Stop!

"Protesting is when you see something wrong, and you want to stop it," I told my adult English students. "A march is when lots of people walk together in protest."

Born in 1959, I grew into consciousness as the Civil Rights Movement came to national prominence. The Vietnam War protests were the backdrop of my adolescence. By the time I went to college, Reagan was president. We signed petitions to pressure our administration to divest from companies with ties to South African apartheid. No one marched in the streets.

Since then I have used my voice. I wrote letters to the editor, a few of them published. I became politically active, as a donor and volunteer. I made countless calls to hostile strangers to defeat an effort to legalize discrimination in our state. I visited my state legislators to make sure they heard me. But I have never used my feet. I have never marched.

When I first heard of Black Lives Matter, it made sense. "Stand up," I thought. "Tell your story. People will listen." Because that has been my experience. I spoke up, and a mere four years later, my church became more inclusive. I gave a letter to my state senator and later she read it on the senate floor. I was heard. I am white.

Black Lives Matter wasn't heard. The killing continued. So they came to places where people were already gathered. They came to the Mall of America, and it didn't bother me. I hate shopping there. They came to the State Fair. I was annoyed. I love the State Fair.

"They're not doing it right," I said. "Annoying people won't change anything. They need to tell their stories. That's how we defeated the marriage amendment."

Then came Alton, Philando and Dallas. Black Lives Matter walked onto an interstate near me to stop traffic. It didn't go perfectly. Anti-police rage led to injuries. Many people were annoyed.

"They're doing it wrong. They shouldn't be allowed to disrupt so many lives. People need to be places."

I've been teaching American history this summer. It's English class, but we teach the language through a variety of topics. We began with the Native peoples, then European arrival. After studying independence from England, we looked at American expansion. Next came the Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement. We had just finished comparing Cesar Chavez and Martin Luther King Jr., when Philando Castile was killed fifteen miles away. I realized with a jolt that I had taught my students the history of race and violence in this country.

"Now you can understand why this is happening," I said as if that were possible.

But it's not possible. So maybe Black Lives Matter is doing it right. Maybe standing in the middle of an eight-lane highway and refusing to move is the only thing left to do. You may not stop the next bullets being unloaded into a man who is only frightening because he is black. You may not stop the next retaliation against a decent police officer. But at least you are stopping something. Even if it's only traffic.

And maybe it's time for me to use my feet. I won't join them on the highway. That's terrifying. But I might at the state fair. I'll be there anyway.