Weirdest Place in Time and Space Summer 2020 To understand the weirdest place I’ve ever been, it is important to understand what led up to that moment. The summer of 2020 was the year a Black man named George Floyd was murdered by a cop who needlessly pressed his knee into George’s neck for 9 minutes and 29 seconds. This came on the cusp of two other senseless murders of Black Americans, Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Abrey. Breonna was sleeping when police kicked through her door and fired 32 rounds, killing her with 6 while Ahmaud was jogging through his neighborhood when two white men jumped in their pickup trucks, ran him down, and shot him dead in the street in broad daylight. At the same time there was a pandemic coursing through the air as if on a mission to wipe out all of humanity with a single breath. For a moment the world fell silent and once busy streets paid ode Chernobyl. We were all locked away in our homes, grasping our phones, so that when the video began to circulate, there was no place to go. “Mama, mama, mama,” were among the only words George could muster knowing they’d be his last. Cries that pierced ears and gripped hearts. Then, as if all at once, the video ended, lungs began to swell, and the exhale came out in a scream so loud it shook the earth off its axle. The result was the largest civil rights protest in world history. As someone who has heard the calling to be a social worker, I went out every single day. Yes, that included the first few days that turned into nights when the protesters were lighting the world on fire. No, I did not participate in any destruction but I think it was important to be present to witness what happens when a series of events
has turned up the heat high on the frying pan and an entire race that has been iced out of justice finally meets. I witnessed sorrow, anger, love, rage, peace, anarchy, testimony, community, opposition, and fellowship across all race, ethnicity, age, gender, and sexual orientation met with swat teams and military fully geared for war. All four corners of the world were in combat with systemic oppression. By the end of that summer despair had taken root and was thriving in what had become the cavern that was my soul. I am diagnosed with bipolar 2 and also consider myself an empath which means that sometimes my mind gets overrun by emotions. A feeling I like to call “the static.” It’s like when you turn on the TV and all you can see is the white and black squiggly lines. The static white noise hits you like a screaming banshee and you clammer for the remote to turn it down or change the channel… but you can’t. With fall semester just around the corner, I did not want to take that dark neurosis into school with me. Therefore, as I have done in the past when I feel out of control of my emotions, I jumped in the car, downloaded an audiobook, and drove. Sometimes I know where I will end up, sometimes I don’t. I find this to be a helpful way to reset and usually spend time meta thinking. It reminds me that I am just this little particle in a vast galaxy and my problems are even smaller and temporary. I had never been north so I decided to check in with my friend who lives in Minneapolis. My thinking in making that my first destination was that she was someone I could call on a whim and inform that I will be staying a few days. The fact that that particular city was where George Floyd was murdered and was therefore the epicenter from which all of my emotions were tied was really more of an afterthought. When I reached my destination I immediately instructed my friend that I would like to see the
George Floyd memorial but the moment we got back in the car she was to stop me from any further mention of my feelings or involvement in the Black Lives Matter summer. At the time, it was all I could think of, speak of, or feel and this was my way of redirecting the traffic in my brain. That being said, I also felt it was an important place to be, like making a pilgrimage to Mecca for a social worker whose focus is based in racial injustice. The George Floyd Memorial In social work we talk about “creative play” during a social movement in which art, in all its forms, is used to get a point across. It is meant to create emotional and visceral breakthroughs. That is what happens at George Floyd memorial. There were about five blocks closed off and filled with art, poetry, and murals. At every point of entrance volunteers stand by asking those who enter to dawn a mask, sanitize, and offer water. At each entrance, there were the names of all the people of color who lost their lives to police violence like bodies stacked on top of each other on the pavement leading up to the center. Names that took up the entire length of all four blocks and continued on each side of a crossroads where a towering bronze fist stood, rusted. It seemed to not only represent the skin of those who lay before it but centuries it has been hoisted in air in the face of injustice. The silence in the midst of a bustling city was deafening and you could feel the trauma in the air. So thick you could hardly breathe. At the curb where it feels as though I had visited so many times and yet a place where I had never stood before was a giant mural of George’s face. It looked as though the mass collection of candles, teddy bears, flowers, and trinkets that laid below became the lungs that kept his memory alive. As if to say it was here that he died but it
is here that he will live on forever. At each turn there was something different memorializing the moment and the movement. It was eerily quiet but never had I heard the voices of the many who lost their lives to the blue more loudly. My insides screamed as my face wept. It was beautiful, tragic, calm, fierce, quiet, and loud. Time was frozen in amber on May 25th, 2020. The Weird Place Following that day and upon my friend’s suggestion, I drove to Keyston, South Dakota. Sounded like a good idea as I had it in my head that I wanted to get lost in nature at some point and surrounding Mount Rushmore is a vast national park.I spent all day driving. By the time I pulled into my hotel (which I paid extra money for to have a view of the monument from my room. They failed to mention you needed binoculars) it was dark and I was exhausted so I went straight in and passed out. The next morning is when things started getting weird. As I walked towards my car, out of the corner of my eye I saw a flag I know all too well and does not in the least bring me comfort. I looked over to find a merch trailer draped in alt-right, Trump super fan merchandise, which included a big blue Trump flag. It was as if in slow motion my head started to pivot and I realized I was surrounded by big brawny guys and gals on a loud Harley’s dawning American flags and red hats. One of the flags on the trailer read “LGBT” but the images above each were as follows: L - the Statue of Liberty, G - an assault rifle, B - a beer mug, T - Trump’s profile. At that moment I remembered I was wearing a Black Lives Matter mask and I generally look pretty queer so I feel it was safe to tell toto that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Suddenly the world was bright and vibrant with red hats, white people, and blue lines. I ripped the mask off and ran to the car.
My plan from there was to get coffee, stop by Mount Rushmore for a quick peek, then find a peaceful trail to unplug. The one coffee shop I found on my way was very small. I stepped inside and it was as if I stepped into the only place on earth that did not know there was a raging pandemic. I was the only one wearing a mask and each person was so close I imagine everyone could feel the hot breath of the person behind them on their neck. In my attempt to find even the slightest bit of social distancing I would zig and zag away from the line but to no avail. That’s when I felt the sear of judgemental eyes coming from behind. I turned around to see the typical American dad type with his jorts, white tube socks, and sandals with arms folded, glaring me down. I was so relieved to get out when the barista called my name. From there I went to see Mount Rushmore. It was packed with Trump supporters, people who clearly didn’t believe in covid, and a slew of bikers. Considering how I spent, not just the day before, or the whole summer, but the last four to five years protesting and fighting against the same man that the people surrounding me all but praised on an altar, I truly felt as if I was in a sort of survival mode. I moved through the crowd like a pro-baller, bobbing and weaving through a field of self professed “patriots.” Once at the front, I took a moment to admire Mount Rushmore in all its glory. As I snapped a few pictures I was snapped out of my admiration by a man who yelled out with great conviction that by this time next year we would all be able to come and admire our greatest President, Donald Trump. A moment that brought me right back to reality and sent me screeching out of there. To be fair, at no point did I actually feel my life was in danger but given the climate of differences today, I had never felt so vividly and weirdly out of place. I have
been blown up by two IED’s in Iraq. Over the summer I was at one point threatened by an officer who whipped his baton at me and charged at me for filming an arrest. At another point I was the line that stood between a mob crushing in on another officer. I grew up in a city that glorified the “thug life” and was in several situations I am pretty should not have made it out of. So by no means am I a stranger to dangerous situations but we live in a weird time and I was in a weird place. More to the point, I was alone. A solo traveler that landed in uncharted territory. Not only did I understand that the people around me felt as passionately against my core beliefs as I did theirs but I was wearing a mask, which was a clear statement against their red hats.