Everything,
I thought I knew,
In fact I did not know.
And all those things,
I did not know,
Will show me how to grow.
PART 1: A Solid Green
June has come ’round with solid green hues on leaves and fewer bird choir members to snack upon the feeders. I wash my hair with lake water of only the best sediment and loam and pause to blow bubbles on the surface. A pileated woodpecker shrieks abruptly greeting the forest morning. His call to the nest reminds me of the noontime sirens forewarning the August tornadoes. Although the pileated’s song is a little more throaty and jagged, it still has the same piercing effect through forest trees as that of the town’s daily heed. And I wonder, is the whole world forewarning me?
PART 2: Lost and Found
On the last Sunday in May, my mother and I hurriedly gathered all of our belongings and rushed downtown. The sun finally poked through the clouds as if to lay some shine upon the people gathering in the streets. As we drove, we spoke of our plan of action. If either one of us felt uncomfortable, we would leave. If the cops started getting physical with protestors, we would leave. And of course, stick together always. We began our journey towards the city an hour later than the march start time. We knew only of the meeting place and had no idea whether the march would still be occurring. The plan was to take the Locust street exit and follow the police blockades East. We circled around and caught sight of late protestors heading towards the police station. We quickly parked on 6th and walked the rest of the way.
The neighborhood was alive. People were joining from every direction with signs held high in gloved hands and shouting “No justice, no peace.” muffled through masked faces. Some were passing out water and juicy clementines. Others were waving from their doorsteps or bumping music wildly from their BLM decorated vehicles. From the moment we started walking, the hairs on my body stood on end, to attention, electrified. There seemed to be an overhanging heaviness amongst the crowd, perhaps some spirits of the past come to bear witness.
We gathered with the rest of the group on the intersection of MLK and Locust. There were hundreds of folks listening intently to individuals holding megaphones in the center of the road. I couldn’t help but notice the heavily armed policemen guarding the front steps and rooftop of their station while Milwaukee’s Martin Luther King Library sat silently side by side, closed and dark. A thought flickered in my mind that we could all assemble inside and read, read it all together, but that was for another time.
My mother and I chanted and whistled, clapped and howled, but mostly we listened. I wondered occasionally what she was thinking. To have gone through this very protest 50 years prior and now to do it again with her daughter. Of course, she would do it 500 more times with her daughter, with her granddaughter, and with her great-granddaughter, but that notion only goes so far. She taught me to plan and to love but now was the time for physical and monetary support for our black communities. I made a pact with myself then and there that I would do everything in my power to begin again. I would acknowledge everything I claim to be as a white woman in this torn society. Then I would start again as an ally, the one I was born to be.
PART 3: New Eyes
If you asked me two weeks ago about my Summer 2020 plans, I would have replied simply reconnecting with myself and with my home, Wisconsin. That meant listening inwards, learning how to be curious, soaking in the waters, practicing more cello, and coming to terms with a major life shift but also recognizing this piecemeal process, one day at a time.
Sunday, May 31st, will now be my response to anyone who asks me about my Summer 2020 plans. Last Sunday ripped off the privilege bandage and revealed all the work undone. I’ve gone through every emotion that all new and old white allies are feeling. The guilt, the shame, the disgust, the anger, the angst, the pain are cracking us wide open and rightfully so. Let us all see my ancestors, the Maryland planters, the Mayflower pilgrims, the New England farmers, the Midwestern businessmen. Let us look closer to see what lives they have claimed and convinced to be less than. Then let us look towards me, a teacher, an artist, a communicator, an organizer. Where has my complacency landed me today? I can say with certainty that I have never claimed to own any individual. I can say with certainty that my choices have not lead to someone’s immediate death. But, I cannot give my title as educator any validity until I take my new path of ally-ship seriously. I will wake up every morning and say, “How can I be the best ally today?” and “What can I learn in order to heal my future from my wretched past?” I will be the sage. I will cleanse and heal.
PART 4: Born-Again
I do not claim to be an intellectual. I do not know that I am touched by something bigger than me or feel any different from the average body breathing on the street. I will never ask anyone to follow me, except maybe my little fox so she does not lose her way. I think, though, that I am ready to rewrite everything I know. The entire concept is breathtaking. I feel like a babe laden with ancestral chains. I see the world opening up and exploding in fireworks of so many hopes and changes and yet, I am still unaware of all that tethers me.
I feel magic around me everywhere but cannot seem to harvest it or ingest it so that I may pass it on to the newest generations. I have only just begun to understand connection. I think it may be the answer to everything. Freedom may truly be what connection is at its core. Freedom may be the connection found in communing with history, or with magic, or with children through their eyes.
This is where I will begin.
A Homegoing 