My BLM signs in our small Missouri town point to hope for my Black children’s future

I’ve lived in the small town of Willard, Missouri, since 1993. I came here straight out of college because of the proximity to nature and the kind nature of the people.

Fast forward 27 years: My husband, our three kids and I live in the middle of town, and my firstborn is headed for college in the fall.

Then George Floyd is murdered in front of the world by a police officer. Everyone standing around him lets him die amid his pleas for breath.

What is this world that awaits my Black kids?

I ache all over: my heart, my head, my spirit, my stomach. I cannot sleep easily, and when I do, I picture people dying because they cannot breathe. I wake up panting for oxygen.

I realize I cannot sit this one out. My silence could be killing people. Will my son be next because of his dark skin? My daughters?

Unlike them, I have the privilege of white skin. In my country, that means I have nothing to fear.

Nothing.

To.

Fear.

Law enforcement will not profile me because I’m white. All people are measured by white people’s expectations in the United States. White wrote the laws. White wrote the history. We made ourselves look great.

Don’t assume. Skin color does not dictate peoples’ actions; how they’re treated does. Treating someone poorly begets poor behavior. Treating someone with kindness begets kindness. That Golden Rule really works.

Words became clear and empowered me. I made signboards reflecting the needs I saw and walked from my home to the busiest corner of town. I made that first walk in early June, and am out there up to four times each week. It makes me feel really vulnerable.

I love my country, but I’ve been sold a story just to feel exalted. I want to know the truths for everyone who built this melting pot and overcame oppressors’ attempts to keep them down. Almost every person who originally came to this country and fought for their independence did so to escape some form of oppression.

Daily, I make online posts about my observations of people’s reactions to me displaying my signs, leaving judgment to the reader. “Birdies” fly rampantly from the hands of passersby. I get scolded for not having a job (though I maintain four). I’m often told to go home (though I am home).

One online responder is my good friend Sue, who participated in civil rights protests in the 1960s. She finds it interesting that so many could be rattled by a single person holding a sign. Have I released some latent beast in my town of kind-natured people?

Sue also researched the number of all- or predominantly-white towns across the country in which ordinary people, after seeing that George Floyd video, organized rallies supporting the Black Lives Matter movement. She pored through news accounts to create a list of these cities and towns that held protest gatherings and found over 2,000, the overwhelming majority of them peaceful.

Sue says, “This is the real story. Nothing like this ever happened in the ‘60s, and that makes this time different and a far greater cause for hope.”

Hope. That is what we need to be energized by. Hope that changes will happen. Hope that people really do want love over hate. Hope that this generation tears down walls of assumptions and rebuilds this culture with equity and justice for all. Then we can pursue that happiness that has eluded so many for so long.

That’s my American dream.

This story was originally published September 23, 2020 at 5:00 AM with the headline "My BLM signs in our small Missouri town point to hope for my Black children’s future."