Not Talking. Listening.

On September 9, 2001, I had a rather large group of international friends, mostly fellow moms. Among the emotions that roiled me that day I remember having this sense that I just did not want to talk to these friends.  It wasn't that I thought they would be callous.  It wasn't that I thought they wouldn't be sympathetic. It was a sense I had that this had not happened to them.  It wasn't true, actually, they were living here, they had some of the same friends as I did living and working in lower Manhattan that they were trying to reach.  I knew that.  I just didn't feel it.  I felt a grief that I wanted to own, and that I knew was true.  While they lived here for a time, they had friends here, they were not Americans.  This attack was not about them.  I love my friends, all of them, but I needed space to feel that part of this.  It was a short lived cocoon, but it was real.

I am remembering this now. I am crying.  I do not know what to do.  Black lives are being taken and (some) white people are lying about this.  Yes, they are lying.  The truth is there, black lives are taken by police disproportionately, black men and women are arrested and imprisoned disproportionately (even when looking at the very same crimes) this means that black men and women are also disproportionately permanently disenfranchised.  In so many ways my neighbors, my fellow citizens and residents, are being silenced.  While this is happening (some) white people are taking to the airwaves, to the blogosphere, to social media and lying about the numbers. They are lying about the reality facing this country and the people who live here.

I want so much to show up at a meeting this week.  But I am wondering, am I wanted?  I don't mean ever, I mean right now.  I mean, as a white woman will I be intruding in a space that the majority members of this community need for themselves right now.  There are times when it is helpful to listen, to hear, to be there.  But in my experience there are times when it is helpful to stand back and understand, I  have a part play, it is my country, but it is not happening to me. I am not the target, I am not in constant fear for my sons. I am not afraid to let them walk with a group of friends through our neighborhood at night.  I never expect the police to stop them as they walk with their coffee to class and ask them where they are going and where they came from.  I live in a different version of this country.  I don't know if right now my neighbors who live in that other version would rather see me sit in the back and listen in solidarity or have a moment to themselves to grieve and be angry and feel safe with one another.

What I will not do is bear one more lie. And I will march with Black Lives Matter and I will continue to ask for legislative changes, systemic changes, and honesty.  But maybe, this one time, I will stay home. Maybe that would be the most loving, the most understanding thing to do.