Two Weeks of Turmoil

Bruce Jay Friedman's 1962 novel "Stern" is a parable of man's weakness. In the book, a young Jewish businessman and suburban transplant known only as Stern is incapable of defending his wife after a neighbor makes an anti-Semetic remark. The incident circles around in his head, to the extent that he develops an ulcer and is literally immobilized by his own insecurity.

The fact that Friedman passed away last week is only somewhat pertinent here. Over the past two weeks, I have related to Stern in far too many ways. A lifetime of social awkwardness has made me second-guess and reconsider most of my interactions, itself a kind of paralysis. It has been a challenge to say something both insightful and unique about the brutal death of George Floyd. It's been a conundrum of sorts; the wrong turn of phrase will vilify you, but silence suggests being complicit. The most noble intentions can be undercut by a poorly worded statement. White privilege is my wife.

We have the seen the same vicious cycle too many times now: an unarmed black man is suspected by a police officer of committing a minor crime. There is no hard evidence, nothing tangible to suspect the man besides a hunch. The black man tries to explain his innocence, but his earnest defense is confused for belligerence. Things escalate, and in a matter of moments the man is dead. The aftermath is too similar: there is witness video, the African-American community is outraged, the police officers are vilified by the public, but they get a slap on the wrist if they're even punished at all. A few months later, in another part of the country, the same thing happens again.

With George Floyd, however, something snapped.

At long last, white people in the suburbs noticed. As protests were held in cities, suburbs, and small towns alike, a long-overdue dialogue about the treatment of people of color, both now and throughout U.S. history, was finally initiated. After downtown Naperville (a suburb near my hometown) was looted on June 1st, businesses in neighboring towns started boarding up their panel windows. Some towns like Naperville have always had an undercurrent of racism; this reckoning was probably overdue. The notion of safety and comfort, even in a "nice" suburb, has always been an illusion.

Everything that has transpired since May 25th has reinforced the ugly notion that Donald Trump wouldn't have been elected without the support of bigots and reactionaries. A substantial portion of conservative America, fed lies and exaggerations for over 20 years by the Fox News gaslight machine, found the walrus for their carpenter in Trump. Alas, Fox News was really the carpenter, and his ardent followers were the oysters.

When I think of specific people on Facebook that post right-wing memes, I noticed a pattern that transcended mere political beliefs. Just looking at high school acquaintances alone, I saw they fell into four categories: I remembered these particular kids as bullies, "slow on the uptake," assholes, crazy, or some combination of the four. At the risk of throwing around offensive labels, I can't think of a single Trump supporter that I remember being kind, quiet, or even-keeled. These people don't want a dialogue, they want to get a rise out of you while projecting their shortsighted beliefs. Why I'm still Facebook friends with any of them might be baffling, but I suppose I'm more patient than others. Plus, the unfollow button has been rather helpful.

Anxiety and politic cannot be conflated here. If you're not angry and sickened by what happened to George Floyd, you're on the wrong side. In the nearly two weeks since his death, I've seen a handful of people on social media admit they can't comprehend what's going on, beyond near-nightly reports of violence. The best thing I can tell them is this: if you want to understand why people are angry, listen to the people that are angry.

Black lives matter.

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