Five years ago today, 20 first graders and six teachers were gunned down at Sandy Hook Elementary School.
So, what’s happened since Newtown? We’ve seen mass shootings in churches, movie theaters, an outdoor concert, a nightclub, a county social service office.* We’ve had a lot of moments of silence.
We don’t silence. We need change.
Tonight, I’ll go to a Protect MN workshop, No More Moments of Silence, to learn about ways people can work to prevent gun violence. The only way we can prevent gun violence is if more people demand change. So I will keep showing up at the State Legislature, keep calling and writing elected officials, keep protesting and donating.
We can’t keep ignoring gun violence, hoping it will go away, hoping our families will never be touched by gun violence.
Today, five years after Sandy Hook, we need to do something to stop gun violence. Please, please, do something. Donate. Get involved. Don’t be silent.
Men on horseback. Men with weapons. We’ve had enough of the usual statues.
Philadelphia has a fresh take on public art: An 8-foot Afro pick topped with a raised fist, All Power to All People. A faceless, genderless Monument to New Immigrants. A mash-up of pedestals sans sculpture called If They Should Ask, spotlighting the absence of women monuments.
You can savor the city’s twenty eye-catching creations the through November 19. The artworks are part of Monument Lab: A Public Art and History Project, which asks, “What is an appropriate monument for the current city of Philadelphia?”
Given this year’s attention to outdated Civil War statues, Philadelphia’s question is timely, but Monument Lab has been working on this project for five years. I hope more people start seeing public art and asking questions. What is a monument that matters? Who are we honoring? Who are we ignoring? Why?
Statues tell stories, about who matters and who doesn’t. In Philadelphia, William Penn is top dog, or at least top statue. No building in center city can be taller than Penn’s statue atop City Hall. Penn is part of Philadelphia’s history, as is Frank Rizzo, a racist police chief and mayor, whose statue may not remain long in the city.
I thought about Philadelphia’s history as I stood across from City Hall recently, watching people taking selfies by Hank Willis Thomas’s 800-pound Afro pick. A group of young African American men smiled broadly for the camera. Then two women took their turn, then another, then another. No one glanced at a massive sculpture, Government of the People, hulking just a few feet from the All Power to All People pick.
What makes a hair pick art? Maybe the same thing that makes a spoon art. People connect with ordinary objects, especially those made in dramatic fashion. The Black Power comb makes a necessary statement when so many people, including the president, don’t understand that black lives matter.
In Philadelphia’s City Hall courtyard, ordinary people become the art. Mel Chin’s Two Me lets people step up to the pedestal, literally, and become the monument. I watched a little boy who just wanted to run up and down the long ramp, and a young woman in hijab stand up, tentative but smiling, atop the pedestal.
Monumental messages can come from simple stuff. A spoon, a cherry. A comb, a fist. The ordinary becomes iconic. Monuments that stay with us, that matter.
Your honor, I respect how you have listened to all of us protesters. You have said freeways aren’t safe places to protest. I went on Interstate 94 not to put my life in danger but because other people’s lives are in danger. I don’t think freeways, roads, really anyplace in America, are safe for people of color. Philando Castile was not safe here, in Ramsey County.
The prosecutor has said we protesters destroyed “the peace and tranquility of the interstate.” What kind of peace and tranquility did Philando have while driving? It’s likely he felt fear, rather than peace and tranquility, during the more than four dozen traffic stops he endured.
Last July, Officer Jeronimo Yanez panicked and killed a compliant driver. This June, Yanez was acquitted by a legal system that respects people who wear blue more than they protect people who are black.
We who have power– because of the color of our skin or the authority of our jobs—allow separate and unequal law enforcement and separate and unequal courts.
We allow officers to pull over people of color for unnecessary traffic stops. We allow cops who kill civilians to walk free.
Philando’s girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds live-streamed racial injustice as vivid and painful to see as civil rights protesters being attacked by dogs and water cannons.
We watched a man bleeding, dying. What did we do?
Many of us rose up. We went to the Governor’s Mansion, an urgent and spontaneous vigil, using our bodies more than our voices to demand justice.
Your honor, you have spoken of police mistakes. When we repeat actions hundreds of times, they can no longer be considered mistakes. Police shootings of civilians are not mistakes. Police shootings are racial injustice which we who have power allow to continue. We need to change laws. We need to change ourselves. We who have power, because of the color of our skin color or the authority of our jobs– judges, prosecutors, lawmakers— we need to accept our responsibility for allowing racism.
Until Philando’s killing, I had been silent about racial injustice. I watched Philando’s blood seeping across his body. I cannot unsee it. I cannot unsee the racism seeping across our history, staining America, for longer than we have been a nation.
Philando died because we who have power did not demand justice for all. I will stand with and behind people of color. They have spoken out for centuries against the injustices by my people.
John Lewis calls protest “necessary trouble.” We need to stand up, sit in, kneel on a sideline, block a freeway. Civil disobedience is as serious, as patriotic, and as necessary as voting.
I cast my ballot for justice standing outside the Governor’s Mansion. I cast my ballot for justice blocking Interstate 94. I cast my ballot for justice this morning in court.
We watched a man bleeding, dying. We need to make necessary trouble.
Through this sultry September, a steady chantey lulls me.
Once more to the lake.
The words propel me to finish tasks so I can once more settle into a kayak and paddle toward peace.
It’s been a summer of rented happiness. I don’t own a kayak or any kind of vessel. But I’ve found my pleasure craft: rental single and tandem kayaks at lakes in the Twin Cities and Madison, as well as along the Mississippi River. I pay by the hour for my cheap and legal delight. I thought about calling this piece The Joy of Paddling, but figured that title could disappoint readers looking for something more salacious than a damp kayak.
Every outing on the water has been salvation. Before I started paddling, I’d been in the doldrums, adrift, a longtime runner no longer able to run. In a kayak, my balky knee relaxes while I skim through water and air, once more savoring the bliss of moving.
Once more to the lake.
Yesterday, I shoved off the sandy beach just half an hour before rentals closed. I paddled hard through the channel, intent on getting to my heron.
She stood, placid, in her usual island spot at Lake of the Isles, by a Wildlife Refuge sign. Less than two feet away, a young couple in a canoe fished by the island’s edge. I silently begged them to give her space, to let her be. They looked at me but didn’t budge. The heron spread her wings and glided to a nearby tree on the refuge. From a respectful distance, I contemplated her, soaking in every chance to see another slender gray-blue wading bird or a stylish white egret.
This summer of rented happiness has given me new vantage points to see the world. Not far from the heron’s island, I gaze up at a graceful curving sculpture in a hilltop yard overlooking the lake. The lofty artwork isn’t visible from Isle’s well-trod paths.
On Nokomis, I stop paddling to watch a gull dip into the murky lake and pop up with a fish, then take flight, winging by me, with silvery fish squirming in its beak. None of my many runs around Nokomis included that vision of lunch-to-go.
Balanced in my kayak, I coast mid-lake and observe the afternoon sun glistening on calm water, a sudden splash nearby as a fish jumps, and in a blink of my eye, slips underwater. Along the willow-lined shore, turtles bask on logs. I spot two, no, there’s three, or is it four, hard-shelled sun-worshippers.
I’m learning to see life on the water. A flock of geese squawk overhead, seeming to bicker over which way to head, until one settles the argument, taking a sharp turn north, then another follows and another and in a flash, all are in formation, flying in the familiar V, soon out of sight, their squawks lingering. Walking or running, I seldom stopped to see what was up. In a kayak, it’s natural to survey the scene, going with the flow of the current and the scattered thoughts and songs in my head.
I spy sailboats bobbing, stand-up paddle boarders chatting, laughing, striking a yoga pose.
I’ve study clouds, grabbing my phone to snap a multitude of airy scenes: puffs, billows, wisps, contrails, fluffy whites and menacing grays, skies blue, white, pink, peach, and violet.
Of course, kayaks offer more than reverie. My arms, shoulders and core are stronger from hours of dipping and pulling a paddle, making leeway through smooth or squally waters. By the time I navigate back to shore, I’ve had a workout as well as an escape.
Soon, though, my summer of buoyant happiness will cease. Rentals close for the season next month. Until then, I think of E.B. White’s “Once More to the Lake.” His 1941 essay, a melancholy reflection on returning with his young son to the camp where he had summered as a child. White sees his son and imagines himself as a both the child and the father, years and roles overlapping, I was a teenager when I first read White’s elegy. Now, four decades older, I recall his pensive prose on time and memory, the lulling title a siren’s song lapping over me.
I saw their faces at the library last week. Minnesotans born in Myanmar, Iraq, Somalia, and Laos. The boy in a football T-shirt who played in the mud in a refugee camp and now plays soccer here. The young woman whose dream is to get a job so she can begin taking care of the parents who carried her on their backs when they fled Myanmar.
Those refugee stories are part of compelling exhibit by Winona photographer James A. Bowey. The exhibit’s title sticks in my mind.
When Home Won’t Let You Stay.
Today, Attorney General Jeff Sessions announced the end of DACA, Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. Our government is telling young people who were born elsewhere but have spent much of their lives here that they may not be able to stay.
When Home Won’t Let You Stay.
Today, people around country will rise up, rallying for young undocumented people going to school and working here, young people who consider this country their only home. We will defend 11 million Dreams.
I think of stories of people whose pictures I saw at the library– Mohanad, Dissel, Ahmay, Eh, Bway, Yatha, Zaina– people forced to flee their homes.
Sawlwin, forced to leave Myanmar, told photographer James A. Bowey that, “A refugee is someone who cannot depend on anyone.”
Leng, forced to leave Laos, told the photographer that, “My English is not good. I don’t have much friends. But I can get my children a better life.”
How many parents struggled to get here so their kids could have a better life? Today, our government announced plans to close the door on thousands of young people.
Some people trade in their old cars for the latest model. Last year, I donated my 1993 Honda, swapping it for a new car-free way of life.
Fourteen months later, I’m happy to report that stepping out of the driver’s seat suits me.
The best part of being car-free? I see the Twin Cities as bigger and more diverse. Outside the metal and glass bubble of an automobile, I’m less insulated and more connected. I talk and ride with people from more races, ages and classes.
This summer, as I stopped at a red light on my bike, a young African-American skateboarder rode up and started chatting. We commiserated about the lack of a bike path, and the pros and cons of riding on sidewalk. That pleasant commuter conversation between a 20-something black man and a 56-year-old white woman wouldn’t happen if I was driving solo.
Sitting on an East Side bus bench, the woman next to me drinking a midday malt beverage chatted me up. “Baby Girl,” she said, “I like your hat.” We talked a bit and she patted my hand, then leaned in closer, to exchange an air kiss. When her friend arrived, she invited me to join them for a drink. I demurred, and they wandered off.
For years, I’ve dreamed of living in New York. I crave the big city. This year of car-less commuting shows me that the Twin Cities are more urban than I had appreciated.
I’ve ridden crosstown busses packed with people speaking Spanish, Somali, and languages I don’t recognize. I hear what’s on the minds of more Minnesotans, not just what’s on MPR.
Walt Whitman exalted, “I Hear America singing… the strong, melodious sounds.” I hear America on the bus: Other people’s music, singing, chatting, laughing, muttering and fighting. I hear an irate man yell at a young mother to get her stroller out of the bus aisle or he’ll report her. I hear small civilities—the chorus of riders calling in unison alerting the bus driver to stop so some frantic latecomer can board, the passenger who digs for change to pay another rider’s fare. I hear– and am part of– city life. Continue reading “A car-free year”
Anchored firmly on the corner of Greenbrier and Jessamine Streets, this brick and mortar Beaux Arts building looks traditional, even staid.
Step inside, and you’ll see and hear a vigorous world of faces and stories, more lefty than stuffy. I hear the urgency of ardent voices– union organizers, community activists, and immigrant neighbors– demanding their stories be heard.
Funded by steel tycoon Andrew Carnegie, this library, built in 1917, a year of revolution, reverberates with robust stories.
A blue sign proclaims, “Rebellion to Tyrants, Democracy for Workers.” Posters hang like fresh laundry, an open-air display of the issues of the day: “PHILANDO MATTERS,” “CLERGY STANDING WITH STANDING ROCK,” “RESISTANCE IS IMPERATIVE,” “WE STAND TOGETHER.”
The walls and stairwell shine with vivid murals of Minnesotans: Immigrants from Europe, Southeast Asia, Africa and Central America, along with African Americans, building a community here on the East Side.
The library’s collection of books, art, music and other items highlight peoples whose stories and songs have often been ignored by traditional history books and libraries.
An East Sider couple, labor historian Peter Rachleff and theater and dance professor Beth Cleary, transformed the old Arlington Hills Branch Library into this theater of stories. When Saint Paul opened the new Arlington Hills branch nearby in 2014, Rachleff and Cleary’s nonprofit signed a 15-year lease for this space and launched the East Side Freedom Library. The lease is $1 a year, but it costs $1,200 a month just to maintain lights and heat.
The old building bristles with the energy and heat of activism. This library is more non-conformist than conventional. None of the 18,000 books filling the tall wood shelves can be checked out. Instead, the public are invited to use the books and other research materials here. This is a community space, with movies and weaving, meditation and meetings, including a union job fair.
One recent rainy afternoon, the library was standing room only. More than 150 people wedged in for a Lemonade and Listening session with U.S. Rep. Betty McCollum and local legislators. Stories rang out.
An Iraq War veteran asked McCollum why the VA won’t provide health care for trans people. People talked about climate change, water quality, net neutrality and the healthcare marketplace. McCollum told people they had collective power about health care and other issues. “You have a voice,” she reminded the audience. “That is powerful. The fact that you showed up, spoke out, wrote out…”
An angry man interrupted the congresswoman, outshouting all other voices—disrupting the session until eventually, collective voices won out, and the listening session resumed, with talk about pipelines, broadband, Islamophobia and the need for unity.
Rep. Tim Mahoney joked, “Mr. Carnegie is rolling in his grave…” about the pro-union, left-wing views of this Freedom space. Managers at the Carnegie Steel Corporation triggered the bloody 1892 Homestead strike. Carnegie emigrated to the U.S. from Scotland at age 13 with his family and became one of the 19th century’s richest businessmen then spent years giving away most of his wealth, launching more than 2,000 libraries, along with what’s now Carnegie-Mellon University, and the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace.
So perhaps it’s fitting that the immigrant tycoon’s traditional library is home to stories of other immigrants. The Freedom Library’s collections include the African diaspora and Hmong Archives. The library organizes monthly Neighbors meet Neighbors sessions. This month, Somalis shared their stories, history and culture. In September, Karen immigrants take the stage.
On summer Tuesdays, I’ve had the joy of sitting in this library of stories, finding my own words, then sharing lunch and conversation with fellow women writers. We’ve sat on the steps outside, talking about our work, families, places we’ve been and want to visit. Next week, we’ll read from our summer’s work.
One afternoon, a construction worker repairing alley potholes stopped by. His crewmates took their lunch break in the truck parked in the library’s tranquil shade. He made himself at home by us, each woman with our organic veggies and fruit packed in re-usable containers. He started talking, telling his opinions about city projects and politics. We hadn’t invited him, he just came. Needing to talk, a blue-collar worker saying what was on his mind, on the steps of a community library that embraces so many stories.
This brawny building is packed with stories of people, their voices rising up.