Self-portrait, masked

Last night a massive crowd (impossible to count but more than 2000) showed up to say no to the violence of Trump’s police, but in the end, as happens every night, the military might and weaponry, including tear gas, rubber bullets, a chemical weapon that looks like orange smoke, and flash-bang grenades beat back those who remained till 2:30 a.m. Our local newspaper covered it pretty well, with photos by Beth Nakamura. 

Beth is now wearing armor and a gas mask to cover local events, as is John Rudoff, who is in his 70s and furnished the photos for RollingStone and the New York Times this weekend. Last night John was shot in the shoulder with an impact bullet fired by a marksman who almost certainly targeted John, since press and medics are singled out for brutality. John is a retired physician who can afford the best protective equipment, and this is his shining moment, but he is very sore this morning, and the bruise covers much of his upper torso. I want to be out there with Beth and John, and if I could afford the kind of protective gear John has, I would be. Instead, I sit in my recliner watching the Livestreams, cursing and sometimes crying with rage.

I’m enraged by this fascist takeover of my city, by the violent military presence. Every morning I get up to see who, among the people I know and love, has been injured by the occupying force overnight. Every night I hear the helicopters. I’m completely marginalized by Covid concerns and my age and physical limitations. Others who are younger (like Beth) and more fit (like John, who I think is three years younger than I) are documenting what’s happening, and I’m grateful that they are. It’s not that I’m needed out there. Others are doing the work. But I feel useless and helpless, and I see thousands going out (jammed together, shouting through their masks) and I want to be with them in the streets but not with them on ventilators a few weeks from now. I'm having a hell of a hard time with this. I don't want to hear that I'm amazing (I'm not), or how much good I'm doing (OK maybe a little), or any of the kind things my blip friends sometimes say. This is not about me, and I am physically in no danger. I bear witness to this violence going on in my city in a time of pandemic, and I am furious and don't know how to stop it or how to make an effective contribution. Black Americans have been bearing the brunt of this violence since this country was established on their backs and on the dead bodies of the Native people who lived here when colonists arrived. Now the violence extends to everyone who stands against white supremacy, and it is the white supremacists who have the weapons.