On Saturday, May 30th, 2020, hundreds of people gathered in La Mesa, California to protest the death of George Floyd and the police brutality that was happening not just here but nationwide. In a few short hours, this peaceful protest transformed into a riot, leaving parts of La Mesa looking like a war zone with vehicles and businesses burned to the ground.
The next morning I sat with my heart broke open, holding the question: how might I be there for my family, friends, and community during this painful time, in such a way that truly embodies my humanistic beliefs? Gradually it dawned on me: I could do my best to live from a place of unconditional positive regard, even in these times. Especially in these times.
Right then, I read a post on a local social media platform sharing pictures and thanks for community members’ efforts to help restore the affected shops, sidewalks, and streets to order.
“So much ugliness erased so fast!”, the poster proclaimed, celebrating the community’s progress in cleaning up the streets.
“So much ugliness erased so fast!”
These words stopped me in my tracks. I appreciated the sentiment for the community but felt that it missed something much, much deeper. From a place of unconditional positive regard, I found the following words which I would like to share here with you:
My words have been failing me at expressing how I feel this morning, yet what you wrote struck a chord: “so much ugliness erased so fast.”
I shop at that Vons, at that Play it Again Sports. We go to the Super China Buffet in that plaza for special celebrations. We bank at Chase and Union Bank. Public Square is one of my favorite coffeehouses. I could hear the explosions from my house as I read in horror the descriptions of what was unfolding less than three miles away from my home.
I hold so much grief in my heart for so many right now. My heart breaks for the people of La Mesa – for ALL of us – whose community transformed into what seems like a war zone overnight. And I celebrate the true spirit of community behind how people have rallied to clean up the debris.
My heart breaks for those who showed up to protest against police brutality yesterday. And I celebrate their courage to raise their voices and compassion in standing up for others who have experienced injustice, damage, and death at the hands of some representing a system meant to protect and serve all.
The debris is easy to erase. The damage is not.
For the victims of police brutality and those who protest, I cannot help but wonder if these words summarize the response they have seen from our leaders and institutions…not just in La Mesa but across the nation?
“So much ugliness erased so fast.”
The incidents occur, people are harmed or killed as a result, investigations occur, and not much may seem to change. Life goes on, almost as if the incident never happened: the debris is erased, things go back to “normal”, but the deeper damage is left behind to reappear in the next incident, the next person of color harmed, the next black man to lose his life.
May we all work together to clear the debris AND resolve the deeper damage.
Or, perhaps it’s this: may we ALL work together to see and hear each other and resolve the deeper damage in mutually respectful ways so the debris never has occasion or need to emerge. If, as MLK said, a riot is the language of the unheard, perhaps we can all strive to become better at listening to understand.
Thank you again for this post, which provided me with so much food for thought.
With appreciation and respect,
Jeannel King
Transforming Through Expressive Arts
Over a week after this occurred, and even after my post (I thought) had given voice to what was bothering me about those words, I was still obsessed with that phrase and what it really was saying. Today, I allowed myself to explore what still awaited to be seen during my group’s expressive arts (virtual) session.
Our theme for the session was: The Fabric of My Community.
Our questions for contemplation were:
- What do I see when I contemplate the fabric of my community in this moment?
- What does the fabric of my community see wien it contemplates me in this moment?
This is what emerged. Fair warning: it’s deeply personal.
Phenomenon of the Image
Image of an elderly white woman on a needlepoint sampler, embellished with text and other accessories, against a replaying video of a white woman’s manicured hands working a rope.
Fiber arts and found objects: Needlepoint sampler, embroidery floss, yarns, ribbons, threads, wire sculpture, tatted doily, matchstick cross, twenty-dollar bill, acrylic paint, stamp and ink, digital video. Created on June 9, 2020, in San Diego, California.
I Work on Something, Something Works in Me
What is it with this phrase that offends and wounds me to my core? The needlepoint sampler is one that my late mother-in-law (Joyce) created and her husband did not want. It’s image, an elderly (white) woman’s face, reminds me of my friend’s mom, who used to say the most horrifyingly racist things to our friend’s face. And we would make apologies and brush it off, claiming her age, her ignorance, she comes from a different time, we are so sorry she doesn’t mean it.
It reminds me of my aunt who said she took early retirement from a lifetime of teaching inner-city elementary school students, but who was actually quietly let go when she told a black student “and THAT’s why people like us hang people like you from trees.” What. The actual. FUCK. That’s my blood, and I didn’t find out about this until after she died and I was processing her estate. She even got her full pension and benefits.
And I think of the woman in my community who blithely proclaimed that a neatened street solved the problem. What is wrong with these people? What is wrong with US? Why are we obsessed with neatening and making things pretty so we can go on like nothing every happened?
Something Comes Into Being
Frustrated, I take some of Joyce’s old embroidery floss and a needle, and add that offending phrase around the face on the sampler. I see this woman looking sweetly at that word: “ugliness.” I imagined her saying “there, see, it’s not so bad, it’s all better now.” I remembered myself as a kid, my grandmother saying these words to me after an unspeakable betrayal. I wore a nice fresh dress and inside I was dead, choking on my own ashes, confusion, and rage. But I looked nice, so all better. Right?
I found a collection of pretty, rose-and-sage-colored ribbons and yarns. I wanted to make a noose for her hair. A nice, pretty noose that looked like her hairstyle but was death and oppression. For the other side, I wanted a slave chain. She could wear it as an earring. And that nice doily that graced my grandmother’s, my aunt’s, my friend’s mother’s home would look lovely from the front but would serve as a pretty place to stow some of the things this emerging being carried deep within her as part of her fabric: a pretty little cross made from wooden matchsticks, and a pretty, confederacy-fied twenty dollar bill with shadow images of Harriet Tubman in its margins. If I had a bullet, I would have painted it with little pink flowers and added it in there as well. So much ugliness in our past, in our present, in ourselves, erased so fast.
I Come to Know Something
I started on the noose first. I had never made a noose before in my life, and had no idea how or where to start. I searched Google for “how to make a noose”, and found (after the suicide hotline posts) an entry from Wikihow containing step-by-step instructions. I got my bundle of yarns and tried to follow the directions.
At first, I was majorly confused by the shapes. (I don’t usually tie many knots beyond the ones in my shoelaces.) As I watched the woman’s hands in the video instructions, I had a random thought: “there are people out there who totally know how to do this.” Immediately, I flashed on a pair of white men’s hands emerging from under white rolled-up sleeves, deftly preparing a noose from a coarse rope at night. And I was horrified. I could barely control my hands, they were shaking so much. I knew what I was creating. Before, I thought I knew: I was going to make a symbol of the hate and death and violence that black people have endured by hands just like mine. And it would be pretty. Because that was part of the point. But now I was way beyond that. I was literally sick with the lived experience of tying a noose that would take the lives of so, so many. My horror turned to rage and I had to complete this noose. I hated it and I had to do it. I had to make it pretty and a part of this white woman emerging from my hands. This abomination.
Something Becomes Seen
I finished the noose and attached it to the sampler. I formed a small “chain” from electrical wire and added it to the woman’s hair so it would hang like an earring. I flipped her over, secured the doily on her back, and created the pink and pastel blue confederafied bill. I could see “The United States of America” clearly through the paint: I added faint imprints from my Harriet Tubman twenty-dollar-bill-replacement stamp, and stitched that bill to the fabric of the doily. That systemized racism was stitched into the fabric of our country. I needed something else, even as the session was winding down to its last minutes. A cross. I needed a wooden cross, this thing that some people hid behind and burned on black people’s lawns. I made a cross out of two wooden matchsticks and tucked it into the doily next to Andrew Jackson.
And then I saw it. I really saw it. The video that had been playing in the background while I worked on the other pieces. The video that showed me step-by-step how to create a noose. The instructions were being modeled by a white woman’s neatly-manicured hands. Somehow, that said it all.
I vomited.
I See Myself
I am no longer one to wear dresses and smile while I die inside.
I am no longer one to make excuses for the horrors of others.
I am no longer one who goes along or helps make things prettier.
Prettier isn’t better. Prettier doesn’t mend.
I pray to God I am no longer one.
Please help me be no longer one.
The debris is easy; the damage is hard.
