The three women smiled warmly in response to my greeting and
my question. “We’re fine, honey,” said one.
We were walking opposite directions around the loop encircling
the park near my house, which meant our paths would cross again many times. Each time
we passed by each other I heard snatches of their conversation, their voices
tinged with weariness and sorrow and frustration, their footsteps plodding as if they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.
“…looters just making
it worse…”
“…knee on his neck…”
“…it has to change. It has to.”
Each passing stirred something inside me, a quiet voice
urging me to speak. I’ve learned over the decades that I ignore that voice at
my own peril. As I approached them for what would have been the last time
before heading home, I stopped.
“How are you doing?”
A puzzled look now accompanied their smiles—puzzled, perhaps, that a white guy would halt their walk to restate his earlier question. “We’re doing
OK,” said the woman who spoke to me the first time. “You know, it’s hard, but
thank you for asking.”
“I just wanted to say…” My voice trailed off. I realized I
had no idea what I wanted to say.
They stood there, waiting.
They stood there, waiting.
“I just wanted to say ‘I love you.’” God help me, did that
really come out of my mouth? “That’s weird, I know. I don’t know you, but I
love you. And I’m sorry. What can I do?” I was surprised and embarrassed by the
catch in my throat, by the tears welling in the corners of my eyes.
She opened her arms.
COVID be damned, I accepted her hug.
I told them my name. They told me theirs. I asked if I could
walk with them. We talked. But mostly, I just listened.
Like Forrest Gump said, “I’m not a smart man.” But I wonder
if I’ve stumbled upon my way forward in this time. After the violence and rage
has spent itself, maybe this is how we falter toward sustainable grassroots change.
Maybe it’s in asking “how are you doing?”
Maybe it’s in exchanging names, and listening more and talking less.
Maybe it’s in asking “can I walk with you?’
