#82 -Don't Like Holding Back

Quiet Bridge

It was so peaceful when I ran this morning. I stopped and snapped this photo.

As I headed under the bridge, I was reminded of another place and time.

Sugar Land and Selma

As I jogged in my suburban neighborhood outside of Houston, I was reminded of Selma, Alabama. 

The Pettus Bridge was eerily quiet, when we visited 8 years ago. It was sobering on that day, to remember 1965, when the civil rights protestors were attacked as they crossed. Today, I thought of the current marches and protests.

March for George Floyd in Houston

Yesterday, over 60,000 gathered in Houston to march peacefully, in the city where George Floyd grew up. There were no reports of clashes, until much later.

I wasn't brave enough to be in that crowd, but I am supportive. If we weren't in the middle of a pandemic, would I? Maybe not. I'm hesitant about crowds period, even without tear gas or looting or virus worries.

January 2017

Three years ago I was a little hesitant, but I did join a crowd at the Women's March in downtown Houston. It was a very different gathering, but it was one that was brought on by anger and worry, just like today.

In 2017, there were marches all over the country. It felt good to be a part of something that could lead to positive change. A huge part of me wants to be downtown Houston, today. I hate it, that I'm doing nothing.

I want to do more than sit at home and post my #blackouttuesday on Instagram. It felt too easy when I did it yesterday. Now I'm learning how that hashtag, has become a symbol of white guilt. I'm feeling confused. I want to understand more, so that I can feel confident about speaking out.
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1968 "Poor People's Campaign" in Tallahassee

I want to go back 50+ years and be that innocent, 11-year-old kid again, sitting with my sister at the top of the steps. I didn't totally understand the "campaign" that Dr. King had started, months before he was killed. But I knew that it was important, that blacks and whites were coming together, with concerns about poverty. 

I wasn't afraid to ask questions then. We were new to the south, so I had lots. I asked my parents why people said "colored" instead of negro. What did people mean when they called someone a n_____?  Why didn't Mildred, our black housekeeper, know how to read? Why were the 2 black children in my classroom ignored and seated in the back?
 
Honestly I see this photo and worry that I'm still that timid, little girl. I was good at asking questions and listening. But, I wasn't that confident about speaking up and speaking out.

At age 63, is it too late? It shouldn't be. I think I'll start by addressing a racial comment I saw on Facebook. Baby steps.