Memoirous

I have a group of friends who every Sunday afternoon go outside and line the street out front of our building holding up signs with the name of an unarmed Black person slain by police. Tamar Rice, Jacob Blake, Sandra Bland, Breonna Taylor. Unfortunately the list grows every week. Some of the names are easily recognizable, but some are not—but behind every name is a story, a whole life, cut short. There is power in these names. I know because of the reaction, positive and negative directed toward those holding the signs. So as much as I mentioned in my last post that I’ve never been big on artwork with words (artwords) I see now how it can move the viewer, and hopefully enable change. Much of Corita’s art was motivated by her commitment to messages and reaching people through the medium of silk screens. Sister Corita saw the intersection of art, justice, and the sacred. I speculate/wonder what she would do today with BLM, Black Lives Matter, how she would illustrate those words, b...

Here I am on vacation writing up a blog post on my Kindle which consistently wants to auto-correct Ta-Nehisi Coates, so forgive me if I neglected t to keep writing the name. I have finished reading Between the World and Me . On the same day  news leaks out about another Chicago police shooting "under investigation" . The difficulties of blogging on a Kindle have gone out the window. But, with Coates words in my head and the news headlines before my eyes I cannot help asking some of the same questions raised in this thought-provoking book. Virtually one long essay written to his teenage son. Of how to save himself, and still not be safe. That there is no safety. I'm questioning so much. Yet, like Coates I feel a great distance between the world out there and the world inside of me, they have never jived. Perhaps this misunderstanding is normal for thoughtful, curious kids. The world of difference is color: I did not have to fear for my life while other writer-type ki...

Yesterday, Sunday, instead of services, my church joined with other groups across the city and country to protest the recent grand jury decisions and, in general, the increase in aggressive policing tactics. I attend a multi-generational, multi-ethnic church so there are always lots of opinions—in this instance we were on the same page.   I was proud of us and the energy that went into the message. There was art, singing, and performance; we certainly got people’s attention. The most powerful demonstration was when we put “bodies”—clothes stuffed to look like bodies out in the middle of the road with sheets covering them. The sheets had names (representing several recent policing fatalities) painted on them in black lettering.  Now for a self-revelation: I was really uncomfortable during the protest. I didn’t want to walk in the road, stop traffic, or perform civil disobedience. It wasn’t that I was afraid because in a heart beat I’ll speak up or unwisely...