When it’s this Quiet, You Weep

We live on a busy street. I generally enjoy the bustle of cars and busses, and the planes never bothered me much. We see bikes and walkers often, and more cars than most of the neighborhood tucked behind our tiny house.

Tonight it is quiet. As I sit here I hear more birds than usual, not because there are more birds—but because there are so few cars. I hear a helicopter in the distance. And a few bangs. But for the most part, I hear birds. Loudly chirping birds. I wonder if they are amazed by the beauty of hearing their own voices? Or as amazed as I am by the quiet. It is calm, but unsettling.

My city is broken. Rather the city across the street. I live in a first ring suburb of Minneapolis. And by first ring, I mean across the street. So I consider it my city as my post office is located there, and I mean, I’m across the street. Minneapolis is a vibrant beautiful metro with gorgeous parks, what felt like a thriving economy before COVID, many Fortune 500 companies, unique neighborhoods, a diverse population, tons of incredible restaurants, amazing small businesses, a thriving arts community and what generally felt like a great place to live, work and play.

We also have a history of not so hidden racism, major socioeconomic disparity, and police violence. It seems Minneapolis has a lot of officer involved shootings and arrests resulting in the deaths of black men. In the 8 years I’ve lived here three black men died at the hands of officers (and one white woman, too, but that is not the story here).

Jamar Clark
Philando Castile
George Floyd

These men died in the city I love, because racism is alive and well—and thriving in our beautiful city. I live about four miles from where George Floyd was murdered by Police Officer Derek Chauvin. But it feels like I live in another world.

The sun has now set and the birds are silent. Now I hear more helicopters. It is still so quiet. An uncomfortable silence. But better than chaos.

There are people out protesting even as we are under curfew—and I wish I was brave enough to join them instead of sitting in silence. People will get exposed to COVID from exposure to large groups during these protests—and I pray they have healthcare and access to support if they get sick, yet here I sit in silence. Families will be without food tomorrow because their local markets were burned or are closed—yet my fridge is full and here I sit in silence.

Racism has long surrounded me, but I pretended I was better. I thought I was ok because I was kind. I thought I was a helper. My wealthy bubble community, and the world I grew up in, has insulated me from seeing the problem. Well-intentioned neighbors unwilling to admit what privilege looks like talk the talk but walk the walk in expensive shoes. And the lure of living close to a lake in a district with great schools was too much to resist. I know on a cellular level that living here is part of the problem. I moved into a white community with more millionaires than mill workers. I shop at grocery stores with more organic food than sugar cereal. I have kids in schools with a very small percentage of kids on free lunch programs, because the income required to live here does not make living here easy. And I have more white friends than I can count. I never actually decided to segregate—but I sure did.

I am part of the problem. I am the problem. I am sorry, George. I am sorry. And as I sit here on my porch in the dark, with helicopters in the distance, I do not know what to do to make it better. To be better. The mother in me is mourning the loss of so many other’s sons. But here I am, still sitting safely in my bubble. I will try better, I will do better—just as soon as I figure out what that means.

For now my heart is broken for this city. Not for the burning buildings, but for the businesses that won’t be able to open again after being decimated, first by a pandemic, and then riots. My heart is broken for all the lives lost in this war on black men and families that has lasted generations. My heart is broken because Minneapolis is not the only racist city, far from it. We just managed to light a match that started a fire that has been simmering ... forever.

My heart is broken knowing I can sit here in the quiet of my privilege, and others cannot.