Not so little. Not so easy.

It is easy to write about the little things in life. I love capturing, examining, breaking apart, and wordsmithing on the small, seemingly insignificant fleetings that float past. I love them for so many reasons: they are the thread that hold together the larger pieces, they show the true essence of time and people, they are usually quick and fun to write about, and I adore looking back on them to remember and smile.

And while those little moments are what I write about, what I focus on, there is a bigger moment, a moment so long that is has outgrown that term, never fit that term, although it too is a thread that runs continually through the lives of so many people.

On Tuesday I watched the video of George Floyd die under the knee of Derek Chavin.

I can not stop thinking about it. And if I allow myself to replay it in my mind, I feel all over again nauseous and my body starts to tremble.

I want to say that I do not have words, but I do have words, I just fear that they will not, cannot do justice to the justifiable rage and emotional upheaval deserving of it.

I think about perspective and where mine comes from, where yours comes from. I think about how I define myself, where the definition of me which ultimately shapes how I see, react, respond, and reflect upon events and circumstances, started. I am white. I am a woman. I was raised in a two parent family. Politics, religion, socioeconomic. Every detail makes up the construct of me and the lens upon which I view the world.

Pivotal moments in my life have slapped me upside the face, made me realize that how I see, what I assume based upon my views, limited and only slight of dimension, are not the total truth. Will never be the total truth.

I cannot began to know what it feels like to be African American. I cannot began to understand a normal where it is unsafe to simply be because of how I look, because of the definitions and blindness and hate society continues to hang on to.

We can talk about celebrating one another’s differences and respecting each other all day long, but doing it, living it, is entirely different. Changing the construct so that those differences are not dangerous to have, to be, is even greater still and needs to be where we are going. Needs to be where we already should have been. Because this is not a moment. This is not a simple or fleeting, never to be seen again. It continues and continues and continues and continues.

I don’t know what to do with this. I am not comfortable writing about this. This is not cathartic for me.

There are fifteen minutes until launch. The air is filled with the smells of chocolate and peanut butter from some concoction Husband just baked. I should be studying for the National Board Certification test I am taking Monday morning.

Life moves forward.

And I don’t know what to do with this.

 

About Shoes

I am an elementary school teacher, a former microbiologist, a mom to a herd of two boys, and a grilled cheese sandwich and beer connoisseur.
This entry was posted in Random Thoughts and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Not so little. Not so easy.

  1. sorrygnat says:

    So necessary to write about my take is blacks are the pupil of the eye and the dark part is the lend thru which light and truth are perceived. America in particular needs to acknowledge this greater dimension. Blacks in my Faith tradition have been described as “ the pupil of the eye,” Sent from my iPhone

    >

  2. Rivergirl says:

    These horrors are never easy to talk about, but we should.
    The fact that we keep having talk about them makes me physically ill.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s