protest
\ˈprō-ˌtest\
\ˈprō-ˌtest\
My mind has been rolling on a double track. There’s the day-to-day where nothing much seems out of place. And there’s the part of me watching Ferguson in a stew of helpless anger.
There is much to protest. When a teenager walking down the street in the middle of the day can be shot dead. Again. When the apologists shake their heads and say, well there must have been a good reason for it. Again. When the police force denies accountability and casts forth a smokescreen of innuendo: he was a suspect, he may have been on drugs, he had it coming. Again. When the we wearily embark on another investigation that will mostly likely decree that the killing of this young black person was justified. Again.
There is much to protest. When a teenager walking down the street in the middle of the day can be shot dead. Again. When the apologists shake their heads and say, well there must have been a good reason for it. Again. When the police force denies accountability and casts forth a smokescreen of innuendo: he was a suspect, he may have been on drugs, he had it coming. Again. When the we wearily embark on another investigation that will mostly likely decree that the killing of this young black person was justified. Again.
| A protest is a formal pledge or public declaration. It comes by way of Old French from the Latin protestari, which means to declare or swear publicly. It’s related to testari (to testify), which in turn derives from testis, or “witness.” |  "Ferguson, Day 4, Photo 26" by Loavesofbread. Licensed under Creative Commons via Wikimedia Commons |
Protest. Testify. Witness. Ferguson is protest in the purest sense of the word: people stepping out into the street. The signs, the shouts, the hands upraised, saying: “This. This is my truth. This is my life. It matters. Listen.”
I sympathize with those who long to throw a bottle, smash a window, curse an armored cop. This is my truth. My life. It matters. Listen.
I sympathize with those who long to throw a bottle, smash a window, curse an armored cop. This is my truth. My life. It matters. Listen.
 "Ferguson Day 6, Picture 12" by Loavesofbread. Licensed under Creative Commons via Wikimedia Commons. | The machinery rolls out to shut it down—in the streets, the talking heads, the trolls. Again. Get back. Disperse. Get inside. Stop talking. You are an unreliable witness. Again. |
My own truth, my own life, is insulated from so much of the grief and the rage and the pain. I have the hideous luxury, most of the time, of being able to look away. So in the last two weeks I have been trying hard to see. To bear witness. To listen.
And when I do look back to my everyday life I try to hold on to the double vision. My witness: I have access to employment, to health care, to housing, to capital, to social power. Bank managers lend me money. People usually assume I am telling the truth. I have never been stopped by the police except once, doing 80 in a 55 zone. He gave me a ticket and told me to slow down.
I am called to witness. I am called to be useful.
At night, I go running down a dark street. An officer passing in a patrol car raises his hand in a casual wave.
I protest.
And when I do look back to my everyday life I try to hold on to the double vision. My witness: I have access to employment, to health care, to housing, to capital, to social power. Bank managers lend me money. People usually assume I am telling the truth. I have never been stopped by the police except once, doing 80 in a 55 zone. He gave me a ticket and told me to slow down.
I am called to witness. I am called to be useful.
At night, I go running down a dark street. An officer passing in a patrol car raises his hand in a casual wave.
I protest.
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