brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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Our intention in posting a "Black Lives Matter" sign in front of our house wasn't to offend anyone. In fact, it was precisely due to fear of negative reactions we hesitated to do it. Posting the sign doesn’t mean we don’t believe all lives matter or we don’t value the lives of police officers. If there were room on the sign, it would say: “All lives won’t truly matter until black lives matter too.” Or simply: “Black lives matter too.” If Trayvon Martin — whose murder sparked the movement — had been a white 17-year-old returning to his father’s house in a gated community in Florida, where he was a guest, he would be alive today. It wouldn’t have mattered he was wearing a hoodie or had Skittles in his pocket or traces of THC, indicating possible marijuana use, in his bloodstream. George Zimmerman wouldn’t have called 911 and he wouldn’t have said during a recorded conversation, “These (expletive) they always get away.” Like so many teenagers, Trayvon Martin was talking on his cell phone with a friend. It was dark and rainy and a stranger — a large, burly man — was pursuing him for no apparent reason. Trayvon told his friend what was happening. He started to run. Zimmerman had a gun; Trayvon didn’t. Did they wrestle for the gun? Who most feared for their life in this situation, the unarmed teenager chatting on the phone or the armed vigilante? There was little physical evidence at the crime scene and only one surviving witness to help determine what happened. Defense attorneys argued Zimmerman shot Martin in self defense. Protected by Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law, he was acquitted. Zimmerman claimed he was acting on behalf of the Neighborhood Watch program, yet the rules of the program were clear: no guns. When he called 911, the dispatcher asked him if he was following Martin. When Zimmerman, according to the transcript, said, “Yeah,” the dispatcher replied, “OK, we don’t need you to do that.” If the alleged trespasser posed a danger, the police were on their way. Zimmerman ignored the 911 dispatcher and pursued Martin on his own, afraid he would somehow elude the police and get away with … what? He wasn’t doing anything illegal. There was no imminent threat to anyone and if Zimmerman put himself in danger — Trayvon, confronted by a stranger and in fear for his life, fought with his attacker for possession of the gun — this was due to his own careless actions. Yet the jury bought the self-defense argument. “You know, if I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon,” President Barack Obama said in response to this tragedy. Critics eviscerated him for this statement, when all he was trying to do was show empathy to parents who lost a child. We all should see Trayvon Martin as our son, our grandson, our brother, our nephew, our cousin. He was killed for no reason other than the sight of a young man with black skin arouses more fear and suspicion than the sight of a young man with white skin. And to kill that young man because of that fear is, in many states, justifiable under the law. This is why black lives don’t matter under the current justice system in equal measure to white lives. It’s why athletes like Colin Kaepernick and Megan Rapinoe have chosen to use their platform to call attention to this inequity. And while I resisted putting up the BLM sign because I feared we were communicating a different message than what we intended — perhaps even alienating those who misunderstood that intent — a simple statement by my husband changed my mind. If one black person walks by our house and sees the sign and it makes a difference, it’s worth it. It could be our letter carrier or UPS driver. It could be a neighbor. It could be a child walking to school. Whoever it is, we want them to know in our home, their life matters.
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This year my family is breaking from tradition and spending Christmas away from home. My mother-in-law is celebrating her well-deserved retirement by taking the extended family to Patagonia over the holidays. As far as gifts are concerned, it’s impractical to lug extra baggage while touring another continent, so my immediate family is planning an early celebration. Maybe for the first time, my husband’s cautionary words, “Kids, it’s going to be a modest Christmas this year; I mean it” — to which the kids smile indulgently — will hold true. In all actuality, the health and happiness of each family member is top on our wish list and the ritual of gift giving is mainly for the joy of watching the people we love most open each carefully chosen item Christmas morning. We still will pick out and decorate a tree, but we won’t wait for the kids to arrive home from their respective college and graduate school pursuits. For most of our 20 years since we moved to Michigan, this has been a family pilgrimage. Our first year, we abandoned the romantic notion of chopping down our own tree and were prepared to settle for a Frasier Fir at Home Depot. Along the way we stumbled on a parking lot tree farm on Gratiot beneath the twinkling lights of the Hooters sign. Each year we’ve returned, Nino, the gentleman who runs the seasonal enterprise, recognizes us. He stopped giving the kids candy canes years ago, but he still hugs my husband for his generous tip and once invited him into the trailer for a nip of a little something to brace him for the cold. My husband politely declined. With such limited time to enjoy a tree before we depart on our trip, it makes sense to decorate early so the kids will return to a festive house. Still, it’ll be a lonely proposition with just the two of us present for the untangling of last year’s lights accompanied by my husband’s usual swearing, generally ending with a string of defective lights in a clump in the trash. I’ll arrange the ornaments myself without the kids there to select just the right station for Christmas music, make hot chocolate, or be the first to break a delicate bulb. One tradition that will remain intact — which my son claims is his favorite — is our annual family shopping expedition at Partridge Creek. There we break into smaller units to combine forces in our treasure hunt, spin off on solo missions or, after convening for a top secret meeting, set off on a quest for that elusive gift for the man who claims he wants for nothing. One year I was secretly amused to help one daughter select a Fit Bit for her dad while he was making the exact same choice for her. It was our Gift of the Magi moment — minus the hardship or sacrifice. Some traditions carry over from our own childhoods. In lieu of a plate of cookies by the hearth for Santa, my husband will fry up a burger, claiming, as did his father, Jolly St. Nick needed something a little heartier than sugary treats for his long journey. This theory is proven correct year after year when, come Christmas morning, only an empty, grease-stained plate remains. My father’s favorite part of Christmas was the stockings. I channel his love for small treasures as I wrap each gift individually before hanging the stockings by the chimney with care. The next morning, all preparations complete, I’ll sit by the lights of the tree listening for the stirring of the kids upstairs as they awake and make their way downstairs to a transformed living room. This is the moment that feels the same year after year, whether the kids are small and awake by dawn, sleeping in as teenagers, or young adults home only for the holidays. For the next few hours we will close out the rest of the world, the news, outside pressures and everything but the pleasure of each other’s company. Will any of us care it isn’t actually Christmas? This appeared in the Dec. 13 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |