Just after dusk on July 5th…
I was walking with my dog down the rural-suburban block where I live in the center of Texas. I was dreaming of friends and loved ones, recalling pleasant moments of my day and smiling.
I was wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt with the outline of Willie Nelson's braids on the front. My hair was wild with curls pinned loosely to my head. In the summer, my skin is lightly browned by the sun. My headphones were playing in my ears. I held my phone and dog leash in one hand, a bag of dog poop in the other.
I passed under a street light and continued down the sidewalk toward home. As I walked on, away from the street light and into the darkness, I heard sounds behind me.
I tensed and turned around to see a taller-than-me, thin, white-bodied person quickly approaching. Though I couldn’t make out the words, I heard rapid speech and saw wild gestures. Hackles raised, blood quickening, I put my hand forward - palm facing out - and said "don't come any closer."
They stopped and I stopped. We faced each other from about 12 feet apart.
As my eyes adjusted in the dim light, I could make out the form of youth adorned with the local trappings of masculinity. Heavy worker’s boots that scuffed the concrete surface loudly. A large silver belt buckle sat prominently in the middle of his lanky body.
I removed my headphones and said, “you scared me, son. Are you alright?”
He stuttered and gestured. His rage was barely contained. He said, “did you know that your dog just peed on the American flag?”
*
More amazed than anything
I took the perfectly black
stillborn kitten
with the one large eye
in the center of its small forehead
from the house cat’s bed
and buried it in a field
behind the house.
-“The Kitten” by Mary Oliver
*
I stifled the hysterical laughter that rose into my chest and throat — my body’s desire to expel rage-filled, adrenaline-laced exhaust. This person had followed me into the dark, spoiling for a fight about a flag. A flag among hundreds of mass-produced flags that had been unceremoniously shoved into the ground after being covered in advertisements.
I looked into his eyes. I could barely see but I had enough light and instinct to observe that he'd used up all the courage in his reach to confront me. His body was a live wire — shifting, crackling, in constant motion — but he kept his distance as I had requested.
I tempered my voice and said, “I did not know that.”
(Though I assumed that it was true. My dog lives to pee on things outside.)
*
I suppose I could have given it
to a museum,
I could have called the local
newspaper.
-“The Kitten” by Mary Oliver
*
I'd unwittingly challenged something essential to this child. I know the power and potential danger of a worshipful identification with or attachment to a thing.
The boy continued talking loudly, gesturing with his hands, his shoulders and neck in my direction as he spoke. As I listened to his words, I noticed the vastness and brutality of his imaginings of "the other" (in this case, me).
In his fantasy, I'd trained my dog to urinate on these wooden flags as objects of ridicule.
In his fantasy, I was laughing and filming my dog as he urinated on the flag.
In his fantasy, it was his duty to capture and interrogate others who transgress his beloved objects & symbol.
Joy is often perceived as a threat to dominance.
*
I listened impatiently, sensing his rage and my own. I looked at his boots - severe and familiar. I gripped the bag of shit in my hand a little more tightly.
I summoned my elders and reached for an impersonation of my Dad — whose kindness and unabashed confusion was always disarming in my flailing youth.
I said: “Are you sure you're okay, son? You're saying a lot of things to me. You followed me into the dark and we’ve never met before. What’s your name? Who is looking after you? Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
*
Rage creates unmistakable sensations in me. Tingling, vibrating readiness. Heat and movement.
In my own dreaming landscape, the world around me becomes less intelligible the more rage I feel and sense. Rage muddles my hearing, clouds my judgment, tests the limits of my physical form. Rage makes rapid fiction out of facts. Rage interprets and signals. Rage protects and safe-guards. Rage can destroy, transmute, and transform…
My own negotiations with power have required an attentiveness to spillages at emotional cross-sections. In my labors, I’m usually a listener. I’ve practiced listening for decades. Still, I’m certain that I’ve forgotten details of this interaction. This is an incomplete re-membering.
*
CW: white capture ramble description (*to skip):
He went on about the flag. He was just an observer who'd taken notice of this event of urination and didn't want any trouble and did I film him or the dog or the flag and how many times had I walked around the block? And had he seen me before? And what did I say I was doing?
*I mirrored his posture so as not to frighten him further. I listened with feigned patience.
How long will this go on? This stability of whiteness that allows for such fantasies…
I wondered at his capacity for fantasy. As I listened to his story, I noticed how far his grasp reached into my interiority, my will, my body. I wondered if I should make one of his fantasies come true.
Should I be taking a video? The power of suggestion…
Resist the bait. This is a child. Look at his eyes. Look at him folding, he’s on the edge of his tolerance. He’s on the verge of tears. He’s still capable of change…
*
But instead I took it out into the field
and opened the earth
and put it back
saying, it was real,
saying, life is infinitely inventive,
saying, what other amazements
lie in the dark seed of the earth, yes,
-“The Kitten” by Mary Oliver
*
“I can see that you're having big feelings about this flag... is that what you're wanting me to know? Well, I’ve heard you now. Is there more that you need to tell me? Or have I heard all that you’ve come here to say?”
He softened.
He said yeah, the flag means something to him.
I asked him what it means to him.
He couldn't find words. I could sense the tears escaping his eyes.
*
I think I did right to go out alone
and give it back peacefully, and cover the place
with the reckless blossoms of weeds.
-“The Kitten” by Mary Oliver
*
I said, “this is real life, son. Don’t follow strangers in the dark. Ever. Do you hear me?”
“Yes ma’am”
“I’m cool if you’re cool. Take care of yourself.”
He walked away.
*
A good soldier is not violent.
A good fighter is not angry.
A good winner is not vengeful.
A good employer is humble.
This is known as the Virtue of not striving.
This is known as ability to deal with others.
This since ancient times has been known as the ultimate unity with heaven.
-Tao Te Ching - Lao Tzu, Ch. 68
*
Days have passed and I’ve not let go of this collision — this is how I know I’m grieving.
If I am a warrior, my mission is grief. I live with perpetual mourning. This feels right to me at this stage in my life (forty years old), with my chosen vocation (the psycho-social-emotional-spiritual nurturance of communities) and at this time on this earth. This mourning is tempered by a relentless playful spirit and the nurturance of loving communities.
Did you know that you can feel two things (or more) at once?
Did you know that our blackest experiences can live alongside our most joyful?
Do you know how to grieve?
***
Read on to Part 2: Grief is All the Rage
Oh wow wow wow wow wow Elena🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
Your neighborhood is lucky to have you. Bravo!