My America is defined by the stance of a red head. A descendent daughter of the land of Eire, a child of wonder and light seeking a place in the mayhem of the day. She was caught briefly on the news camera not as an interview, not as a victim, although she came close to being one, but as an unknown hero of the day.
It was downtown Sacramento late on a Sunday afternoon. The fever pitch of Saturday night with smoke and flames, firebombs and rubber bullets had done its worst. Store windows had been shattered and the angry or opportunistic could be seen plundering the lifelines of their own neighborhoods – groceries, pharmacies, liquor stores and delis. Stores selling art and artifacts, jewels and cigarettes; the sole livelihoods of immigrant families used to send their children to college or off into marriage, to pay for soccer, piano lessons, or math tutors. The paltry profits from these home-grown enterprises paid for the healthcare of families and employees in the heat of COVID, within the shadow of its death. Even large chains, whose employees come from the working class and not the elite, in a time of ravaging unemployment, whose pallid income wards off fears of food shortages and sickness had lives destroyed by wanton greed corrupting righteous anger.
My America is defined by a gentle giant of a black man wearing a mask not to be scary but to be protective of others, whose black Black Lives Matters t-shirt and black pants and black mask must have felt claustrophobic and sweltering in the hottest part of the afternoon.
Amid the destruction and rampage they took a heroic moment to stand in front of an REI and stop looters from smashing the windows and trashing another establishment. It wasn’t’ their place of work or worship. It had no value to them except that its destruction devalued their reason for being present. The young redhead intervened first. Holding up her skateboard in front of her she yelled at people to stop. She was grabbed by a potential looter and yanked aside by her arm, nearly tumbling over as she was whiplashed away, like some child’s game. The looter continued to try and kick in the door glass. She deftly stopped her own tottering and imposed herself back between the storefront and the destructor. Just as the youth intent on destroying the store was coming at her agin, trying to grab her, the young black man stepped up beside her. It appeared they did not know one another. I don’t know if he intervened to protect the girl, the store, both – it does not matter. They took a stand together and changed the event.
The other day, on the internet, there was news story. It showed a huge section along the coast of Norway. Many acres with homes and a farm facing out at the crashing and churning North Sea. This isthmus of land with buildings, cars and farm animals appeared to melt away; sliding into the sea in camera created slow motion. It swirled and spun and slowly sank washing away the lives and livelihood of many. It could not stand against the force of nature and in the end the country of Norway was diminished by the onslaught of inevitability.
The redhead and the black man, perhaps descendants of indentureds and slaves, stood together against what seemed inevitable and made an impact, even if only on me. I think many of us believe we have a hero inside. One, when called to action, would respond and stand up. I think we believe we are just such solid citizens, although we never know until we are tested. It can be easy to stand in the crowd and cheer when you are surrounded by hundreds acting the same. It is hard when it is only you doing what is right.
I want to live the rest of my life not just harboring such courage but displaying it when called upon. I want my courage to be at the ready and available to stand by another alone against a North Sea of hate or an act of hostility. I remember being that kind of man when young and strong in my twenties and thrities. I do wonder if I will be so bold in my seventies now that I am not so sturdy. I want to be as ready as the seventy-five-year-old in Indianapolis seemingly pitched to the concrete by an officer of the law; tossed like a heap of detritus, bleeding from his head where he hit.
My America is defined by those two souls unknown to one another, yet intrepid in the face of fury bent on destruction. My America is defined by the old man lying on the concrete walk, paying the price to make his voice heard. I hope I have such courage to stand, too.
Walk with Me and I Will Stand with You!