04 Jun Thank you, Mr. Floyd
The image of Mr. George Floyd, face down on cement, handcuffed, with an officer’s knee cutting off circulation, calmly expressing his emotions and struggles while police look on has become a rallying cry for the oppressed, unheard and unseen. It’s my cry. I am not black, but I know what it feels like to not be seen, heard, loved, and valued. My oppression came at the hands of family, specifically my parents, not the police state. It came from the stories of societal expectations, cultural norms, faith-based learning, and the training of should-dos.
“Dad and I are attending a vigil for Mr. Floyd in downtown Redlands,” I began over Shabbat dinner. “What are your thoughts about attending?” The question was raised to our three teenagers – two very recent high school graduates and our freshman daughter.
Body language, silence, and clearing of throats are cues. Cues to be still because the moment will not be easy but it is necessary.
“Mom, do you know what they’re doing to protestors?” Seth, the representative for the teen delegation, spoke.
“Please share,” I replied. “What have you seen?”
A muttering of voices in hushed tones with eyes cast down “tear gas”, “pepper spray”, “beatings”…voices trailed off. My body ached for their pain. I listened. Damon listened. They were seeing the world for what it was without the child-like innocence they were used to.
“I didn’t think the police were allowed to do that,” Seth whispered.
Right at that moment, our child stepped into adulthood, witnessing a reality that he studied in school, and his father and I (okay, mostly me) consistently speak about.
“Son, do you recall slavery: the promises made to black citizens after the Civil War never to be fulfilled; Jim Crow, lynchings; the March on Selma, the pictures of German Shepherds attacking peaceful protestors, beatings?” I said. “This is a long, long history of injustices and deep sorrow against an entire people.”
“Injustices are nothing new for our family…”
Injustices are nothing new for our family: Damon comes from a long line of Jewish people who traveled land to land (it’s called a suitcase religion for a reason) because of pogroms and Anti-Semitic horrors. My family, Muslims who were colonized in India hundreds of years ago, immigrated to Pakistan after Partition, only to be politically persecuted and landed in America just in time for Islamophobia. Yeah…we get oppression. Damon and I probably could teach a Master Class on it.
“We don’t feel safe and don’t want to go,” the kid’s voices were barely above a mutter. It took courage to say that statement, knowing full well that I, as their parent, could call out our accumulated ancestral struggles, filling the room with tension and force. But I did not. Unlike my childhood filled with tyranny, Damon and I respected their viewpoint and supported their decision.
“Dad was in his first year at UC Riverside and I was a senior at Eisenhower High School in Rialto when the Rodney King verdict came in,” I began. “White officers were acquitted in the trial of beating Mr. King and it let loose a fury of rage and anger that was festering under American soil all along.”
“We didn’t have smart phones or body-cameras back then,” Damon chimed in. “Someone recorded the images on an old-fashioned camcorder,” he lifted an imaginary camera over his shoulder as if he was videotaping our supper. “If it wasn’t for that footage, no one would have known.”
Protests have many forms, art being one of them. Seth created this piece after our conversation.
“Kids, I was an 18 year old senior in high school about to graduate,” I spoke. “Just like you both, but I didn’t have a home where these discussions were nurtured and fostered. I felt powerless most of my life until recently. I’m an adult woman of color. In almost every category I am considered a minority and could easily be oppressed, so I’m going to Mr. Floyd’s vigil,” I stated. “I had no choice almost 30 years ago, but I do now.”
With COVID-19 still looming, disproportionately impacting an overwhelming amount of African-Americans, it took no hesitation for me to make this decision. I was not concerned for my health or well-being. The pandemic, a natural occurrence every so often, affecting the human population makes sense to me. Racism, bigotry, inequality, systemic injustices – all manmade beliefs, disturb me to no end. They don’t make sense – never have, never will. The vigil’s social media page stated that social distancing protocols would be done and masks were required, but I knew, and deep down I hoped, that so much of humanity showed up that there would be no space left to move but in a collective, a body of Love.
Damon, Michael, my brother-from-another-mother, who I’ve known since I was 12 years old, came along as an ally. The vigil was held on a usually bustling corner of State Street, an old-world tree-lined location with its late 1800’s and early 1900s architecture but housing modern storefronts and restaurants, mostly family run businesses.
While people were socially distancing as best as they could, we looked for a shady area close to the stage. A young couple, probably in their early twenties, sat at the table closest to the speakers. In fact, the large majority of the attendees were young. Our group of three middle-aged folk was part of the elders in the crowd. I realized that the young couple that offered up their table, seats and comfortable vantage did so because we were their parent’s age. I found the act to be gracious and sincere, and received it with fervor and love.
“Thank you my friends,” I said. “You are so kind.”
Candles, pushed through Dixie cups, to hold the dripping wax were passed around. The wind picked up making for precarious holding positions and lighting strategies. Damon and I had already planned to bring faux-flame pillar candles from our home – battery charged and ready to go. (Suburban and prepared am I.)
Tony, the activist and organizer of the vigil, asked for nine minutes of silence – the length of time Mr. Floyd was being held down, peacefully saying, “I can’t breathe,” and eventually succumbing to asphyxiation.
“You’ll see how long it really is,” Tony said. “It’s a long, long time.” He started the countdown on his phone.
A group of young black students in front immediately took to their knees, while most all in the courtyard followed suit, including myself. The cement, sharp and cold, cut through my black joggers. About a month ago I tripped and landed on both my knees; that area was still tender and healing. Even though it wasn’t visibly bruised, it needed more time to recover.
Oh, Mr. Floyd, I’m going to sit crisscross applesauce in my meditative pose. I began a conversation with Mr. Floyd. Please forgive me for not kneeling.
I closed my eyes, both hands clasped over my knees: my right hand thumb and index finger lighting touching creating a bond, while the other three fingers spread out. My left hand – for reasons still unknown to me – the index finger and thumb do not connect. Not in meditation. They open up just enough to let in…Something, that I cannot explain.
Normally, during prayer and meditation, I enter Silence, and whispers of “I am here…kindness…you are not alone…” wash over me, but this time I spoke directly to Mr. Floyd.
Nine minutes, Mr. Floyd, honoring you. People – from all walks of life – are chanting your name all over the world as a cry for unity, solidarity and social justice. Your calm cries for help have become part of our human family and consciousness. All of us are connected equally and unequivocally through you and this moment whether we acknowledge it or not.
I know no human helped you but I wonder did the ants bear witness? Did the sky and trees hear your pleas? Did you call for Mama because death was at hand and something or someone outside of our realm could comfort you? Did Mama hug you tightly as you took your last breath?
Mr. Floyd wasn’t alone in death…he had all of creation witnessing his last breath. And he had his Mama.
When the timer went off, my mask was covered in tears and snot was running down my nose. The breeze was speaking through the trees, birds were chirping above but what I noticed around me were ants, some of the tiniest creatures on earth. There were a dozen or so, going back and forth, “talking” to one another and communicating. And then I realized Mr. Floyd wasn’t alone in death; he had the ants, birds, sky above, birds chirping – all of creation, witnessing his last breath. And he had his Mama.
My belief is that God, Love, the Universe (give it the name you prefer) knew that Mr. Floyd would not live. It sent forth his Mother as a messenger offering peace and comfort. He called out to his Mama because she was already there with him. That is Divine Love.
Your death was not the end, but the beginning. Thank you, Mr. Floyd. Thank you.
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