Statement on the Senseless Killing of George Floyd
An email came through on Saturday from a mom living in the “eye of the storm” in St. Paul, Minnesota. The fear expressed in her words was palpable, the sadness overwhelming. Her 14-year-old was out protesting, her 12-year-old angry that she couldn’t go along. She described what sounded to me like a war zone, constant police sirens, lights flashing, and helicopters overhead. A few days later, I spoke to another Twin Cities resident who described a scene that conjured images from a military movie. Devastation, fires, emptied buildings. Yet another conversation with a colleague working in downtown Minneapolis said a tank was positioned outside her office building, a bullet hole in the window. All of this has made me afraid for so many reasons. I recalled sitting on the steps in my parents’ house in Los Angeles, April 1992, watching the news unfold after the verdict was read in the trial of the White police officers who used excessive force and beat a Black man named Rodney King. Fires, rioting, looting, beating. Devastation ensued. I watched it happen and held my 6-week-old Black son in my arms, fearful of the world he was entering. One that seemingly did not value his life, or the lives of Black Americans in general. We are still here. Nothing has changed. It sickens me and breaks my heart. As I write this, I realize I am afraid for the lives and safety of the innocent and vulnerable people who are and will be deeply affected by the rioting and looting, but there exists a greater fear, experienced every single day by people of color who live in a country that does not keep it’s promises.
We have had some very difficult conversations in our home the last few days. I have two sons, one Black and one Latino. They don’t trust the system. They don’t feel hopeful that anything will actually change. I can’t believe we are still here. But, I guess I do. The contract made by our government; national, state, and local has been upheld for some people, not all. We can’t pretend that systems are set up to provide equal opportunity, access, treatment, and justice. They simply are not. Maybe people can’t see that because they are blinded by their own experiences, opportunities, and protections and have never stopped to actually listen to what has been expressed by Black Americans and communities of color for hundreds of years. My kids told me as a White woman I need to listen more. At first, I didn’t understand. I do listen. At least, I thought I did.
I’ve had to recalibrate my thoughts. What can I actually do to effect change? We do meaningful work at Raise The Barr. We are committed to the work needed to dismantle generational poverty, creating systemic change in those systems that create barriers by policies that work for some, the same “some” who already have access and opportunity. I am proud of our work. But I can do more. I can speak out against what I know to be wrong and not be complicit through silence. I can raise my voice and use my platform to shed light on issues that impact families that look like my own, a “non-traditional” family. I can listen and not justify using my own experiences as a measuring stick of validating “fair practices”. I can stand with those who have struggled for generations to be heard and valued. I can demand change. And, I will.
My sons are out protesting today. I am scared. But they are doing what’s right. I respect and fully support that. It’s through that act and the collective voice of so many others who have been oppressed that change will occur. I couldn’t be more proud of them.
Until next week, please stay safe, hold your babies and loved ones tight, stand up for what is right and just, and keep well.
- Lori Barr