I stepped out my front door into what, for many of us, has felt like our own dystopian universe. I could hear honking cars when I was inside gathering my coat and debating whether or not to bring an umbrella. I could see storm clouds gathering over Selah— the destination of the protest. Snagging it just in case I went outside to join my daughter.   

A parade of honking cars with balloons and signs saying, “Happy Birthday” were circling our street. It was a Covid-19 birthday parade —our new normal. I reached for my daughter’s hand as another neighbor stopped in the street in front of us. Breathing heavily he looked over at us, “I heard the cars honking and thought I needed to grab my shotgun shells.” He bent forward, hands on his knees taking in air. “I read online that Antifa was on its way to Terrace Heights.” 

“Nope — just a birthday parade,” I said as I moved my daughter along. She showed him the sign she’d just made. It said simply, “I AM SAD.” I wondered if my neighbor would see us as participants in the Antifa movement. 

“What a cluster!” I thought as we drove. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing bringing my daughter with me. I’d asked to see if it was safe to bring children. I was told it was. But the refrain of “what if” is always begging me to insulate my children from harm.  

It almost kept me from sharing George Floyd’s story with my daughter. I’m not normally compelled to share such stories. They are hard. But, this I knew, like living through Covid-19, is a part of our nation’s growing pains. Oh, how she wept. She was immediately fearful for her best friend, her twin, the one I call her soul-twin, Carol. She wanted to know how we could keep her safe. 

Perhaps this is how. Perhaps it’s as simple as standing alongside those who are trying to make a difference now. 

“And, really what harm?” I thought. If people begin causing destruction we would leave. We would never participate in ruining the livelihood of another person. 

I believe the greater harm is keeping her from participating in such an important moment in history. I remember being her age when I learned about Martin Luther King Jr. and the civil rights movement. My little heart burst at the seams when it learned about the injustice endured by black communities. And then it broke. It broke when it learned that churches stood by and did nothing to help their black brothers and sisters. 

When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.

Letter from a Birmingham Jail — Martin Luther King Jr.

I promised myself then — if there was ever a chance to make that right I would. And now here I drove, my own 7-year-old buckled into her booster seat, on our way to making good on that 31-year-old promise. 

Actually, my bigger concern was what if the people we were joining didn’t want us there. I didn’t want anyone to think I saw myself as a “white savior,” but, I didn’t want to sit in silence either. I wrestled with those thoughts as I drove. I also wondered if we could sustain involvement to the end, beyond tonight? And, more negative thoughts– does it really matter if we’re protesting in a small, rural town in Eastern Washington? 

I didn’t want these thoughts to keep me from just taking the first step. It’s easy to become paralyzed when you don’t know what to do next.

As I arrived at the high school in Selah I saw families unloading their kids, unfolding strollers, tying on masks, etc… We found our small group of church-friends and waited for the evening’s events to unfold. 

There were three speakers plus the young woman who organized the event: a hiphop artist, a college professor, and a preacher. They spoke passionately about the experiences in their lives leading up to this moment. Times when they’d faced discrimination, how it felt to see another black man or woman die at the hands of police, what it was like to see the beginnings of change in our nation. 

Their words were hope-filled, inspiring, and educational. My daughter stood near me and then knelt with me for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. Let me tell you, that is a long time to kneel on the pavement. It was a time of silence, but my mind raced on. I slowed it by asking God over and over again to break my heart with the things that break his.

After this moment of silence we prayed. All of us — no matter the faith or denomination. It was around this time I noticed a partially dismantled semi-truck covered in patriotic imagery: flags waving, eagles flying, with a YouTube channel advertised on an attached flatbed. They drove into the parking lot and roared their tailored-to-be-loud engines. 

We were reminded to face whatever we would face with love and not hate. Then we grabbed our signs and walked from the high school to the civic center about a mile away. Some cars honked when they saw our messages, some ignored us, and some throttled their engines. Some of the louder trucks, I noticed, even circled back. 

Vivianne held her sign and we shouted chants as we marched. It grounded us and it was a reminder, always, of who we were doing this for. 

The marching ended and we gathered in front of the Selah Civic Center. Across from us was a largely empty parking lot. There were at least five cop cars parked next to each other. In front of them were a bunch of old trucks right out of The Duke’s of Hazzard. All revamped to make the engines sound as if they were thundering next to your head. 

The vehicles screamed to dispel the sounds of the protest. At one point we were singing, “Lean on me,” while one vehicle roared the entire length of the song. One bright blue truck drove up and down Main-street flipping us off and you guessed it, revving his super loud engine. 

No noise violations were issued. Someone told me that they weren’t monitoring anyone “cruising” these days because we were all so bored and this is something to do. But, those cops were parked alongside all of those people. They let them intimidate, threaten, and bully. 

They stood silent and in their silence, they stood in solidarity. And this is why speaking up now matters so much. 

When I was in junior high I was bullied by a couple of girls who fancied themselves gang material. I remember sitting at my computer monitor, minding my own business when one of them began shouting in my face. I couldn’t even register what she was saying — I was so embarrassed to be on the receiving end of her anger. No one said a thing in my defense.

The classroom was silent and it felt like everyone in the room had sided against me. That might not have been true, but not standing up for me left me feeling like everyone in the room was siding with my attacker.

Vivianne and I stood with our signs until she needed to go to the bathroom. After getting her a Lunchable, I decided it was time to head back. It was close to 9 pm and Vivi’s bedtime was two hours earlier. 

As we walked back, a man in a rusted out 1950s roadster, shook his head with disgust at me and my daughter. Even though he was on the same side of the road as us, only feet away, he revved his engine so that it was popping in our ears. 

The people opposed to this peaceful protest, to this movement, are not the kind of people I’d ever stand behind.

I encourage you, whoever you are, to come out of the shadows. Look on Facebook —see when the next Black Lives Matter protest is happening in our town. The biggest thing I learned by going to this protest is that representation is important. Our black brothers and sisters need to know you don’t stand with the bullies. If we don’t stand now they will never know how “the rest of the class” sees them. 

After I’d told Vivianne about George Floyd and sat there, rubbing her back as she sobbed. I wondered what was happening to our world. It feels like everything is shaking–and maybe that’s not a bad thing. What would I give up so others could share in my freedom? What needs to change for that to be everyone’s reality?

My daughter came away from the evening talking more about her Lunchable than the underlying issues of this movement. But, I know showing up —just showing up — is teaching her what it means to stand up to bullies, to take her broken heart, and the anger she felt too, and give it marching orders.