Experiences at Today’s Rally and March for Justice for Trayvon Martin

When I posted last night about the rallies today for justice for Trayvon Martin around the country, I wasn’t sure whether I would actually go to one today myself or not. I mean, writing about it on the Internet is one thing, but actually showing up to march down city streets is quite another.  And as someone raised in the suburbs, the idea of being a part of anything that might cause a stir or make waves automatically sets off this weird, reflexive panic alarm: oooo!!! weeee-oooo!!! Better to stay home! It shrieks. Better to keep your head down! Weee—ooo!!!!

In 2006, I saw a young black man from Michigan perform a spoken word poem about a march that neo-Nazis had staged in Lansing (the capitol of Michigan) earlier that year. The poem spoke directly to white college students. So many of you call yourselves anti-racist, he said. So many of you say you’re for racial equality. But, he asked, where were you that day in Lansing? Where were you when it came time to speak out in protest? The message of that poem has haunted me ever since. It’s true. It’s easy to talk a big talk — but when it comes to actually walking the walk, that reflexive panic alarm tends to win out among folks who have the privilege and ability to turn their backs. I thought of that poem this morning.  And I thought of the names of all the people in my life who would disapprove if they knew I was going, all the people who “don’t believe” racism exists, who agree with the Zimmerman verdict, or who thinks it’s best not to “make waves.” And with absolute certainty, I immediately knew whose respect I would earn by going – my own —for having the integrity to really, actually stand up for something I believe in, regardless of what those people might think. And so, I put on my shoes, and I walked out the door.

And it was the right decision.

During today’s march.

The nearest gathering to where I live was much smaller than I expected – maybe two hundred and fifty people. The crowd was a racially diverse one that included people of all ages – actually, there were even a few dogs that came! I got there an hour into the rally, but still got to hear some amazing — truly amazing — speeches, including some from a couple of ministers who brought everyone to their feet to drown their words in cheers and applause, an almost 80-year-old former Black Panther, a local high school teacher who spoke brilliantly about this case and injustice in this country, and a relative of Trayvon Martin who lives nearby. I’m not someone who cries easily, but I felt like I was about to break out some serious crying during several of these speeches.

When these were finished, we lined up on the street next to the federal building. And together we began to march.

Accompanied by some of our city’s police force – on bikes and in their cars – we marched over two miles together down the main streets of the city. These were streets I’ve been on many times – while riding in a car, or walking on the sidewalk. But this afternoon, we walked right down the middle, and there was something so incredible about that, and seeing all the traffic stopped, seeing fists of solidarity being raised out of windows as we walked by, just getting to be a part of all of it. By the end of the march, many of us (myself included) were covered in sweat and feeling tired (we live in a hilly place, so it wasn’t a flat 2+ miles), but we reached the end of our route still chanting and cheering.

Sometimes, when I’m talking to (white) friends about race, they seem to think racism ended with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, or that the concept of racism is some kind of thing made up by politicians to elicit sympathy for some ulterior motive.  And on the issue of Trayvon Martin, most people I know stay completely  silent. “I don’t know much about it,” they’ll say, and change the subject. More than anything else, what I took away from today’s rally/march was that, even though it was a small gathering, that there are still so many people who do want to talk about it, who do want to work together to build relationships and to help create change. And I left understanding that, whenever we’re ready to put on our shoes, there is a place where each of us can start, right now, to walk the walk.

the march.

Re: “Female Inmates Sterilized in California Prisons Without Approval”

A friend just posted a link to this article on Facebook.

Knowing what I know about civil rights in this country and the prison-industrial complex (which isn’t enough, as it is, but still), how can I say that I’m even remotely surprised by this news?

And maybe surprise isn’t the right word for what I feel.

Maybe it’s just sadness.

Sadness that even with evidence like this, so many of my fellow Americans choose to deny the existence of injustice in our present time — (“it’s 2013. We’re over that kind of stuff now. We have a black president – what more do you want?”) turning their backs while this kind of violence is performed with their tax dollars.

On Silence and Safety

A few days ago, a white friend asked me just what, exactly, is wrong with racism, anyways.  “I mean, somebody has to be on the bottom, in any society. If it isn’t black people, it would just be somebody else,” she said. “I don’t know why people are complaining and making such a big deal out of it.”

Now this might sound ridiculous, or even disgusting, but my entire life, I’ve been taught that when it comes to issues that don’t appear to directly concern me, rather than shutting people down or causing a fight, that, even if their opinions are different than mine, the absolute best thing I can do is to withhold my judgment, not take sides, and respect everyone’s views — that the best thing I can do is keep the peace.

And so, this is partially a thank you letter to that friend. Because what she said made me realize that my way of thinking was incorrect. The truth is: not every opinion is worth my respect. Keeping the peace is not always consistent with acting with integrity, after all. Sometimes there are moments when lines have to be drawn, when we have to stop listening, and who it concerns, directly or indirectly, becomes an irrelevant question. Sometimes there are moments where we are left wondering: What kind of person do I want to be?

*****
Every year in November, my community – the transgender community – gathers together to read the known names of every transgender and transsexual person who has been killed for being transsexual or transgender around the world since the previous November.  Out loud, we read the names and the cause of death for every single person. “Charlie (Erika) Hernandez,” we read in 2012. “Detroit; stabbed to death. Githe Goines; New Orleans; strangulation.   Soraya  – Valmir de Silva; Brazil; gagged with pieces of wood inserted into the anus, and penis burned with alcohol. Tiffany Gooden; Chicago; multiple stab wounds. Thapelo Makutle; South Africa; throat cut, partial decapitation, genitals stuffed into mouth. Brandy Martell; Oakland; gunshot. Tracey Johnson; Baltimore; gunshot. Deja Jones; Miami; gunshot. Kendall Hampton; Cincinnati; gunshot. Kyra Cordova; Philadelphia; gunshot.” And this was only a handful. Every year we read over one hundred names; sometimes, more than three hundred.

Most of my friends who are not transgender do not know about this day. They do not know that for me, it is the most sacred day of the year.  They do not know that on this day, I do not answer phone calls. I do not send chatty text messages about pets or the weather; I do not tell jokes. On this day, I am too filled with gratitude that I have been granted twelve months of being alive, listening to all the fates that could have been mine to be able to participate in the ordinary business of living. On this day, I am too filled with sorrow – a sorrow that can never be explained, a sorrow that must be felt in the marrow to be understood – sometimes, to leave my house at all.

Some people might say that all of this – these names, these descriptions – are just lies made up to fuel some liberal agenda.  This is why many people who are not transgender do not know about this day. This day – where no politicians are present, where not a dollar is made – is sacred because it is the day we speak the terrible truth out loud.

*****
Most of my friends who are not transgender would be shocked to hear that for me, this is a day that marks my mortality – shocked, probably, to think that it has anything to do with me. I don’t look transsexual; I look like any other ordinary, nerdy white graduate student. Even to my friends who knew me before I physically transitioned, they see me as being similar to themselves in fundamental ways: somebody who reads mystery novels and drinks Diet Coke; somebody who likes dogs, forgets clothes in the washer; and somebody who belongs to the protected sphere that they do, where the possibility of dying at a young age never has to cross your mind. And, for a long time, I believed that living in this protected sphere was the goal. If I could just seem “normal” enough, if I could just get along with everybody and not contest things, if I could just respect everyone’s viewpoints, then I would be safe. But now, I wonder: Is “normalcy” – is “safety” – the ability to turn one’s back and say “this is none of my business; whatever you think is fine, no matter what” – really the place where we should want to be?

My brothers and sisters do not all die at the hands of a single person with no witnesses. There have to be other people present in some of these situations, perhaps within feet of where our bodies are thrown, people so close they get splattered with our blood. In some of these cases, there have to be people across the street from the ditches where our bodies get thrown, where we might lay breathing and alive – from where we could be saved with a telephone call they could make – but a phone call that is never made. There have to be people not wanting to jeopardize their own spot in the sphere called “normal”; people not wanting to contest things, people who value their own safety above all else.

*****

Now, maybe you think a white woman asking inside her own house what the problem is with racism is not related at all to these brutal, violent deaths. Maybe you think I’m some kooky liberal just trying to push some bullshit agenda.

And maybe it is a masochist agenda to voluntarily want to face horrible truths. Maybe this is why I’ve been limiting myself to just one day a year. But tonight I wonder: Why can’t every day be sacred, echoing with honesty? What happens when we say: Actually, what you think about continuing to deny the same privileges you’re given to another group of people isn’t actually fine? What happens when we say: As someone who fundamentally believes in equality, in liberty and justice for all, that, actually, this is my business? And, tonight I wonder, when all is said and done, who do I want to be: The person who can guarantee their own individual safety by not making a scene and who stays quiet, or the person who steps out of the complicit shadows to make the call?

*****

Since the verdict was delivered in the George Zimmerman trial, I’m not the only one asking questions right now about where I stand – on justice, on truth, on power, on privilege, and on what I’m personally willing to risk. Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor (and author of Night), says “we must always take sides…” that “silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” And I wonder: What is the value of a friendship, of a community, of a culture, that asks us to say nothing in response?