The past few months seem all too much like the late sixties, when after centuries of oppression and the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., African Americans grieved and rioted. Back then I wanted to be part of the civil rights movement, but did only a very small bit. I wrote letters to newspapers, helped to integrate an all-white neighborhood in Chicago. It was all too little, of course. Others fought and died in that battle.
While Chicago police clubbed demonstrators in Lincoln Park,
I lay in a hospital bed recovering from surgery. It gave me an excuse for not
doing something more, for merely being on the sidelines of a major battle.
Now I am 83, “too old” to go out and march in the Black
Lives Matter demonstrations following the murders of George Floyd and others.
It would be ludicrous, I say to myself. Would police treat gently an old lady
using a walker? They might, considering my age and “white privilege” status. If
they clubbed or tear-gassed me, that might be a useful protest, but I’m too
cowardly. Once again, I will watch braver souls on TV, write the occasional
letter, and hope that this time there can actually be an improvement.
Copyright © September 27, 2020 by Carol Leth Stone (a.k.a. RovinCrone)
