Passion and Pain
Groundhog Day. We wake and turn on the news. The pictures are the same. Crowds of protesters, police, sirens, broken windows, looters. Chaos. Passion and pain. I cry. My heart actually hurts. It’s visceral.
The pictures of the peaceful protesters walking and chanting their pain at the murder of George Floyd, taking a knee, standing silently in front of armed soldiers gives me hope. The helmeted police pummeling and hitting those protesters fills me with despair.
It is not that we haven’t seen blatant murders of black citizens by police before. Or rage and anger by Americans of all colors and ages. But, in the midst of the corona pandemic, the economic devastation, the more than 100,000 dead, it feels like a tsunami is washing over the country. And so much must change. But will it?
In my life I have taken part in many marches—for abortion, for equal rights, for civil rights. I have protested with Women Strike for Peace against nuclear testing, and against the Vietnam war. My small group of Women for Peace had a “Peacemobile.” It was a cart, decorated with pictures of babies. As we peacefully stood on a corner, we handed out leaflets about the effects of nuclear testing in breast milk where traces of radio-active Strontium 90 had been found. We were begging for moratoriums on nuclear testing—for the sake of the health of our children. I remember that there were many people who were against us and our message, who shouted at us from across the street. The called us “traitors” and “anti-American.” When they started walking toward us, threatening us, we—all women—sat down on the ground. The police stood by and watched. The “anti-protesters” faced us, but after a while, the police shooed them off. Shaken, we resumed our peaceful stand.
I think it might be different now. I think, seeing the scenes on television, maybe the police would push us women away, make us leave, even though we were not doing anything but exercising our right to speak.
My oldest grandchild lives in Washington and was protesting, peacefully, when he was rushed, shoved and tear gassed so that Trump could take a photo. I have granddaughters marching, peacefully I hope, in Boston. They are all so angry. They are fighting for their futures. I support them. But I am living now in a peaceful country town, far away from the big demonstrations. And I am in the group of older adults who are not supposed to expose myself to crowds.
Nevertheless, this Saturday there is a peaceful demonstration planned with the city officials in the small town nearby. Maybe it is time to do more than donate money. Time to put my body—masked and six feet apart from my neighbors—on the sidewalk and stand peacefully for what I believe in.