Tears and Silence

photo credit: WorthPoint


Back in the late months of 1990, I was standing in my dungarees with the other recruits in my unit, K008, at boot camp in Orlando, Florida. It was a warm day, as usual, but we were in the shade of a  tall structure of concrete used for firefighting practice. Lined up like various-sized clones dressed identically, the instructor told us to don our gas masks. This exercise was to help us trust that these masks would, indeed, protect us were we in a situation of being attacked.

"You will be sent in groups of ten into that building," the instructor pointed to the darkened empty concrete chamber, "and when you are told to, you will remove your mask and recite your name, rank, and serial number. Only then will you be dismissed."

I waited in a group of worried, anxious recruits as we watched the first rank file into the building, then eventually emerge, red-faced, coughing and retching. Some of the women had seemed to have better luck tolerating the tear gas in the building than others. The reactions ranged from wiping the tears from their eyes on the sleeves of their dungaree shirts to throwing up violently. It would have been a blessing to go in with the first group, because seeing the effect the gas had on my fellow recruits was deeply disturbing. When it was my turn, I remember going into that darker room, windows let light in which penetrated the fog of the tear gas, but I could breathe just fine. Then, I was told to remove my mask and I tried hard not to inhale, but the purpose of making us talk (name, rank, serial number) was to force us to breathe. That's when I began coughing and gagging. Mucus filled my nose and throat, my eyes couldn't stop weeping. And I was one of the lucky ones. Outside again, in the fresh air, it took a while to recover; the ground around our shoes was spattered with spit, phlegm, some vomit in slimy puddles. The moral of the story: your gas mask will protect you.

Later, that day, in a class discussing chemical, biological, and radiological weapons, that instructor pointed out how the use of these weapons was a terrible thing. This was during Desert Shield, when the US Armed Forces were in Iraq, and it was explained to us that one reason we were fighting Saddam Hussein was because he had gassed an ethnic group within the country, the Kurds. It was with righteous indignation that the instructor declared how this was unconscionable, for a leader to gas their own citizens, and I believed this as well.

My mind hasn't changed on this point since then. Not for a moment. I have had moments since that experience in the Navy when I've been in situations where I wondered why law enforcement deemed the use of tear gas as necessary. During one protest in the early 90s,  the crowd became violent, a car was blown up, fires were being set and the whole world seemed turned on its head. I was attending that protest as part of a First Aid group; but when protesters surged on mounted policemen and horses started to push into the crowd, when windows were being smashed around me, I left as the tear gas was fired into the crowd. I took my bottles of water and first aid kit and headed to my apartment, hoping I wouldn't get stopped by the police cars which seemed to suddenly be everywhere. "I was just there for first aid" I thought to myself, removing my bandana from my face while walking quickly toward my apartment several blocks away across the 405 freeway. I wasn't there to riot. Protesting and rioting are two entirely different things-- one is powerful, the other is frightening, destructive and out of control

On Monday night, this First day of June, peaceful protesters in Lafayette Square, Washington DC, who were providing snacks and first aid to other protesters. Lafayette Square, "a place of peace and respite and medical care throughout the day"* was tear-gassed at the direction of Trump's lackey, William Barr. This was so that Trump could pose with a Bible near a church, to look strong and holy and appease his (well-deluded at this point) base. He didn't want to appear weak, so even moments after he declared he supported peaceful protest, he showed us his lie in his actions, stepping over dropped medical supplies for a photo op.

Our president decided to gas peaceful protesters. He is becoming the dictator he hopes he could be, and some people are still silent.

Some people will say that they don't want to post that sort of thing on Facebook. That 'talking politics' is divisive and they want to keep things light.

That is privilege speaking. This isn't talking politics, this is talking about a national human rights emergency which is happening not just with some local police forces, but our own President of the United States had peaceful protesters gassed. For a fucking picture. If you are not talking about it, at least own your privilege that you have the space to look away from it. You are not being an ally to anyone by ignoring this.

Many people do not like to discuss hard things. They are happy to tell you their own view of how things should be, and they are happy to quote Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr., but they are afraid in some ways of stating the obvious truths or examining their own complicity in how racist and brutal our country is toward some. I am tired of hearing how hard white men have it, frankly. I am sick of hearing how affirmative action is hurting white men. I am sick to death of hearing how people just need to lift themselves out of their poverty and circumstance, as if some magic 'if there's a will, there's a way' balloon is just going to float them out of their lives as targets of other people's misery.

I am sick of it because in my own life, I have lived this. From my youngest years until leaving home, I was suspected of everything, blamed for everything. Toothpaste in the sink? Well, it must have been my fault, right? But you lied, said it wasn't you, and now you are saying it was you? Get a spanking and go to bed. Miss that tv special you wanted to watch all week. Nights when breaking a petty rule meant being told I'd be getting spanked in the morning. Don't do well in math? That D was because you were lazy, not because you have a learning disability and we never bothered to help you, even when you asked. I was socially isolated and grounded for years, grounded to my bed, where I couldn't do anything but homework. No books, no music, no toys. This went on for years. One day I cooked a packet of ramen after school because I was hungry, and was hit for eating food without permission.  Later, it would become more physical, more abusive, more blame, and more anger on my end, and eventually my own violent outrages because no matter what you do, you are blamed.  I told no one, because I knew that I was supposed to do better, try harder. No one would cut me a break, and really, I probably deserved it, right?

When you are told what you are by people who are in charge of you, the people who have the power, you can either believe what they tell you, turn that anger inward, get depressed and anxious and angry, emotionally shut down at times to protect yourself... or you will turn it outward and be angry all the same. Scapegoats are the tools of dictators and those in power to serve as an example: Defy me and I will destroy you, humiliate you, take everything away from you, even your dignity. And people of color have been living with this for hundreds of years.

Thankfully, we are blessed with the unearned privilege that the responses from communities of color and indigenous peoples have been as calm and measured as they are. It is a gift we have not ever, ever deserved. Being socially neglected, ignored, despised, blamed for everything including their own plight-- it's a wonder that BIPOC leadership still insists not just on peaceful protest, but progressive non-violent change. So when we refuse to say George Floyd or the name of any other person killed needlessly by police, we are complicit. When we refuse to push for social change to make things more equitable in our own workplace, we are complicit. When we point fingers at football players who kneel while staying mum when our President gasses people for no reason, we are complicit.

We have to stop being afraid to talk about the ugly stuff, because things are only getting worse for all of us. I am in a position of privilege and I know this. I know, deep in my bones, that some people consider me a total pain in the ass because I'm angry and want to talk about this and it's not a fun conversation. But when, if not now, are we going to look this in the face? Not just with a meme about Dr King's Dream, but real, actual digging and discussion and so much listening? Not with cute pictures of children of different races together, but with actually examining our own racism and racist ideas we've internalized? Maybe we all need a bit of that tear gas, so we can cough up what we've been taught and examine it, and cry and grieve that we've all played a part in this mess, each in our own way.

No one is excused. Just like in that building filled with smoke, taking off our gas masks and having to breathe in the reality. No one gets a pass. No matter how angry I am, I know I have my own work to do. Calling out egregious injustice-- no matter who does it, is important. We can use this time to take care of ourselves during the pandemic crisis and also condemn the hatred and violence coming from not just the streets, but the highest office in the land. Our silence will eventually kill what is good in us; our tears tell us that change must happen.

*https://www.facebook.com/gini.gerbasi/posts/10157575422089624