Rodney Was Right

I sit at home watching the news, watching the aftermath of five police officers that were killed in Dallas.  Several more  injured.

As I was watching my youngest child was attending a vigil for people who have been killed by police officers.  Mostly black males.

There will be somber funerals for the police officers, flags draped over coffins carried.  Bagpipes, salutation and tears.

For the Black community there will be (and have been) cries of injustice and outrage.

And vigils.

I was a young mother living in LA when a man was pulled from his car and brutally beaten.  The man was black, the officers were white.

Again I watched the news of what was happening miles from my house.  The helicopters flying overhead toward a blockade to keep the rioting contained.  Not stopped, but contained.

On the second day of the riots my friend came over and we went to the beach.  Never once seeing the absurdity of the smoke of violence in the air as we safely played in the water.  I am white, I was not in danger.

Racism did not seem like an issue that impacted me. My naiveté protected me.

   I had on few occasions encountered racist remarks when I was dating a handsome black man.  It took years and brutality to make me see color. Prior to the riots I was colorblind.

What I did see was lie after lie of reporting.  My personal outrage was directed at the media, and at the guards who were placed around Beverly Hills and my neighborhood, where absolutely nothing was happening.  No fires, no looting, no rage.

The fires kept burning, and the police stood by in their riot gear and watched.

I wrote a letter to my child, my 8 month old baby telling her about the riots.  Someday she would read that letter.

I had no idea she would read it 25 years later on a night when two more black men were shot by police and 7 policemen were shot in Dallas.

My daughter told me she read the letter and in it I expressed to her that I had hoped by the time she saw my words that the world would be different.

Would be better.

It isn't better.  Hatred continues and lines have been drawn, and riots still happen.  They are no longer confined to one area in California.

They are in Chicago, Baltimore, Dallas.

People are angry.  Anger towards the police, anger from the police.

"People, I just want to say, you know, can we all get along? Can we get along? Can we stop making it, making it horrible for the older people and the kids? … It’s just not right. It’s not right. It’s not, it’s not going to change anything. We’ll, we’ll get our justice … Please, we can get along here. We all can get along. I mean, we’re all stuck here for a while. Let’s try to work it out. Let’s try to beat it. Let’s try to beat it. Let’s try to work it out." ~ Rodney King

These words spoken may not be as eloquent as "I have a dream.."  They are simple words spoken with pleading and passion, and a true sense of asking "Why?"

I have a friend who lives in Dallas, and even though I knew in my heart he was safe, I called just to make sure he did not suddenly abandon his reclusive ways and take a stroll into gunfire.  we spoke at length about the racial issues and tensions that exist today.  He has hopes that the upcoming generation will see things change and the world will be more colorblind.

I see the country as being in labor, experiencing all the pains that start and stop while in the birth process.

I hope that when the birth occurs we are  not colorblind.  I hope we are able to see and celebrate the differences.

Without fear, judgement, anger, apathy, or ignorance.

That is a lofty goal as an outcome for this country.

We are in labor.  We have the chance now to give birth to something greater than ourselves, to stop and think.

To educate.

But what do I know?

I am just a white girl who grew up in a guarded wealthy white town that feared changed.

But if I could manage to escape those confines, and agree with Mr. King, why can't we all?

Why can't we all just get along?