Painting with Troika, by Vasily Kandinsky (1911)
I’ve attended several Black Lives Matter protests here in the South, which got me thinking about the nature of protest, especially since the narrative surrounding it has been so focused on violence. Violence is the result of having been pushed too far, in my opinion, and having the time and space to condemn it is a privilege in itself. Since Black lives have been threatened, both overtly and systemically, for over 400 years, it's surprising that we haven't seen more violent uprisings. Our country has a long history of demonstrating that violence is the only thing that attracts white attention and spurs us towards change. It secures media coverage when nothing else will.
Of the protests we've attended, one morphed into a full-on church service, which was the most Southern thing I've ever seen — but for justice as well as Jesus, this time; one was led and attended by children with delightful signs; and another was a joint Pride and Black Lives Matter rally that unified residents in the wake of our city’s anti-gay, anti-Black history.
Although I’d planned to transition to New York in March, I’m quarantined in South Carolina, where I still own a home, despite partially moving away twice. My house is in Greenville, a small up-and-coming city by all accounts except those of its progressive residents. We appear on top ten and best places to live lists, and thanks to a picturesque downtown and low cost of living, remain popular among residents and visitors.
But some of us have been very aware that what seems like a bright, shiny landmark of promise is little more than an outpost of white comfort and complacency. Our city hides a sordid past. We opted out of the path for Olympic torch-bearing in 1996 because the runner was gay. Imagine choosing prejudice over Olympic affiliation.
Our racist history is more alarming.
Greenville's schools did not integrate until 1970, 16 years after Brown v. Board of Education. The last lynching in South Carolina took place in Greenville, in 1947. There were 31 men involved, and 26 admitted guilt to the FBI. None were convicted. There's also the story of George Green, a local farmer. In 1933, after a dispute with his landlord, he was murdered by the KKK. Again, none of the 17 charged were convicted. Records prove Green was in the right.
Our community has been silent about these truths for far too long. There are Black residents two minutes down the street from me who likely witnessed all of it. Countless other American cities live in a similar shroud of denial.
Greenville doesn’t need to be on top ten lists if we can't care for our own citizens or provide avenues for them to lift themselves out of poverty. And apparently, despite our so-called economic success, we can’t. Over the past several years, the city had multiple opportunities to correct our housing and transportation problems, which keep Black communities from thriving amidst rapid gentrification. Instead, they chose a multi-million dollar outdoor space — ironically named Unity Park — which threatens to segregate our parks, one of the only mixed-race environments we have.
Greenville, along with other cities like it, must stop over-hyping its progress — which is defined solely in capitalistic terms, which stands on the foundation of white supremacist patriarchy and is extracting more from our land and essential humanity than we can afford to give.
Instead, we must redefine what progress means to us as a city. Is it attracting more big business, or taking care of the most vulnerable among us? The answer is obvious.
My city, like so many others, does not need “economic development” that depletes our green space and leaves entire groups of people behind.
We need truth and reconciliation.
Isabel Wilkerson wrote The Warmth of Other Suns, which documents the untold history of America’s Black migration from the South to safer cities. In an interview, she suggested the United States form a Council for Truth and Reconciliation in Virginia to address our racist past. I wonder what would become possible in this country if every city committed to truth and reconciliation. It would be a path towards healing — not just at the national level, but between neighbors, within the fabric of every community.
In the meantime, protest is one path towards reconciliation that’s available to us right now. It's a group of residents speaking the truth, together, calling for immediate change. No violence erupted at the protests we attended, though I might have understood if it had. Instead, everyone wore masks — with the exception of bystanders and cops — and people were eager to provide one another with sanitizer, water, snacks, and care.
Protest, at its core, is a caring act. It is also meant to be contentious.
The idea of protest has long been controversial and subject to revisionist histories. But the point of it, whether violence manifests or not, is to demand a pause in everyday life. It’s a calculated distraction meant to redirect people’s attention towards the truth. It is intentionally disruptive.
Data show that voter turnout surges in communities who have witnessed intense protest. In the past, dramatic and overblown response from law enforcement has tipped public support in favor of those protesting. We’ve seen it happen in real-time this summer, and history tells us the same thing was true for women’s suffrage and civil rights. Suffragettes were considered militant and violent embarrassments to society, until the public felt sympathy for those mistreated by police after arrest.
Dr. Martin Luther King famously adopted nonviolence as a strategy in the 1960s, knowing that paired with direct action, it would elicit all manner of abuse from police. Spotlighting that abuse, he hoped, would wake America up to the brutality faced by Black communities every day. But they didn’t walk into it unprepared.
Congressman John Lewis’s account of the months leading up to the civil rights leaders’ movement is striking. They were like an army preparing for battle, yet their fight was sacred and their training was love. For months before taking action, they studied the Bible, Gandhi, Thoreau, and other teachings. They were methodical in laying a spiritual groundwork and on a pragmatic level, committed to behaviors like courtesy, kindness, eye contact, and even dressing in a way that could not be viewed as anything less than civilized.
In Lewis’s words, their choices were an act of faith, a commitment to the “beloved community” they realized they would have to inhabit themselves before it could become reality. They worked hard to understand the human condition, visualizing their abusers as innocent children who may have inadvertently learned hate somewhere along the way.
When people beat, spit on, and attacked them, they appealed to this training, leaning into their decision to see the essential goodness of every human.
“You don’t give up,” Lewis said. “You never give up on anyone.”
When describing nonviolent practice, he mused:
“You have to be taught the way of peace, the way of love… In the moral sense, you can say that in the bosom of every human being, there is a spark of the divine. You don’t have a right… to abuse that spark of the divine in your fellow human being.”
Stories of protests that alter the course of history are often diluted to become palatable for white mainstream retelling. Rosa Parks, for example, became a nice lady looking for somewhere to sit after a long day, when in reality, she was an activist who dedicated her entire life to acts of disruption. In the same way, the history of civil rights is often watered down, which undermines the bravery, sacrifice, and love given so generously by its leaders.
You may have noticed that this summer, Black Lives Matter protests continue across the country, but since they are mostly peaceful, media attention has waned. If this moment of reckoning leads to structural changes we need, it will be interesting to note how history tells the story. Will the fires of Minneapolis be celebrated or forgotten? Will protesters who offered up their safety during a pandemic be honored or scorned?
Either way, what’s clear to me now is that protest is essential. It’s not senseless chaos in the streets. It is multi-faceted, dynamic, and sometimes imperfect.
Small-town protest matters, too. Change has to happen in every corner of this country for us to evolve. It is transformative to gather in a small Southern city, look around, and see others who feel the same way about peace and justice as you. I have been moved to tears more than once.
In my experience, the nature of protest is not violent. It is critical and it is healing. If we’re lucky, it could save us.
Between you and me—
Christy Kokami and I last had lunch in Manhattan, not long before the world changed. In another reality, it’s easy to imagine our conversation might have taken place at that same vegan spot on the Upper West Side. But it didn’t. She’s in Hawaii, and I’m in the South. Like so many other things this year, we shape-shifted to fit the world we find ourselves in. The cool thing is that now, we get to include you.
Here’s a question: Do you read or listen to Let’s Talk? The transcriptions take time, so it would be helpful to know. I love the theme music, so if you haven’t checked it out, give it a try!
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You really sharpened my thinking on Greenville. Thank you for reporting!
A beautiful and nourishing piece. Thank you.