly, using age-appropriate vocabulary but not hiding the truth that a black man was killed by a white man because of racism.
She was struck by an idea and her face lit up. "I hope some police show up and tell the white people not to kill any of the black people anymore!"
Kevin and I exchanged looks. "Well honey, the person who killed George was a police officer." Her face was pure confusion. In her world, community workers and leaders are heroes. We know them, we thank them, we pray for them every night.
"But this is important," we quickly said. "Most police officers are good men and women who make good choices and are not racist. But this police officer was racist and he killed George Floyd instead of just arresting him the way he was supposed to, and that's why we're here, because it's not ok with us, and it's not ok with God." We then reminded her of the police officers she actually knows in our community, listing them by name, and assured her that they made good choices and would never do this kind of thing.
Then came the follow-up questions about the police officer, and what became of him. We explained that he wasn't allowed to be a police officer anymore and he would probably go to jail. Then questions about jail: Are there fruit cups? Can you bring a blanket and a lovey to snuggle?
The sun was hot and she was tired of standing, but still we stayed, until the organizer deemed it time. We gathered, the organizer thanked everyone for helping to do our part, and we dispersed.
*
I struggled internally the whole ride home. About how privileged I was to even think about being annoyed by my husband stopping at a protest instead of "rescuing" me. About how proud I was that our small, overwhelmingly white town had taken a stand. About how we went over and above to make sure Jolene knew that most police officers are good, so that she'll trust them, and about how different that conversation is and always will be for black children, who learn early that they are inherently and immediately suspicious to any police officer who sees them. About how tiny and inconsequential our little act seemed--after all, what change could possibly come from 6 masked people holding signs?
And then I thought about Jolene, and her questions, and confusion, and the pain she felt as she sorted through the hard truths we presented. And realized that change could possibly come from her. From a generation of kids confronting racism head on, instead of being shielded from it because they're able to. From a preschooler who can't accept that a police officer would choose to keep hurting someone who is shouting, "I can't breathe."
*
I recently talked to a friend who gave birth 3 weeks ago. Like every new mom, she was anxious and frustrated and questioning herself because it's so much all at once and the stakes are impossibly high. I told her that each decision she was making--about sleeping, feeding, pacifiers--was one out of a million decisions she would make for her son, and it was the sum total of those decisions that would make a difference, not any single choice. I had the image of a large mosaic, or a pointillism painting: up close, you can see each single, tiny dot, but one tiny dot doesn't make the painting. It's all of those tiny dots--moments, choices--together that make the picture clear, coming together to create something of beauty.
Today, we added a tiny dot to the largely still empty canvas of Jolene's life, and to the greater canvas of humankind. That tiny dot isn't going to do much on its own; the picture isn't completed with this single stroke. But we have a million more dots to add. And my hope for us as parents is that we're brave enough to keep adding dots, painful and confusing as they may be in the moment, so that when we step back, we'll see that each of these tiny moments mattered, and that our picture has become not only a thing of beauty, but a force for good.
*
Joycy has been my older sister's best friend for as long as I have memories of my older sister. She recently published this conversation about personal experiences of racism in America. It is worth listening to in its entirety (1:25). Not because every experience is as dramatic as George Floyd--but because so many of the experiences at first seem so small...and how insidious that buildup of racism becomes in the life of a single person, a generation, a nation. The accumulation of dots that results in a painful, complicated picture of life as a black person in America. Aundre is passionate, intelligent, and hilarious; I'm grateful for his honesty, and for Joycy taking the time to share his stories.