The last summer peaches

A full day. 

Evan stayed with me this morning. He’s constructing meaning. He volunteers a number of opinions thoughtfully, taking his time. Cars are scary; cats are not scary. Bears are scary; Winnie-the-Pooh is not scary. Sirens are scary; the bells in the church steeple are not scary. I ask him: Is an airplane scary? Is a toy airplane scary? What about a picture of an airplane? Is a toy dinosaur scary? He considers each question thoughtfully as he picks his way through a pint of blueberries and pretends that Peppa Pig can fly. I observe how difficult it is, at two, to make sense of this complicated world. 

Lunch with the courageous Peggy Zebroski, an opportunity to explore questions we share: what is meaningful protest? can marches and rallies make a difference? what can we do to relieve suffering and undo racism? how can we use our privilege, our anger, and our imagination to support the work of Black activists and people of color? What is right action? How can we save our brown and black children from the violence of the State?

After Peggy and I parted, I walked to the neighborhood farmer’s market, the last market this year. I brought home some end-of-summer peaches. Walking home, I thought to myself: police cars are scary; unhoused people are not scary. White men with tiki torches are scary; athletes kneeling for the national anthem are not scary. Guns are scary, and the border wall between this country and Mexico is scary. Our Native American, Muslim, and Mexican neighbors are not scary. Why is this so hard for some adults to figure out?