It’s really hard for me to write about Ferguson. First, there’s nothing the slightest bit funny about what is happening there.
Second, I know I am a white privilege mother so while I can feel empathy and outrage, I will never know the depth of fear that my black friends wake up to every day.
Third, short of giving democracy to Missouri I do not have any suggestions to keep this from exploding.
A young man was shot six times. The autopsy looks like – I am certainly no expert – he probably had his hands in the air. The simple fact that the police officer was protected by his chief indicates to me that something wasn’t right.
True story: the first time a met a Texas Ranger, the legendary Texas lawmen not the baseball team, I was wearing a gorgeous hand loomed sarape from interior Mexico. It was one of my prize possessions because of its beauty and utility in Houston winters. The Ranger, meeting me for the first time, said to me, “Don’t you know not to wear a poncho around a Texas Ranger?” I asked why. “Because that’s what we take target practice on. Har. Har. Har.” My stomach turned. It was a life-altering moment.
That’s not funny. Not at all. And the reason it’s not funny is that there is too much truth in it.
Twenty-five years later, I met the first black female Texas Ranger. I asked her if I could hug her. I didn’t tell her why but I think she saw it in my eyes. She hugged me.
I am in pain over Ferguson. We’ve fought this crap for my entire life and we still haven’t won.
I still have some fight left in me. I do.
