From Common Ground: Where Do We Go After Boston?
After a week of fear and uncertainty, I attended the Boston rally because I couldn’t not go.
After the flags of genocide were raised in Charlottesville and the greatest enemies from American history marched in open defiance to the ideal the spirit of our nation’s history strives to fully live — the proposition that all people are created equal.
After “you will not replace us” left dead and injured in the streets — blood of Americans defending the highest of American ideals on American soil — and the voice of the people cried aloud in pain and anger and grief.
After the voice of the nation spoke against the heart of the people — claiming fault on both sides, refusing even to recognize the terror of the injured, the loss of the slain, the horror of torches brandished under banners of traitors and killers — then issued a statement two days too late and revoked it 24 hours later.
It was impossible not to attend a rally against hate.
We all do what we can. I, for instance, opted not to march amidst a jostling crowd in the eighty-degree heat. Some friends of mine did march, proudly, camped within sight of the “Free Speech” rally, and watched it dissolve. I also have friends who were not able to attend, but found other ways to donate or show support. All I know is I couldn’t not go.
I am white. I have ancestors who immigrated from Sweden four generations ago and I have ancestors who left Massachusetts Bay with Roger Williams to found Rhode Island. I have ancestors who served in the Revolution and in the First and Second World Wars. I have ancestors who owned slaves. These are facts I cannot change, nor would I, for I take pride in most of them. However, I cannot allow the oppression my ancestors participated in and encouraged — oppression that continues to imprison and slaughter mass numbers of people of color — oppression that founded privileges I enjoy through the suffering of others — I will not allow that history to define me.
I live in the hope of seeing a world where we all live in true equality, where the color of one’s skin does not determine their access to opportunity, and I dedicate my work in non-profits to that vision, to eradicating the systems, red-lines and prison pipelines, my ancestors built to benefit me.
Yesterday was a glowing moment of hope for that vision. On Common ground, I saw no sign of the fire of Charlottesville. I saw people of many faiths, cultures, and ethnicities marching with signs to protest white supremacy. I saw people applaud the police who placed themselves between the few and the many to ensure peace. I heard chants of anger, yes, but anger in the name of justice, in the name of love and care for one another, regardless of origin, religion, or color.
But this moment does not come without fear of what comes next. This week, it was easy to recognize racism. It marched naked in the streets with swastikas and star-stewn crosses lit by torches. The memory of seeing those symbols resurrected, like ghosts rising from the ashes of Gettysburg and Normandy, will continue to haunt me, as I believe it will many of us, but we cannot allow ourselves to believe only the Nazis and preservers of the Confederacy constitute racism. We cannot let the victory in Boston — the example of a peaceful, powerful march drowning out the voices of hate — to lure us into complacency. The next step is harder.
The next step is the same walk Black Lives Matter has been marching the past few years: the call to reflect on our privileges and societal systems, to ask ourselves, for two examples, why when students of color represent 16% of the public school population they comprise 31% of school arrests or why a black man can be shot by a cop while following the law, on film, and still not receive justice? This is not a matter of black and white — or even black and blue — of fiery hatred or naked supremacy. It is a matter of reflection that requires action, of realizing a boy shot by a cop is just as wrong as an officer killed in the line of duty, and ensuring both perpetrators receive equal justice.
In short, we cannot stop marching. Seeing the unity of the city that has been my home for two years went a long way toward healing some of the hurt and anger I spent the past week processing; witnessing the power of people peacefully protesting to drown out the voices of hate restored a great deal of my hope in humanity; however, the hard work is only just beginning.
There are moments you realize you’re living history. What happened in Charlottesville is one. Perhaps (but probably not) Boston will be another. When I left for the Common on Saturday, I imagined my someday children asking me what I did after Charlottesville, where I was during the march in Boston, and I couldn’t bear the thought of answering I lived in the city and did not go. There will be many more of those times ahead. The best I can do, therefore, is to continue to live and work to ensure those imagined, one-day children of mine live in a world where their merits are based on their accomplishments and not those of their ancestors.
