It seems like for the better part of the decade, America has been having a fruitless conversation, on endless repeat, over whether police brutality is a problem and whether black people and other marginalized people suffer disproportionately from it. It became part of our culture wars, an issue that animated two equal yet opposite ideological groups, while the disengaged remained disengaged and waited impatiently for everything to blow over. But whether it's because the pandemic has reminded us that we live in history, or because the repetition of tragedy has finally begun to move the needle, or because the video of George Floyd's death was really just that much more convincing than the other videos we've seen over the years, something very much like a consensus is emerging.
There's something happening - everywhere, it seems. Not just in America, but in countries all over the world. The world has
suddenly emerged from its astonished paralysis to confront racial
injustice. Some times, it sounds too good to be true, but there is every
indication that change is happening and will continue to happen.
Optimism flourishes amid the horror show of history.
On June sixth, 2020, I attended a rally and march with my fiancée on the steps of the capitol building in Salem, Oregon. It was ostensibly in honor of George Floyd, who was killed by a policeman after allegedly forging a check. It might also have been for Breonna Taylor, who was killed when her home was invaded by police as she slept. It might have been for Ahmaud Arbery, who was killed by a former policeman who avoided arrest until video of the shooting was released. It might have been for Tamir Rice, or Michael Brown, or Philando Castile, or Freddie Gray, or Sandra Bland, or Eric Garner, or any one else whose death sparked outrage and then went unaddressed in the last ten years. It might have been for every victim of racist violence in all of American history - the dead, the injured, the humiliated. That's a lot to put on the name of George Floyd.
I came to the rally because remaining at home made me physically anxious, like I was ignoring the clearest commands of my conscience. Going made me anxious too, mostly because of concerns that being near large crowds might expose us to the coronavirus. I'd been firm in my belief that limiting the spread of the virus was a moral priority for all Americans. But I considered the people who were being assaulted by police with pepper spray and rubber bullets because they could not abide the thought that once more, nothing would change. I considered that racism was the longer-standing and greater threat to the health of the most vulnerable people in the country. I couldn't let the coronavirus become a fig leaf for a lack of conviction.
I came partly in my capacity as an educator, because I view it as my responsibility to explain to my students how the present moment fits into the context of our ever-expanding history. But I wasn't there to teach - I kept my eyes and ears open, in order to understand more fully how the people were processing their grief for George Floyd, and their desire to see something done about his murder. I wanted to learn about the true character of this movement to which I'd been drawn.
One thing that was evident was that the protest was not ideologically unified or consistent. The organizers were at great pains to emphasize that they were holding a "peaceful" protest, and that they viewed the police officers who were present as potential partners. Leaders of Salem and Marion County police made speeches and expressions of solidarity and a desire to see racist violence come to an end. An impassioned and slightly profane musician (who seemed to need reminding that there were children attending) told any one who called for defunding the police that they were like the religious zealot he used to be. That part was a little confusing.
The crowd listened respectfully, and even clapped, to messages of unity and reform. But they also brought signs that said "no justice, no peace" and "ACAB (all cops are bastards)". And they applauded all the louder when speakers exploded with rage and sorrow, or described the pain and fear that came with being marginalized and targeted by police. There was rage in this gathering, for systemic racism and Donald Trump and for the possibility that anything like what happened to George Floyd might happen again. They had to have known that it would happen again. But there was a hopeful feeling among them that they could stop it with a show of moral force.
Nuance is an underrated value in public discourse. It's one thing to say all cops are bastards, and another to understand what it actually means - that in a system that incentivizes cops to exert violent social control on the downtrodden and despised, they might as well all be bastards. And it's one thing to preach love and nonviolence, and another to understand that to practice nonviolence in the tradition of Dr. King is to pair it with aggressive civil disobedience. I wanted to hear a forceful, nuanced message about why it was necessary to push the system beyond what it was ready to accept, and a defense of those who did the pushing. I wanted it acknowledged that brave people were putting their bodies and freedom on the line, and that they didn't wear badges.
It was easy to suspect that the organizers emphasized a police-inclusive tone because there were so many officers present, and they didn't want any one to inhale lungfuls of tear gas that day. And it was also easy to imagine how profoundly disappointed many of those present would be if the movement at hand did not succeed in abolishing the whole criminal justice system within a year. I was conscious that my opinions as to what should be done were neither moderate, nor as radical as they could possibly be. But for all our differences, the supporters of this movement can be like magnets pointed in the same direction. We'll move further than some people want, and not as for as others, but above all else we must move.
As an educator, it is my responsibility to question my biases, and think critically about why I believe what I do. That's why I acknowledge that I am moved in part by the voices of the moment to view the defunding of police departments, and their replacement with public services to nonviolently address the needs of their communities, as both an achievable and necessary goal. I can't claim to have always been in favor of it, nor to have arrived at this position solely through dispassionate analysis. But I do believe that the basic idea, whether it is achieved gradually or all at once, stands up to reason. And if the movement is not completely unified on matters of ideology or policy, the unity of its pain demands the kind of radical change that cannot be written off as lip service.
What impressed me the most about the gathering on June sixth was the courage. We came together despite the fear of coronavirus, despite the fear of having brutality visited on ourselves, and despite the fear that we might achieve less than we dreamed. A group of indigenous dancers performed just before the march was to begin - and the start of their performance was marked by wind, rain, and hail. But they drummed, and they danced, and we stood. Against social evil and physical danger, the people who gathered showed courage which the world is bound to respect.
Black Lives Matter is a movement that must succeed, and must be bold in doing so. For all that has been lost to police brutality and white supremacy, there is so much more yet to be lost if society does not achieve a complete transformation. As always, we have everything to gain from laying the foundations for real justice to build upon. The consensus for change is forming, and that is an opportunity we cannot waste.
