|Another day comes to a close and I sit here with tears. Again.
Every tear has a reason.
Tears of pain for my country, burning from the inside out.
Tears of pain for my people, fighting the good fight from the inside out.
Tears of fear for the future, what are we creating? What will stay? What will change? How much of this is a movement? How long will this last? When I look back on my role in this, will I have done enough?
Tears of seeing so much.
Often too much.
An elderly peace activist bleeding out after being knocked out and left on the sidewalk by the force that was there to protect him.
A homeless man shot with a rubber bullet to the head, his wheelchair bumped up against the curb, the police at attention, ready to shoot him again.
A police officer kneeling and asking for forgiveness.
A police officer beating a child and showing no mercy.
A protester protecting other protesters, using her tiny body as a shield.
Unnamed guards, heavily armed. A secret force for fear.
20-foot yellow letters claiming a street and owning those powerful words.
A military officer dropping his baton and marching in solidarity.
People of all colors and nations, standing together, united, all across this huge tiny globe we all share. Standing up. Shouting out. Letting it out. Letting it in.
So much pain.
So much hope.
From the inside out.
I have seen too much recently.
I have asked myself so many hard questions recently.
How white is my team? (Very white.) Can I ask that only people of color apply for the next opening? Is that allowed? Is that offensive? How many Black-owned businesses do I support? How can I find more Black businesses? Is there a guide? Should I start one? Is that offensive if I do?
Why hasn’t there been a protest in my town yet? Should I organise one? Is it privileged if I do? Why didn’t I join other protests? Why have I been so silent on social media? Why was I so paralyzed that I could not even find the right words to write my newsletter this week?
I have so many questions.
I have no answers.
I am just a 51-year old privileged white woman, who has no time for bullshit. I’ve spent a lot of time studying and asking hard questions, of myself, and others.
Studying racism is hard. It’s confrontational. It’s very upsetting. Frustrating. Shameful.
But studying racism and experiencing racism firsthand are 2 different worlds.
If you get the opportunity to study it, you don’t know how lucky you are.
I will be silent no more.
I just had to share these words, the only words, I have, with you tonight.
I hope you read them in the spirit in which they were written.