The Loudness of my Quiet*

Jun 8

by Eric Stone

*some of this is autobiographical, and some has been added for emphasis

I’ve sat here, in my apartment since Monday, quietly. It was a busy week. I’d been working for the last year on my dissertation proposal, and I finally finished and submitted it, and moved on to other work I needed to complete.

I got the news on Monday that George Floyd, another in a long line of Black men killed by police, had died from forceful tactics inflicted on him by a man who lacked an ounce of humanity. I sat quietly, reflecting on the pain, the fear, the awareness that Floyd must have felt as he gasped for air, and the officers’ willful ignorance of that pain and fear. I sat quietly, afraid to open and watch the video that circulated around the world, thinking that, again, a Black man had to die for the world to awaken to the struggles that people of color, and especially African Americans, face in the country they were born in.

I sat quietly, looking for some quote or passage from any one of the hundreds of books that adorn the walls of my apartment, looking for something that might provide insight, that might instill humanity in those around me. I continued to eat, to drink, to wake, to sleep. Why was he denied his humanity? Why did those officers do that to him? Why? I sat quietly in Baltimore, in one of the Blackest cities in the United States, reflecting on George Floyd’s right to humanity, to be treated with decency. I sat feeling for the protestors who stood out in the streets despite the pandemic, despite the fear, despite the anger, and said in a clear voice: George Floyd matters. I sat quietly.

I sat quietly as I went about my work, hoping against hope that the president or the police wouldn’t do what I knew they would do, and make the situation worse through word or deed. I thought about the quotes again. About Martin Luther King Jr.’s paraphrasing of abolitionist minister Theodore Parker’s sermon that the arc of the moral universe bends towards justice. I thought about how this quote was probably circulating on social media, and that those who posted it probably felt better expressing themselves through the words of a more eloquent and gentle soul than they assumed of themselves. It may bend towards justice I thought, but it needed help. I sat quietly.

I sat quietly, wondering how to spark humanity in the people I knew who were inevitably critical of the violence of the protests and the destructive power of mobs, while simultaneously ignoring that it was the police who started it. I thought about Marx’s famous quote that humans make history, but not necessarily in the conditions of their own choosing. I thought about George Floyd, and Tamir Rice, and Trayvon Martin, and Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery, and Philando Castile, and Alton Sterling, and Eric Garner, and Michael Brown and Sandra Bland. I thought that they would not want to make history in this way, to be famous for this. I thought that this tradition of murdered Black people who did not deserve to die for existing within conditions they did not choose had gone on for too long. It weighed on my brain like a nightmare, just as Marx had said. Yet I sat, quietly.

I thought of my students, who would inevitably talk about Colin Kaepernick and his protest, and how I would correct them on its purpose, to protest precisely this event: the extra-judicial killing, the murder of Black men by people sworn to protect and serve. I thought about how I would talk about this inevitable fallout through my course, and how my students would nod, and then sit quietly.

I wanted to cry. To rage. To scream at the top of my lungs: Black Lives Matter! I know that they do! I am with you! But I sat quietly.

I want to do more, I told myself. I want to be in the streets, protesting. I want to be at the front with my fist in the air and alongside my friends, my colleagues, my co-conspirators. I thought about the impotent fury that I felt, and that I could, if I really wanted to, join them. I could support the people who were fighting for my right to sit quietly. I didn’t have to share articles, or quote writers more poignant than me. I could be out there, using my privilege to fight back. But I sat quietly.

I thought about my friends. I thought about how they must feel seeing their brothers, their sisters, their mothers, their fathers, their aunts, their cousins, all splashed across every TV screen in America, raging, crying, screaming, breathing. And then getting up to live their lives in the shadow of silence, burdened by what DuBois called double consciousness, to have the desire to be both Black and American without being cursed and spit upon. And I sat quietly.

But then I got up. I donated to Black Lives Matter. I read How to Be an Antiracist. I recognized that my privilege was more useful as a tool than a shield, and decided that being quiet was more costly than I could bear.

Don’t sit quietly. Don’t let your neighbors, friends, loved ones fight alone. If you don’t feel safe going out, find other ways to help.

If you want to talk about what is happening, reach out. Don’t give up when it gets uncomfortable, push through. You can do it, you only have to get up.

Educate yourself, here is a good place to get started:

https://www.ibramxkendi.com/how-to-be-an-antiracist-1

If you would like to not sit quietly, if you would like to fight with groups like Black Lives Matter, below is a link that might help get started:

https://medium.com/equality-includes-you/what-white-people-can-do-for-racial-justice-f2d18b0e0234

This Link might help you to think more critically about your beliefs and how they are formed, as well as provide insight in how to grow how you think:

https://lifehacker.com/improve-your-critical-thinking-with-this-cheatsheet-1843678157

The Loudness of my Quiet*

My Body, The Supreme Court’s Choice

Coronavirus and the Fate of Capitalism