Whose Streets?

 I stayed two extra nights in Kentucky so that I could attend a #moralmonday protest outside the office of Mitch McConnell in Lexington. This was organized by the Poor People’s Campaign, led by Rev. Dr. William Barber. Dr. Barber, of course, took his cue from the original Poor People’s Campaign that Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King led in the 60s.

This was a powerful witness but vastly different than the other PPC events that I’ve done. For this one, we met, masked, and decorated our cars with signs; for the others, we met in person. I remember the feeling the energy of hundreds of people packed into a crowded church in Washington, DC, and El Paso, TX, listening to powerful speakers decry the injustice of the day and calling for our elected officials to do better, to end the racist policies that had children (still there) in cages and young, black men murdered needlessly by the police.

In the Washington, DC protest, after hearing all the speakers, we lined up, five people in a row, to march in total silence to the White House, where many of us were ready to risk arrest to make our case. The effect of the silence was deafening and profoundly moving. Several times, I had to blink away tears as I watched the passersby look at us wonderingly, reading the signs we held. I was on the end of my row and I would turn and show my sign wordlessly to whoever was there, attempting to make eye contact, signaling with all the force of my body the urgency of our cause.

In El Paso, in June, we started off the same but then we caravanned over to a detention facility, demanding, as faith leaders, to be able to minister to the needs of those incarcerated inside. It was over 100 degrees, but many had on the robes of their tradition. I wore a bright yellow stole that said Siding with Love, and my clerical collar to denote my status as a minister. We stood there, outside of the lock gates, close together; sweat was trickling down by brow and the back of my neck but I did not budge as we shouted out for justice.

Last July, when I came to Louisville for the #1000milesforBreonnaTaylor protest, we were a raucous, righteous crowd defiantly marching in the middle of the roads, chanting, “Whose streets? OUR STREETS!! Laying claim to the right for black and brown people to be able to walk or drive these streets without fear of being arrested or killed.

There is such power when bodies can come together, combing their energy and voices in protest. Standing with hundreds of others, I felt encouraged in the cause for justice. It was heartening to see people from so many different faith traditions, with very different beliefs, of all ages and genders, joining together for a common cause.

Yesterday, we met, masked and six feet apart to put signs on our vehicles with blue painter’s tape. We did have some conversation, but it was different, not being able to see the full faces of my fellow accomplices. Once the cars were decorated, we lined up and drove slowly around the office complex, our hazard lights blinking, each of us in the silence of our cars. I had been listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter, but that felt somehow off for the protest, so I paused her CD, Between the Dirt and the Stars, and just drove in silence, concentrating on sending out justice and mercy vibes to those in McConnell’s office and to those on the streets who saw our motorcade solemnly passing by.

After it was over, we just pulled over, pulled off the signs and drove away. There had been about 20 cars in our protest; I know similar people were doing the same at the senators’ offices in other states.

I was struck by how different I felt participating in that silent, powerful protest than I did on Friday. I pulled onto I-70 from Wheeling, NV, heading into Ohio on my way to Louisville, and almost

immediately was confronted by hundreds of vehicles going the opposite way, with huge Trump Flags and signs, many also with the American flag featured. These vehicles were snarling the eastbound traffic, going much slower than the posted speed limit of 65, taking over the middle lane. As I drove past them, grateful I was going the opposite direction, I was also disgusted by their behavior. A couple of the Trumpsters were in the break down lane, the hood of their trucks up, as they peered inside. I passed one major fender bender between two Trump supports; that caused the traffic that had been crawling along to come to a complete standstill for several miles. After a time, I did come across some going the same direction as I was, though not nearly as many.

I wanted to show my ire for both their politics and their motorcade but my only noticeable action---flipping them off—felt juvenile. So, I just rolled my eyes to myself as I pass them by.

Yet, they were just doing what I was doing yesterday: showing their allegiances with a motorcade.

I couldn’t help but wonder, allegiance to what? What is it in their psyches that makes them align so closely with Trump? What neglected, gaping maw in their souls has been so filled with the rhetoric of exclusion, hate, divisiveness and arrogant disregard for science? These were not cheap vehicles; they were mainly large, expensive trucks with older white people in them.

Their tactics may have been similar to the protest I participate in yesterday, but the reasons could not be more different. I participated in a protest that demanded the end of inequality and injustice. The Poor People’s Campaign speaks out for the marginalized, the forgotten, the oppressed.

I’m actually not sure why the Trumpers were parading. The only thing they had been deprived of under the previous administration was the notion that they were special.

 Still, it's their right to gather, just as it is mine. Today, as I leave for points unknown, I feel even more determined to gather for justice, to reclaim the streets for all.