A demonstrator stands in front of a truck and stops traffic during the evening rush hour on the streets of Washington, D.C., shutting down 14th & K streets in the heart of the city. (Photo: Paul J. Richards, AFP/Getty Images)
The phone rings in the middle of the night. It's your daughter, who lives in Washington DC.
You know she's been taking part the past few weeks in protests against the lack of accountability for police deaths of unarmed Black men and boys. Even when she starts the call by saying, "Mom, I didn't mean to freak you out by calling this late," you know there's something wrong. Again, she assures, "Please don't be worried, ok? I just felt I should call you and tell you about this."
And the whole thing tumbles out.
A demonstrator takes part in civil disobedience to stop traffic and shut down the unaccounted-for police deaths of unarmed Black men and boys.
See that red truck my daughter's pressed up against in
this photo that appeared in USA Today on December 5? There's a reason the photographer started snapping away at this scene: The driver of the red truck bumped into Sibel, backed up a bit, then bumped into her again five or six times while yelling, "Get out of the way, you f-ing n*
***-lover!" Sibel lit a cigarette to calm herself and stood her ground. The photographer kept snapping.
Why did she stand there? Why did this young White woman with her bohemian hipster scarf and messenger bag block K Street traffic in Washington DC? Because ... well, you see the guy in the cap behind her? He's standing inches away from a crosswalk. A few moments before the USA Today photog began to snap his camera, there was a young Black man near that spot on the crosswalk holding his daughter's hand as they crossed the street. They weren't protesting, they were just ... crossing the street. To get from one side of the street to the other. Sibel held firm against that red truck while a police officer --- yes, a uniformed police officer -- shouted racial epithets at them (perhaps to encourage them to cross the street safely?). And then the red-truck driver began to shout, too.
That's why my daughter's been quietly protesting these past many weeks. Some days she's on the sidewalk holding a sign. Some days she's blocking traffic (in full cooperation with the police, by the way -- police who have already virtually closed off the streets where these protests are taking place). Some days she takes part in teach-ins. Or sit-ins. Or die-ins.
Many, many people -- including some of our friends, family members, acquaintances --- scoff or express contempt at the people blocking traffic. To those, I ask, please, just take a breath and read this: They are not blocking traffic. They are on a controlled-access street making drivers and pedestrians aware that nonwhite lives are being blocked every single day and every single hour in our country -- and that's we cannot and should not just keep walking or driving by as if nothing's happening.
"Our" country. Not "mine" and "theirs" but "ours." All lives matter. #BlackLivesMatter.
Are drivers inconvenienced? Yes, in the same way drivers are inconvenienced by Christmas shoppers driving to the malls and creating traffic snarls. In the same way nonwhite shoppers are inconvenienced by being questioned by retail security while they're buying gifts for family and friends.
Her role, my daughter says, is to help maintain safe perimeters for people who want to speak their experiences. Who are angry or frustrated or horrified or terrified about the fact that Black Lives Don't Matter -- something they know because they live those facts every single day of their lives. Sibel's seen it. She's heard it. She's not Black, so she hasn't experienced that everyday worry and that everyday knowledge that life is safer for some people than it is for others, simply because of the color of their skin. But she's not precisely White, either, so she understands what friends or family members mean when they talk about encounters with bigotry and hatred.
She sees her role in the protests (at this time) as creating and protecting the space for people to speak their experiences about racism, about losing loved ones, about being treated as if Black Lives Don't Matter. To say, as all of us should say together, that Black Lives DO Matter.
She's angry that police officers aren't being held accountable in recent deaths of unarmed Black men and boys. She's angry that people are going about business as usual while Black men and boys are being gunned down and choked to death on public streets, as if, "Oh, that happened. Well, life goes on." And she's angry that it Ain't No Thang for that police officer behind her to shout racial epithets at the man and little girl crossing the street. And she's angry at drivers who bump into protesters while screaming racial slurs. In public. Where others are hearing them. NOT in their homes, NOT at parties with friends, NOT talking back to the television -- in public.
Yesterday Sibel witnessed her first violent arrest of one of her fellow protesters. In preparation for the protest (which is permitted, by the way), this young man made chalk outlines of bodies on the street. This particular protester, by the way, was Black. And when the regular uniformed DC police who patrol the protests were reinforced THREE HOURS LATER by swarms of other police in riot gear who swooped into the crowd on a sidewalk and went directly for that one Black man who had (THREE HOURS EARLIER) made chalk outlines of bodies on the street, everyone was alarmed. Sibel and many others took out their mobile phones and snapped photos and videos while these police in riot gear slammed the man to the ground and pressed his face into the cement. Sibel asked the regularly uniformed police officers what was going on and was told the man was being arrested for "disfiguring public property." With chalk? Yes. He disfigured public property with chalk.
He was put into a police bus and taken away.
Sibel and other protesters contacted legal officials and filed complaints, sending all those videos and photos. They were shaken but are not deterred.
But Sibel didn't call me in the middle of the night about that. She called because after she left the protest, a man followed her. Followed her to the Metro station, sat on the same train car, followed her out to a transfer station, followed her to the Red Line area, followed her onto the Red Line train, followed her when she got off at a random station just to loop around and see whether he would follow her on a nonsensical transfer. Which he did. He followed her to the bus stop and onto the bus. He followed her when she transferred to another bus she didn't need, just so she could determine whether he was STILL following her. He followed her off the bus as she walked toward home.
And when she turned around and began to snap photos of him, he swiftly and silently ducked into a convenience store.
She's not sure what she'll do with those photos. Other protesters had also mentioned being followed. Do they mention this to the police? The same police department with some officers who shout racial epithets at a Black man and his daughter who are crossing a street at a crosswalk?
That's why she called late last night: She is afraid to talk with the police. About being followed by a man who may or may not be an undercover police officer. Possibly following her because she has been protesting police actions. And she wanted to give me a heads-up in case something happens.
We talked for nearly two hours. We talked about her plan to be safe and what to do if she's arrested. We talked about how far she's willing to go in these protests, and she made clear that she's willing to be arrested but won't be actively seeking arrest. We talked about her fellow protester, the Black man swarmed and violently arrested three hours after drawing chalk outlines of bodies on a public street, and what she's done and doing to make sure he's alright and receiving medical care and legal assistance.
We talked about the many conversations she's been having about race, growing up "White" as opposed to White, growing up "Black" as opposed to Black, being "only slightly brown-skinned" and being able to pass as White if one chooses. And about those choices -- when to make them, when to know which choice is safer.
And she thanked me.
Which is when I cried the hardest.
My daughter thanked me for being arrested in North Carolina's Moral Monday protests, and for being arrested many years ago in an anti-war protest. And for dragging her along with me while I spoke out about the humanity of Iraqi civilians during the First Gulf War and to marches for justice and to rallies against gun violence. And for taking care of her and her older sister after the three of us were witness to a mass shooting on a university campus in the early 1990s. And for dragging her to the many, many meetings that took place in that aftermath to address issues of justice, loss, grieving, mental health, medical and mental health care for the survivors, and so many other sequellae of tragic, senseless murders that take so many lives and shatter so many more.
She thanked me for never teaching her to look away from injustice, as she believes many of us teach our children sometimes. And to question our own impulses to do just that: to turn away when a grievous wrong takes place, and to go about our business as usual.
The photos of my daughter in this diary -- we talked about them as well. She is conflicted about appearing in them, because none of this is about what happened to her or what she is doing or the guy who was following her. Ferguson Action, BlackLivesMatter, Color of Change, and many other protest groups are sounding the rally cry not because of who's being targeted for what but because people are being targeted at all. And by conducting business as usual, we're letting it go on. But enough's enough.
To hell with "Stand Your Ground": It's time for us to stand OUR ground. All of us.
Eventually, we both needed to sleep and started our goodbyes. There was still so much to say, though. I wanted assurance that she'll send me information about the legal team she's in contact with, and to know that she'll be careful while following her principles right up to the precipice. She wanted to apologize for waking me, and to tell me that she really did listen to me (sometimes), and to promise that she'll be as careful as a person can be in this world.
But all we kept saying is, "I love you. I love you. I love you."
I love you. Be safe, let your principles guide you, wear clean underwear in case you're arrested for standing up to a large red truck in urban traffic. Call your mom. Even in the middle of the night.