Pandemic and Protests: Reflections from a two-week road trip across the U.S.
We drove away from Minneapolis on the afternoon of Saturday, May 30th. The city was hurting, burning, screaming, and grieving.
Katie and I had already planned a road trip across the western half of the U.S. to visit family in Los Angeles. We wanted to travel responsibly, so driving felt like the best option. The plan was to drive through Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, and back to Minnesota.
As we prepped and packed, we felt the tension. George Floyd had been murdered not 30 minutes from where we live. Our friends and neighbors in the city were exploding with pain and grief. We grappled with the privilege to leave, to be able to drive off while so many others can never leave.
As we drove across the plains of Iowa and Nebraska we read about riots and curfews. We saw posts about pain, suffering, allyship, and justice. Our president threatened to shoot protesters. More and more cities were hurting, burning, screaming, and grieving.
While the U.S. seemed to be in chaos, the landscape was still. It gave us space to think and process and listen and learn.
1: The U.S. is ugly
Listen to 1619 from the NY Times. If for some reason you don’t believe or know parts of America’s ugly foundation, this will wake you up. These stories shook me. The sheer brutality that black people have experienced in this country is utterly astounding.
The U.S. is built on theft, murder, slavery, and sustained oppression. One of the greatest American myths is that we are “the land of the free.” Ain't no such thing and we know it. This land was stolen and we pretend like it never happened. Oppression and racism are baked into the fabric of this country. We know COVID-19 has disproportionately affected people of color. Black and brown people legitimately feel the police aren’t there to protect and serve them. U.S. history is littered with story after story of pain, suffering, and oppression at the hand of those in power.
All signs point — and have been pointing to — America’s greatest problem: We are not who we say we are. We are racist. We built systems upon systems to oppress. There’s no such thing as liberty and justice for all — not right now. We know this in our bones.
2: The U.S. is beautiful
Goddam, the landscape is amazing. The sunrise across Montana is stunning. The bending curves of the Oregon coast are awe-inspiring. The vastness of the Utah desert is striking. Even the plains of eastern North Dakota (believe me, nothing to write home about) have a peacefulness about them that is healing.
More than that, the people are beautiful. Amidst the suffering, we see glimmers of hope. As protestors and activists scream, their voices are being heard. Calls for justice are being answered. Pleas for systemic change are gaining momentum. Hell, the top 4 selling books on Amazon (as of 6/13/2020) are all about race. We are growing. We are listening. We are changing.
3: I am the problem. I am the solution.
I think it was racist for us to take the road trip. This saddens me. We loved seeing my family in Los Angeles and we will always cherish the memories this road trip gave us. AND. We leaned into the freedom of being able to travel amidst a pandemic and amidst protests. We gave ourselves space to leisure and explore when so many brothers and sisters were tear-gassed, shot, and trampled over for the sake of racial justice.
I confess: Justice has always been someone else’s fight. I’ve gotten my piece of the “American dream.” I went to undergrad and grad school. I live an easy life in a predominantly white, Minnesotan suburb. I am a Latinx-American who has not truly leaned into the work of justice. I have gotten comfortable and that grieves me.
For too long I’ve looked to leaders, politicians, or other community members to make things better. If this road trip taught me anything it’s that I have a responsibility in this country. Not for the future, not for the past, but for right now. How can I be a helpful neighbor? Am I showing up for both my friends and strangers? Am I for something? What am I helping build? What am I helping dismantle? Am I listening to other’s stories? Will I share mine?
Take some time to look around you — this is who we’ve got. Are we gonna be better or worse? Are we helping build the America we always hoped for?
We returned to Minneapolis on the night of Friday, June 12th. We returned to a city that was still hurting, screaming, grieving. Maybe we will begin healing. George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Rashard Brook, and countless other’s stories are not over. The fight for justice continues and I am committed to doing my part: being educated, putting my money where my mouth is, and influencing my spheres. I don’t know all the details yet. I’ll start here. I’ll show up. Our family will.
This trip was bizarre and disorienting. The land called us toward peace, while the country dove into chaos. The land called us to listen and be still, while many tweets and posts called us to speak out and show up. The reality that this land was stolen from indigenous bodies and built by black bodies was haunting as we drove across. We loved and hated this trip.
The places we visited were wonderful. If you ever get the chance to drive up the Oregon coast, just do it. From plains to deserts to mountains and back, the U.S. is vast and massive. The stories that fill it are complex. The systems within it are broken. The people, however, are the ugliest and the loveliest thing about US.
