If you don’t admire other people’s love you probably have no love yourself. Cis white men are prone to this but so are black men and Asian men—and now, as we’re seeing all too clearly, so are women—J.K. Rowling and the inflorescent and rededicated Phyllis Schlafly for instance, or Candace Owens. Without love all you have is steroidal rhetoric. People who live without true love for others are very loud. And let’s face it, queer people can be mean as anyone and disabled peeps—don’t even get me started. “What is love,” said Pilate, washing his hands. Love of others is an inconvenience. It’s much easier to step on people. These were my thoughts when Donald Trump gassed innocent protestors so he could hold a bible upside down outside St. John’s Church in Washington, DC. Love is inconvenient.
So is the language of peace. Two days ago I saw an interview with a black woman in Minneapolis who’s hair salon was burned to the ground during the first wave of rioting following the murder of George Floyd. She has nothing now. No insurance. No health care. No money. No prospects.
I’ve been told calling for “peaceful” protests is white privilege. I don’t buy it. I’ll never buy it. Never.
I do not underestimate centuries of oppression and rage.
Calling for peace is not convenient. Its a declaration of work.