Change Rising

My mother bent to pull the bread from the oven. I inhaled the yeasty deliciousness while I noticed that she rose more slowly than she had in the past and she winced from what she called her “creaky, cranky knees.”

“You’re filling our freezer with food, Mom. Thanks.” I patted my stomach. “Good thing we can take walks every day.”

“I’m loving our walks together. Even if we’re spoiling your dogs.” She smiled. “Not that they weren’t already prima doggies.” She began to slice a loaf of sourdough she’d made earlier in the week. “This loaf’s not for us. I’m making sandwiches for this evening’s protest.”

I stilled. “Is Evie going out again?” I worried about our nineteen-year-old daughter, home from college during the pandemic. She’d gone out for two evenings, supporting the Black Lives Matter movement. Although proud of her conviction and her activism, I still worried about the potential danger, even in peaceful protests. “I don’t have to teach my online class tonight. Maybe I should join her.”

Mom spun around, clapping her hands together. “Ooh, that’s a great idea. Three generations of protesters.”

“Three?” I crossed my arms. “Surely you’re not considering going out there. Mom, you’re seventy-two. You’re in the danger range for the virus.”

She rose to her full five feet four inches—by now closer to five feet three—and glared at me. “Convictions should conquer fear.”

“But not common sense. You’ve done your part already. Campaigned for McCarthy, worked for gay rights. Given lots of money to good causes. Stay home.”

She leaned back against the oven and popped forward. “Ouch! Still hot. Let’s sit down and have some iced tea and cookies.” Another baked offering.

Most days I counted myself fortunate that Mom had been visiting us in March when the shelter-at-home orders came out. She lived alone up in Idaho, and although she had many friends and caring neighbors, they had their own concerns. Here in Tucson, she was with family—and usually we got along. This didn’t look to be a usual time.

Once seated, I relaunched my argument. “I love you, Mom. So do Evie and Steve. We need you. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Nonsense. I have my mask. I’m healthy. My blood pressure’s better than yours.” She huffed out an angry breath. “And I’m seventy-three, Charlotte.”

I sat back. Oh, crud. I’d forgotten how old my own mother was. What kind of daughter would do that? My kind. Busy with work, family, community, church, volunteering. Normal. Guilt-ridden. And falling for Mom’s diversion tactic. “And too old for protesting.”

Mom looked off in the distance, her face filled with a deep sadness. “You think I’ve done the right thing, been on the side of the angels all these years.” She shook her head. “No. I’ve taken the easy way out, far too many times.” She sipped at her tea.

“My college was in a small town, far from the protests against the Vietnam War. Most of the boys I graduated with were drafted. A dear friend came back with one arm, and others died under fire. I certainly was against the war. I spent some time campaigning for McCarthy in Oregon—he opposed the war, you know—and maybe a few people I talked to were rude, but … I never felt in any danger. I told myself I had to work, had to keep my scholarship so I signed some petitions, sent some letters. But I stayed far away from the street. Ignored the protests. Didn’t take action.”

“Letters and petitions are action. You spoke up. You cared.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Not enough.” She stood and wandered around the kitchen, touching familiar kitchen appliances like old friends. “I knew about racism in my teens. I lived in L.A., not the deep South, but racism was everywhere. I was a college senior when Martin Luther King was assassinated. And I was angry, but I told myself I had to get a job. And besides, Johnson signed the voting rights bill. People would do the right thing.”

“Everyone thought that was the right solution. You weren’t alone, Mom.” I heard myself making excuses for her and felt grimy.

“I didn’t understand the hatred or the anger, so I decided to learn about black history. I enrolled in a night course on black history at Merritt College in Oakland, near where I lived. It was taught by Huey Newton’s older brother, Melvin. Huey started the Black Panthers, I’m sure you know that,” she said.

“Mom . . .” I hated to see her pain, hear her regret. “It was so long ago. Things change.” But do they?

She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I was the only white person in the class.” She smiled. “First time I’d been a minority. That night after class there was a note stuck on my windshield. It said something like, ‘You’re not wanted here. Stay home.’ It scared me. I showed it to Professor Newton at the next class.” She fiddled with the coffee maker on the sink. “‘It’s true,’” he said. “’You shouldn’t be here. Next time it could be your car tires or worse.’ I think he felt bad, realizing I was also a victim of prejudice. But I stayed quiet and dropped the class. I didn’t get angry, didn’t ask any questions.”

“It could have been dangerous, Mom,” I said. “You might have been attacked.”

“Maybe so. But I thought I’d wanted to learn about racism, about what it was like being black in white America, but later, when I worked with black men and women, I was friendly but I never probed, never discussed the issues we all knew were there. It was easier that way, for them and for me, I told myself.” She sat back down.

I rose and rubbed her stiff shoulders. “It’s hard to know what to ask, what to say.” I wished she could stick to baking bread. But then would she have been my mother?

“Of course it’s hard, but I didn’t try. When I saw the riots in L.A., I told myself it was a few angry people, doing the wrong thing. I told myself the police were trained to do the right thing, to control violence.” She sat up straight and gently removed my hands from her shoulders. “I have always taken the easy route, told myself I personally never hurt a black person, that these things would eventually work themselves out, because we were Americans, we were good people. I had a family to care for, a job that I couldn’t jeopardize.

“And now, after seven decades on this earth, I realize that I’ve been fooling myself. I can’t hide behind my excuses, tell myself I’m not a bad person, that it’s others who are wrong. I have to walk with them, let them know that what’s been happening is wrong, that black Americans and people of color matter. If I get sick, if I die, I’ll have done it doing the right thing.”

She stood and went to the counter, returned to slicing the sourdough loaf.

I sighed. “I’ll get the lunchmeat out.”

Three generations of women joined the protests that evening, proudly masked and bearing signs stating “Black Lives Matter.”