The Bystander Metaphor

This morning, while running and talking, a friend and I witnessed a bicycle/pedestrian collision. I confess that (a) I must not have been paying very close attention to the trail ahead, or (b) I make a lousy eye-witness. My friend said that he saw the accident unfolding. I didn’t see it until maybe two seconds before it occurred. What I saw was an older woman in a white shirt turn in such a way that she clearly didn’t see that she was stepping right in front of a bicycle which was not traveling at top speed but was moving quickly enough to make quite an impact. The bike hit the pedestrian straight on. It was not a side-swipe. Both the woman and the bicyclist fell immediately.

There were several other women walking with the one who stepped in front of the bicycle. They gathered around her as she lay on the ground. My friend and I checked on the woman and the bicyclist. We stayed around to help with calling and directing the ambulance and making sure the cyclist was OK too. My friend gave the cyclist his name and number in case the cyclist realized a mile or two down the path that he did need help, or in case there turned out to be some sort of legal ramifications and witnesses were needed. 

After the EMTs had attended to the woman, a police officer approached the cyclist, and my friend and I heard the description he gave to the police. The cyclist, who was clearly upset and shaking and worried, had previously told us that he had been trying to avoid the woman, that he had slowed and was keeping his eye on the group of women. He kept repeating that he tried to avoid her. Of course he did. I never suspected him of hitting her on purpose. Plus, I had paid attention just at the moment when she moved somewhat erratically, just a second before the impact. It seemed like both parties and neither party owned the “blame” for what happened. When the cyclist described the scene to the police officer, though, he repeated what he had told us about seeing the group of women on the trail as he approached and thinking about whether/how he could avoid hitting them, but then he said something else: “There were runners coming from the other direction, and when she moved to avoid them, she stepped in front of me.” (The scene from The Great Gatsby came to mind, but I’m a literature nerd.)

My friend and I turned and looked at each other. The “runners” were us. 

As we left the scene of the accident, we discussed the cyclist’s story. Before he told it to the policeman, neither of us had considered that we were a factor in what happened. In our version of the story, we were just witnesses. We happened to be running in the direction of the accident. We decided, though, that the cyclist might be right. In my memory, the woman did turn oddly and step sideways shortly before the impact. It is possible--likely even?--that she did turn and move that way because she heard us coming. It is possible--likely even?--that our roles in the scene were not just detached witnesses but somehow integral to the event. It is possible--likely even?-- that the events would not have happened as they did if we were not running in that place at that moment.

I do not mean this to be an invitation to place or even discuss blame. None of us meant to cause that accident. I do think, though, that it’s an interesting reminder that sometimes we need to see a situation from a perspective other than just our own. 

Writing this in June of 2020, during the resurgence of a pandemic so many people are trying to either avoid or discount, during the moment when my white friends and I are suddenly awake to racial patterns that we have been privileged enough to observe as “innocent bystanders,” I feel like today’s situation might be a metaphor. 

It is possible--likely even?--that none of us are ever just innocent bystanders.

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe." --John Muir

 

"Played" Paranoia

I suppose I should probably start out with the disclaimer that I’m currently in a pretty angry mood after having been played by my eight-week-old puppy who refused to pee outside in the rain and then peed in the kitchen while we were eating dinner. She went out of sight of us, so I think she knows it’s wrong. We took her out over and over in the rain, and she refused to pee--she made us think she didn’t have to go. We were totally played, and I don’t like it. I was played, I tell you.
 

That said, I’m annoyed with the obsession the general population (OK, maybe this isn’t equally distributed among the population, but I hate to stereotype by pointing fingers) has with being “played.” Exhibit A: I opened Facebook this evening (and whether or not I should just “unfriend” all of the mindless followers/reposters/conspiracy theory minions is another debate) to see that a “friend” (not one I’m close to, but someone I believe means to be a good person) had posted a meme that said the following (and I’ll preserve the punctuation for full effect): “Imagine watching a televised funeral with hundreds in attendance after being told you cant go to your own family’s funerals or even your kids graduation. Imagine watching it and still not realizing youre being played” [Yeah, no period at the end in addition to most of the missing parentheses. This meme was not written by someone with finesse or education or maybe only an elementary grasp on English, Russian being the primary language….]
 

I immediately wanted to write back the following: “Who exactly do you think is playing you? WTF?” Seriously. Who is supposedly “playing” us in this scenario? The virus? The governor? The CDC? The WHO? Again, WTF? Why would anyone have ANY f-ing interest in whether you went to your kids’ (please note that I can punctuate!!!) graduations?” (Side note: this person’s children are both out of college. So no, s/he didn’t miss her kids’ graduation. Also, I don’t think s/he personally missed any funerals either.) Basically, this person found this meme on social media and thought, “Yeah!! They’re playing me! I didn’t get to go to the funerals and graduations that weren’t even happening! I’ve been played!!” (Insert scream of rage here. Played!! Played, I tell you!! Oh my God!! Played!!) 

Then I thought, would it be nicer to write the following? “Dear friend, please earnestly consider the possibility that the only person ‘playing’ you at this moment is the person/bot who created this meme you copied. It is clearly intended to sow discord and confusion. Please consider the evidence that you have probably been denying that much of the vague incendiary poorly spelled/punctuated memes on social media are created by one of the following: (a) people trying to create division, or (b) bots trying to create division. And you are helping him/her/it. Please stop trying to play me.”
 

The bottom line is that whoever figured out that “being played” is one of the worst things that can happen to an American these days is totally playing this person and many people. It made me wonder: when did “being played” become something we have to guard against so vigilantly. When did “being played” become the primary crime being committed against the common wo/man? After 114,145 Americans have died of a virus, why would protecting people from it be seen as “playing” them? Is the implication in the above meme that if you’re overly kind and cautious about caring for others that you’re a chump? We are really worried that we might accidentally care about each other too much? Seriously, America. You ARE being “played,” and the game is that no one in government actually cares about your personal kids’ graduation ceremonies (and very especially no one is trying to manipulate you to not go to your kids’ ceremonies that happened several years ago. I’m dead serious about this. NO. ONE. CARES about the ceremonies you didn’t even miss!) The game, then, is the “people”/bots that know they can rile you up by suggesting that you (you! Of all people! They are after YOU for sure because...well, you!) are being played ALL. THE. TIME.  Virus? Played. Killed 114,145 Americans to mess with you. Police brutality? Played. Killed black people for hundreds of years to mess with you! Ha ha! Gotcha.
 

Seriously, gullible people, what’s next? Tornado sirens? You. are. being. played sucker!! I bet you actually looked out the window and believed that those high winds bending the trees in half were real. Played. I bet you went into your basement and sat there like a fool. Played, played, played. And when the next town over was flattened? Played. “They” did that to mess with you. And you bought it. I bet you even tried to help the “victims” whose homes were destroyed. Played. At least until a meme on the internet helped you wise up to what was going on. 
 

Thank the powers that be that we have a President who will tell you that the skinny 75-year-old who was pushed over by police and bled profusely from a head wound while police walked over him on their way to...the next block...had been participating in social activism and peaceful protests for half a century so that YOU would fall for it right now. It was all about you. You being played. 
 

Be careful out there, folks. You’re going to hear a lot of people wanting you to feel sorry for victims of all kinds. You’re going to hear “recommendations” for how to keep everyone safe from things like pandemics and traffic accidents (you are so being played by those “red lights” and “stop signs”.) Do yourself a favor: don’t buy it. Stop washing your hands. Stop driving on your side of the road. You are being played, and there is literally nothing worse than accidentally being too kind to others. That, my friend, is called “being played,” and it’s happening to you and at you. These things are about making you look gullible, and it’d be better to, you know, kill someone than look weak. Kill your neighbors if you have to. Refuse to vote. Paint the town with lead paint. Be strong. Don’t get played.
 

OK. I’ll end the rant there. I need to go pet my puppy. Because she probably just doesn’t know what the hell is going on with the high winds and the rain and she just wanted to go in the nice calm house and pee in peace. The only dogs actually playing me are the ones that convinced that my teeny puppy is part of the deep state that wants me to believe in urine.

 

From One White Suburbanite to Another

In this past week, the United States surpassed 100,000 COVID19 deaths (105,557 as of this writing, although there’s some evidence that thousands of deaths should have been included in that number and were not.) Also in the news was the horrifying video of the murder of George Floyd after a white police officer kneeled on his neck for more than eight minutes. This follows closely on the video of an incident in which a white woman refused to put her dog on a leash in a leash-only section of Central Park and then called the police on the black man who was bird-watching and asked her to do so. These events come at the heels of the recent murder of Amaud Arbery by two white men because he was running and black. And the murder of Breonna Taylor, also black, when police raided her apartment for a crime she didn’t commit and shot her.

 

It’s been a dark couple of weeks in America even if we don’t talk about “politics.”

 

I want desperately to be able to write something to help make sense of all of this, but I’ve been reading some very compelling narratives from black men and women about times they’ve been harassed, accused, and endangered because their skin is darker than mine. They live in a world where it’s not safe to go running, to sit in a car, to sit in their home, to watch birds. I have nothing to say more eloquent or relevant or true than what they say. I am grateful to them for their stories and grateful for the people who have been amplifying those stories.

 

For some reason, God saw fit to make me a white woman born into a middle-class suburban life. Maybe She thought I was too tender to take life as a person of color. Or maybe She intends for me to use the circumstances of my birth somehow. I am ashamed to confess that, due to my continued residence and employment in an area that is largely white, most of my friends, colleagues, neighbors, and acquaintances are also white middle-class suburbanites. It turns out that in allowing myself to stay in my comfortable life, I have not put myself in a position to be very helpful to the people of color whose lives are obscenely more dangerous and complicated than my own. I believe, though, that God can use us from any place at any time. It’s not too late for me. And so I start with my own people. 

 

This is for my white middle-class friends who, when I listed the deaths in the first paragraph said in their minds, “But what about the riots?” This is for you who felt as much or more anger and indignation over those riots as over the killings, who think they are equivalent crimes. I write to you with full knowledge that minds and hearts are hard to change and that the people who need to read this either won’t start reading it or won’t make it to the end. I get why the black community is cynical about white allies. I’m cynical too. And yet, I’m not being a better person for not trying. So here goes.

 

Do this for me: look around you and find the most valuable item you own. Maybe you have a really nice car. Maybe you have a really sweet media room with a big TV and surround sound and multiple reclining seats. Maybe you have a really nice phone. Heck, maybe you have ALL of those things. That’s fine. You don’t have to choose. Hold them all in your mind, if you like.

 

Now walk into your bathroom and get close to the mirror. Look into your own eyes. Look until you really see yourself there. 

 

Now decide: which is more important to you, your valuable item(s) or your life? If you could keep one or the other but not both, which would you choose?

 

And here’s an extra credit assignment. Do you have a son? Go look at him sprawled out on your couch or shooting hoops. Or, if he’s not with you right now, look at a picture of him. There’s probably one in your house, right? Now decide: which is more important to you, your valuable item(s) or your son? If you could keep one or the other but not both, which would you choose?

 

If in either scenario you chose your car or your TV, OK then. Let the fury over the riots build in you like boiling acid. Go out into the street and scream. Search for, read, and post more about the riots. Raise awareness about the sanctity of shop windows and Target merchandise. Also, you can stop reading now.

 

If, however, you chose your own life and the life of your son, I’m with you. Me too. But here’s the thing you need to hear: if you chose your life and your son’s life and yet spent more time and energy condemning the riots than the murders that sparked them, you are a racist. I bet you don’t feel like a racist. I bet you feel angry that I’m accusing you of such a thing. But the riots that you think are repulsive are about things, and the murders are about lives. Calm down--I’m not endorsing looting, and I’m aware of the news reports that the evolution from peaceful protests to riot seems to coincide with the interference of outside forces, including allegedly white-supremacist groups, and I don’t endorse that either. Focus. Don’t let yourself look away from this just yet. This essay is about you, my friend. If you are willing to say your life and your child’s life matters more than any possession but you are more upset about someone’s possessions being damaged or stolen than someone’s LIFE being stolen, you need to ask yourself why. Why does the one upset you more than the other? Why do riots raise your righteous indignation more than murders? Why do the riots demand more of your attention? Is it because your things could be stolen but those kinds of murders would never happen to you? Because you never go running? Because you never sit in your home watching TV? No, the difference is something else. 

 

Imagine living in a country in which most of the police, lawyers, judges, governors, senators, and president are black. Really pause and imagine. Does it make you feel uncomfortable? I confess: I feel weird about it. Why? What if every time you saw one of those policemen a story ran through your head about how he could kill you on the spot? Because you’ve seen it happen over and over again on TV. Because it happened to your neighbor. Or your son.

 

We are talking about racism, friend, and you and I need to do the first hard thing and call ourselves out for it.

 

I doubt you set out to be racist, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t soaked into you. There are plenty of books and articles and talks about where this came from, and I’m going to continue to read and listen so that I can understand better, and I invite you to do the same. You can do it secretly if you’re embarrassed. Just start somewhere somehow. Seeing it is the first step. Or maybe the first step is just wanting to see it, even if you don’t yet. Maybe someday you and I can talk about it. And maybe we’ll know more about what to do next when we know more about what we’re dealing with. And maybe someday our sons and daughters or grandsons and granddaughters will live in a world where they don’t even have to ask themselves which is more important, stolen items or stolen lives.

My Particular White Privilege

I know I’m not alone in the experience of loving my children so much that it scares the shit out of me. This started, of course, before they were even born. I was scared for them when I had the prenatal tests done. I worried about what I was eating and what I was (or, more to the point, was not) drinking. And it only got scarier from there. I went through a phase when I was sincerely worried that one of them would fall into a pit toilet in a campground, and I never settled in my mind what I would do if one of them fell in. If I jumped in after, would I land on them? Then how would we both get out? Should we camp with a rope ladder? I am thankful that now that the smaller of the two is almost my size, this is unlikely to happen. But it doesn’t mean they are safe. It doesn’t mean I worry less. There are car accidents. There are school shootings. There is meningitis. There are bad people and bad choices. There are things they are missing out on and things they aren’t doing but should.

Today we exercised a bit of the worry and then let go drill that is parenting. Because of the pandemic, the traditional cross country camp was canceled. For reasons based mostly on his own personality, my son, whose high school identity is a member of the cross country and track team, didn’t run when the team was not an option. I was happy, then, when two other boys initiated a three-person run. My son just turned 16 but--partly due to the pandemic and partly to his laid-back personality--he hasn’t yet gotten his driver’s license. So when he proposed that he bike to the trailhead so that he could be responsible for bringing himself home, a part of me admitted that this is the natural evolution of parenting. He should be allowed to take on that responsibility. I confess, though, that I worried. I talked to him about a safe biking route. I was worried about him getting hit by a careless driver. I worried he wouldn’t actually wear his helmet. I worried that he wouldn’t lock up his bike. And here’s where my particular privilege comes into the story: I didn’t worry that the police would see him biking or running and assume he was a criminal. The riots happening across the country, including in my area, did cross my mind, but he wasn’t going to a protest. He was going running on a trail with two other guys. He is a skinny white teen on a bike (with a helmet, I hope.)

God, or whatever you want to call Her, has a funny way of pointing out our weaknesses. I’ve been praying to be different. To be who the world needs me to be. Ha. Over lunch, I asked my son how his run was. “Really weird” was his answer. It turns out he arrived before his friends and was waiting for them at the pavilion at the trailhead. As he stood there, half a dozen police cars arrived in the parking lot. The police got out of their cars and came up to him. They asked him what he was doing there. He told them he was waiting for his friends to go for a run. They asked where he had come from. He showed them his bike. They asked him for identification. He doesn’t, as I mentioned earlier, have a license, but he did (thank goodness) have his school ID in his phone case. He showed it to the officers. They nodded and backed off. They said he matched the description of someone they were looking for, but it wasn’t him. Later, they asked him and his friends to call 911 if they saw a guy of around 30 with a beard and a broken foot. My son is amused that he might be mistaken for such a person--a kid of 16, with no facial hair yet, running. How did they mistake him for that?

And this is where my mother’s heart and my trying-to-be-antiracist heart collided: if my son wasn’t a white student at a well-funded all-white high school, that might have ended differently. My son asked the police what the guy was wanted for and was bummed that they wouldn’t tell him. My son has never been taught to be nervous around cops. My son stood there, amused at the oddity of the situation. My son has never seen a friend, a brother, an uncle, a father, or a neighbor stopped or treated suspiciously by the police. He didn’t act nervous. He didn’t try to run away. He tried to engage the police officers in conversation. He was curious, not afraid. I have never had to have a talk with him about how to act around the police, how to not get shot or kneeled on or beaten by the people he knows are there to protect him. The only time he’s ever seen a family member have an encounter with the police was during an ice storm when I backed into a delivery truck and the delivery man called the police. The policeman told off the delivery guy for being rude and called me “ma’am” and assured me that everything was OK and that people make mistakes, especially in ice storms.

If my son was a black man, all of those things would probably be different, starting with what I worried about when I watched him ride away. No, starting with how he felt about police before he rode away.

My heart pains me in imagining the different reality of every mother of color in America today. And last year. And for the last 300 years. 

I am not sorry that the interaction between my son and the dozen police officers who accosted him this morning in a forest preserve turned out the way it did. I love my son too much to wish otherwise. The point of all of this is that I want to live in a world where every mother can carry on worrying about bike helmets (and maybe pit toilets) and not that should her son slightly resemble someone accused of a crime, he might not come home at all.