Born in the blur between Gen X and Y, there is a sub-sect known as the Oregon Trail Generation.
Our formative years included both the Dewey Decimal System and Google. Pay phones and iPhones. Cassette tapes and Spotify.
We remember grounding ourselves before we turns on the Apple IIC in the computer lab and the sound of dial-up internet.
The errs in judgement and foolishness of our youth were rarely documented on film and were never published for the world to see.
Today, we’re in our late thirties and early forties. Most of us have realized we’re not invincible. And that we don’t know it all. And, in the words of those who’ve aged before us: youth is most definitely wasted on the young.
I find myself daydreaming about my twenties. Longing for the freedom and unencumbered choice. Tweaked with new regret for failing to live the width of my life and not simply the length. While errantly forgetting the shackles that limited lateral movement.
Now, on Facebook and Twitter, I know very few people care what I have to say. I know this because I care very little about what they say. Social is a place I go to be brave and then cowardly wait for approval of people peripheral to my life.
Social media is to our adulthood as the yellow pages were to our youth. It takes up and unnecessary amount of space in our lives, but conversely provides functionality.
So, like the dysfunctional relationship it is, I’ll log off for a bit rather than severing ties.
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Monthly Archives: June 2020
Like giving flowers to a panhandler
My first instinct on Saturday morning post-riots in Minneapolis was grab the old cans of paint in my basement and haul them up to Lake Street to paint over graffiti.
The first vandalism I encountered was “J 4 G” (Justice for George) and an anarchy sign. I painted a heart over the anarchy sign but couldn’t bring myself to paint over the Justice for George tag. I painted a heart over the “u” in Fuck the Police on a bus stop sign…and then I quickly became ashamed of myself for censoring someone’s feelings.
The plan was quickly aborted. What I was doing was the equivalent of bring a crystal vase to a food shelf and that wasn’t helping anyone.
In the wake of terrorists
This weekend, I walked in the footsteps of peaceful protest and in the wake of terrorists. I saw the best of humanity and its seedy underbelly. It felt too invasive to take photos of the annihilation and impossible to capture the breadth of love.
A man on the radio said: ”Do what you can do. If you can give time, do it. If you can give food, do it.”
When George Floyd was murdered, I emailed two colleagues of color and expressing my feelings and asking what I could do to help. I realize now, I was put my feelings of helplessness on them. My feelings of anger on them.
I see now, my best intentions of compassion weren’t helping. They were hurting. It’s not on the oppressed to tell us what to do to make it better. It’s on all of us to just make it better. When I realized this, I stopped crying in outrage, took of the blinders and started to forge my own path instead of standing by like a helpless bystander. Here’s what I wrote to each of them with open eyes, not just an open heart.
First, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I put my helplessness on you.
I live blocks from the site of George’s murder and 13 blocks from Lake Street. I oscillated between nausea and rage-crying from the moment the shock wore off from seeing the video.
On Friday night, I forced myself to keep my eyes and ears open while fight or flight took hold of me.
We relocated our kids to be with my sister-in-law in the suburbs for the night, but I sobbed when I hung up on FaceTime after seeing my boy scared and just wanting me. This, I thought, is a taste of the fear every black son’s mother might feel when her baby goes out on Friday night with friends.
I opened my window and laid in bed in the dark listening to bangs and helicopters for hours and thought, this is a sample of the alert a person of color might feel. All. The. Time.
Some elitist guy I knew from college “unfriended” me on Facebook after I grew a pair and pushed back on his “us vs. them” veiled racist response to one of my posts. And when he unfriended me, I didn’t feel bad, I felt proud. And then I posted a screenshot of our interaction so everyone we know could see what “Minnesota Nice” racism looks like. And all of our mutual people didn’t miss what a piece of crap this guy is. Just in case they missed it the first time.
I woke up before the sun on Saturday morning and willed the clock to move faster so I could go hold my babies.
More importantly, I woke up in other ways. My safety has been threatened to which I say: Good. It’s the only way change will be made both internally and externally. This was the pledge I made:
George Floyd’s murder will burn in my heart and fuel the change that will ripple out from me and I hope, been seen by everyone in my sphere of influence. I’ll start with a good, hard look in the mirror to begin paying attention to the white noise filter of racism I’m surely find.
I’m done asking “what can I do?” Because if I feel helpless by sitting my duff and waiting for a guidebook to lead me by the nose, well, I’m just repeating history and that’s not good enough.
If you – as a man that I respect and care about not because of the color of your skin but for the radiance of your heart and power of your brain – need anything, please tap me. Otherwise, the next time I reach out to you it will be for things like professional collaboration or parental advice – not on how to be a decent human being.
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