Talking Points
“I think we should go,” I said. She paused visibly, head down and avoiding eye contact as is her habit when she feels disappointment coming. Her only response was an almost murmured, “I don’t think so.” Rather than reproach, my immediate feeling was one of mild surprise. We had been discussing Ferguson and Eric Garner during dinner, as we have every night for the kind of weeks that make it hard to remember what came before them. Her views had been characteristically strong and openly proffered during the talks. When she used words like, “fairness,” and, “justice,” they emerged fraught with tremors only the combination of wit and youth can ever really imbue.
“Why not,” I pressed, “are you afraid? Because that’s totally okay. But, I promise you would be safe. I would never, ever let anything happen to you.” Her eyes widened in their own light shock then as she fairly sputtered, “Yes, I’m afraid. But, I’m afraid for you.” A strangely probing silence hung over the plates and cups marking another family meal savored in a comfort that seemed suddenly all the more incongruous as she drew a breath and continued, “I’m afraid of the protest getting violent. Worse than that, I’m afraid the police can do whatever they want to you.” I could see then that this was where she was truly caught. After all, my girl loves rules.
I know it’s a power thing. She adores control and rules make a comfortable sense. In school, the tween girl realm runs on a litany of regulating guidelines the likes of which I could not begin to fathom. Add in that her own strict adherence to the rules at home has brought her joyful praise and I can easily see where reconciling her thoughts with the sudden reality of her surroundings would be difficult, at best. The police are supposed to enforce the rules, using them to protect her directly in the way that being eleven years old makes most everything about you, specifically. Yet, she had still seen an unarmed man shouting, “I can’t breathe,” until he died with a policeman’s arms around his neck. Now, really, how am I supposed to explain that?
“Study hard. Respect yourself and authority. Do the right thing. But, um, remember this might happen to your dad. Or you.” Because he’s possessed of a phenotype which seemingly engenders far more questions than answers. Even if he’s pudgy and bookish, just barely middle class and keeping it that way solely through steady work and crushing responsibility, you have seen an old lady clutch her purse tighter when you boarded an empty elevator together. She has long heard grandpas, uncles, and cousins tell their own, sadly similar stories. I didn’t think she had fully processed these things. She hasn’t really had to before.
She is cherished and protected, almost entirely insulated from this part of an ever-encroaching world. She’s also ready to know now. And it’s my responsibility to help her. That, however, leaves me with a question. Do I make her go with me tonight? Out into the street not because I believe it will change a thing, but rather that I want to be where it’s being said, if only briefly and futilely? Maybe I should, but I don’t think I’ll force her.
This is about her growing conscience and consciousness. I should let them take their own pace. Instead, I’m going to make myself a sign and I’m going to ask her to help me with it. That way, a little part of her will go with me, either way. While we’re making it, I hope we’ll talk more. She might change her mind and she might not. We’ll see, I guess. Maybe the talking part itself is just as important.
