I almost ditched this post. I couldn't find a way to write it in the tone that I wanted: objective and not centered around the five-second shitty experience that determined the course of the remainder of yesterday. And I was embarrassed for the future me that might come across as someone playing journalist on a topic she probably knows less about than the average person.
I ditched the ideas I'd written down. Used the tools in my cognitive behavioral therapy toolbox and went to the gym to let off steam. Practiced mindfulness. I think. Posted about crows. Then, after a tusslefit of insomnia that lasted until 4am, I fell headlong into a sea of nightmares.
I'm not an expert on mental health, but I do have a decent amount of experience grappling with my own. Though my freakish nightmares included scenes of my own empowerment (an indication of healthy resolution of a conflict or trauma), there is still that lingering need to connect the dots, to create the art that is the final processing of my experience before I move on. Or at the very least absolve me of a modicum of the guilt I feel for living a life of relative privilege.
The original draft started like this:
I don't often go to protests. That's not to say I don't support them. I simply get overwhelmed and my sense of safety flatlines. But the street that I live on sees a lot of action. Whenever I hear the chants and the drums, I like go outside and observe. Bear witness.
It's nice, yeah? Makes me sound like an active participant of the ongoing global human rights movement. It's partly true! It's partly bullshit.
I don't always go outside if there's a rally. Actually, I'm more apt to rush outside if I hear a rally of crows: hassling a hawk; taking census; fighting over a box of pizza someone pulled out of the dumpster. Sometimes I rush outside when I hear a troop of hogs rumbling past. They do that on occasion, especially in summer. Once they blasted Smells Like Teen Spirit and my highschool 90s soul soared. But protests in Portland happen almost every day, to some degree. And at least once a week on my street. I care, but I am no activist. Sometimes I just listen from the couch by the window.
Sometimes I tune out.
Saturday November 11th 2023
There's a rally. Hundreds of humans. They carry protest signs and wave the Palestinian flag, converging in front of Pilot's muddy park. I observe them with admiration, envious of their cohesion and how easily they can participate in such a tremendous turnout.
I want to participate. I want to help. I don't like being detached. But I think of a hospital, I think of the staff and the patients and all the valuable equipment. I feel the convergence of heartbeats in a building that is vital to the survival of a community. Then I see the words reduced to rubble. A fragment of a headline. In a flash I am there amidst the terror and the screams. The searing agony. The coiling grief. The despair.
I don't know how to stop this internal participation.
I hear you. I see you. But I cannot suffer with you.
I'm so sorry.
The cheers at the start of the rally find their way to my apartment window several blocks away. I listen. I write. I selfishly ignore my own guilt as the sounds of the procession fade into the distance.
Two hours later, I hear them again. The chants. The drums. They are back on my street, completing their loop. I put on my shoes. My coat. Pick up my camera and head out to the street.
I hear you.
I see you.
I'm so sorry.
I snap photos quickly, unsure of how well I am documenting and of my plans for the images. Perhaps the eye of the camera is a shield to protect me from the emotional gravity of the situation. Perhaps it is simply an opportunity to take photos of people, and I wonder if I am not ashamed of what I am doing.
And then it happens.
From behind a parked car emerge a group in black. Faces hidden. Sunglasses, gloves, ski masks, umbrellas. Intrigued, I lift my camera and watch the shadow people through the lens.
"No pictures of blackface!" a woman's voice sing-songs from somewhere behind me.
That term in this context is new to me, and I struggle to believe that we have progressed so far from the past that using it anew is acceptable. Nonetheless I lower my camera, letting it hang at heart level from the strap around my neck. But I have already attracted their attention. The group veers toward me, coming within inches as they make a show of covering the head of one of their own with their banner.
"Take his picture and I'll break your camera," one of the shadows says in a low tone meant only for me.
I flush with anger. Spike with fear.
"That's pretty non-violent, dude," I call after him, instantly regretting my default to sarcastic diffusion.
The shadows disappear into the crowd.
Of all the takeaways from observing the protest, this incident will leave the deepest impression.
My hands shake, but I stay out until the rally has moved away. I take more photos, privately holding my own ground against a threat of violence. But any sense of connection I had found with this collective has been severed, and once again I am outside, looking in.
I retreat briefly to my apartment and load the images from my camera onto the computer. Then I change my clothes and dress Pilot in a rainbow sweater. I venture out camera-less into the world, a most innocuous representation of myself, though this version of me grips a tiny canister of pepper spray in one hand.
The rally has ended. People are dispersing. I approach two different groups of women with the same question:
Who are the people dressed in all black?
I want more information, not to excuse the behavior of the shadow people, but to remove the trauma filter that obscures my memory of today's events.
I get two parallel answers, one that they are people who want to protect their identity as protestors, another that they are a more militant faction of protestors, again, protecting their identity. The interaction with the women restores some of my connection to the movement. I thank them for the information, and for marching, and take Pilot back to his park.
Most of the crowd has dispersed. A few groups linger, chatting, but the park is once again open to the dogs to run amuck and amud. I am still unsettled, and keep my little dog on a string while he sniffs and pees along the perimeter. As he does, I watch a group of people cross the sodden grass to the puddled basketball court. They spread out what looks from afar to be blankets. Together they kneel, facing the same direction. Those are mats, I realize. It's 4pm and they are praying.
Organized religion in the wrong hands can and has had violent repercussion on many levels, and I often struggle to feel accepting of it. But at the core of this ritual I see nothing but gentleness and community. An act of utter nonviolence. I do not follow their beliefs, nor do I fully understand them, but they deserve this freedom to pay homage to something held most sacred.
As do I.
As do you.
Life is suffering for all beings, but humankind holds the market on safety for its own species. It is evolved enough to learn how to extend this feeling of safety, this ultimate freedom, to all people.
It doesn't need to be complicated.
It doesn't need to be cruel.
Cease fire.
Everywhere.
All the stuff (pictures, words, etc.) I put in this post and any of my other posts is mine (unless otherwise stated) and can't be used by anyone else unless I say it's ok.
