On Being Brave and Truly Patriotic

When my sister arrived from Indiana for our annual Fourth of July connection at our cabin, she suggested that this year for the boat parade, we decorate the pontoon with a banner Black Lives Matter and put names of Black people killed by the police. Given that I live in Minneapolis, the site of George Floyd’s recent murder, this made so much sense.

And yet I was nervous because I know there are people up here who support our President.  There is one house on the road with a Black Lives Matter sign, stalwart progressives who have not lost their roots that had them meet during service in VISTA decades ago.  Others fly a Trump 2020 flag. Did I really want their ire? I told my sister I was open.

The next morning in meditation an image came for an additional banner—this one had a peace symbol, a heart, and the scales of justice. I took that as a confirming sign, and we launched our project, driving into the small town to find supplies.  At the dollar store we found white plastic tablecloths, markers and a stencil set.  Lori is quite crafty and artistic and can make anything look good, so I followed her lead as we measured, held the tablecloths to the boat, measured again and cut.

An earlier thought was to fly the America flag upside down, a universal symbol of distress. But both of our husbands cautioned against inflaming observers. Better to reclaim the flag for this anti-racist message.  We festooned the boat with plenty of red white and blue decorations and mini flags from previous years, demonstrating that the very definition of patriotism is the freedom to state your beliefs.  

A couple nights before we started on the banners, I put both leaves in the table so we had adequate workspace, Lori created a stencil for the heart, free-handed the peace sign and justice scales, and I shaded rainbow icolors n the heart at three inch intervals.

After stenciling BLACK LIVES MATTER, we each took a column of names of those killed and highlighted the local names, George Floyd, Philando Castile, and Jamar Clark, making them larger and then added dozens more.  Printing the names was sobering: Lori said she thought of the mothers who named these babies, and then lost them so tragically.

On Saturday the Fourth, we timed the decorations for a big reveal. The next door neighbor said we were “clever,” and another neighbor with a Black son in law up for the weekend came over to introduce herself and thank us.

We headed over to the parade end of the lake, and Lori drove us slowly by the observers. Most of them were ready with water balloons and hoses, as this parade becomes a big water fight typically, despite pleas for the well-being of the fish and birds.  We always skirt their firing range and this time drove slowly and waved flags.

I wasn’t sure how we would be received, and when we got the first applause and thumbs up, my eyes filled with tears.

Some people waved politely, some turned their backs, but one gave a peace sign, another a raised fist in solidarity, and most cheered. What really touched us were the kids who looked and then leaned in to read, mostly pre-teens perhaps on the cusp of becoming aware of the wider world.

Only one woman in a passing boat was close enough for me to hear her say, “oh my God,” and I’m not going to even interpret that.

Takeaways from the experience:

I underestimated my neighbors. I let a few vocal extremists seem more numerous than they actually are.

Taking this action was a little scary. I’m a people-pleaser who avoids conflict. If I’m worried about jeers, how much more do BIPOC feel every time they leave the house? And Breonna Taylor’s murder shows she wasn’t safe IN her home.

There is no passive anti-racist stance, as Ibram X Kendi teaches, where I read important books and think good thoughts. I have to be active in my white privileged world with an anti-racist message that Black lives do, indeed, matter, that police killing Black people, mistreating a race, has to stop. Right. Now.

Being brave is easier if someone else is along.  My sister was the instigator, the courageous one, and I’m forever grateful to her.

Bravery begets more bravery. I actually swam later that day in the lake, something I've avoided for decades because I fear fish, weeds, turtles, and leeches.

I’d like to think we will never need to list the names of Blacks killed by the police again, but I think we are in this for a long, sustained advance. Count me in.