FHP

By Alicia East

We couldn’t fly to New York City to hug a pregnant widow. We couldn’t sit across the table from each first responder and say, “You didn’t have to do it, but you did it anyway. Thank you.” We couldn’t pull over to embrace a stranger and say, “I know you’re hurting. I am too. But we’re gonna make it through.”

So we said it with our flags.

We flew our collective national grief in stars and stripes from our balconies, our cars, and our mailboxes. At my school in the quiet foothills of Colorado, we taped them up in our door room windows.

As dark and painful a time in history as it was, it was healing to see what Mister Rogers taught us to identify as the “helpers.” The ones who labored for days to dig survivors out of the rubble, took down a plane before it could reach its target, and returned up the stairs when everyone else was going down.

We learned their names and honored the stories. We wrote letters to the mothers and fathers they left behind.

With our flags, we honored them. 9/11/2001 brought in a collective reverence for service, gratitude, and sacrifice.

From my perspective, the flag represented standing for unity and love instead of giving into fear. Malala’s dad said it was an ideology that shot Malala. To me, the flags spoke to the ideology behind the attacks, too. They said–with all the stubbornness that runs in our veins–that our spirit would not be defeated. We will not hide. We will not hate. We will not give in to fear. We will still LOVE each other with gritty optimism.

Those flags represented America at its best–a place that offers a safe harbor for people from any religion or nationality. Still.

But there was another meaning to the flag, too.

For some, there was a darker and more exclusive meaning to the flag. I didn’t understand this as much at the time. While I saw people rallying around a common purpose, there were some rallying against a perceived threat, which got conflated with a skin color and a religion.

And so it goes that we were perpetuating the very ideology that caused the wound we were trying to heal. The true enemy was then what it is today: fear, hatred, and cynicism.

I don’t remember hearing much about anti-Muslim violence that popped up immediately following the attacks. Whether that’s because I was sheltered or naive, I’m not really sure. I knew (or was aware of knowing) exactly zero Muslims. I do remember an acquaintance refusing to fly on a plane with men who were/or were perceived to be Muslim.

On some level, I do remember feeling they were justified in their fear, which grieves me now. And knowing this was a comparatively mild situation gives me a pang of sadness and compassion for those men and for everyone else who experienced that and worse.

If I flew the flag today, it would be in agreement with the first sentiment, although when I see it flying beside Confederate flags or in the background of propaganda-ridden rallies, it seems more associated with the second.

For some, the flag isn’t about being defiantly and optimistically opposed to the fear that would divide us, but about giving in to it. It represents an “us versus them” mentality, which is a great irony for this “land of opportunity.” Maybe it’s time for the poem on the statue of liberty to be engraved where we really need it–not just to welcome people onto our shores but to welcome them into our homes and hearts. What could the world be if each heart could receive the “poor, the tired, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

It’s only when it’s darkest that you can see the stars.

Times like 9/11, like our current climate, have always given opportunity for people to either fight for their most optimistic ideals or to give in to their basest fears and retreat to their private corners.

The idea that the flag represents only a narrow portion of the country rather than a unified whole isn’t new. But we each play a part in living out what it means to us. If I flew it today, it would come with a long list of qualifiers, but it still sparks a tender ache of patriotism for America at its finest.

It’s the way New Yorkers became one big family after 9/11. The way the heroes we read bedtime stories about sacrificed to hold this country accountable to its ideals. Harriet Tubman. Martin Luther King. Susan B. Anthony.

I remember that iconic photo of the first responders raising the flag atop the rubble. The adage we’ve heard and repeated in various forms still rings true: “When it’s darkest out, you can see the stars.” And the stripes.

While the temptation will always, always, always be there to fear, there is always, always, always reason to hope.

We may not be able to say with words everything we want to say to our neighbors and friends and people we disagree with. So let’s say it with our love.

By Alicia East

I knew exactly what was coming when I watched the Jake Blake video and still couldn’t help myself from saying out loud “No. Please don’t do it. God. No!” 

I had already seen “shot 7 times in the back” and “three kids in the car.”  

He had reportedly been trying to break up a dispute and was getting back into his car. That’s all he was doing. Say he MAY have been a threat. Call it noncompliance. Call it whatever you want. There is no justification. It’s on video plain as day in broad daylight. 

And I already knew, before watching the videos, what the difference was between him and the 17-year-old who shot 3 people and then walked toward police with his AR-15 flopping across his body while people yelled that he was the one. 

The police ignored him. He went right up to their vehicles. He was arrested the next day. The. next. day. 

Jake Blake had his back turned–no weapon in sight. He was shot 7 times. in. the. back. 

The videos confirm what we already know. Jake Blake was threatening not because of a gun. He didn’t have one. 

Likewise, the videos of the 17-year-old Kyle Rittenhouse, show what we already expect: he was ignored even though he was obviously armed and had just shown without question that he WAS a threat. 

What was the difference? You will read this well after the fact and without having seen the videos and I don’t have to say it. You already know. 

I’ll say it anyway: Jake Blake is Black. Kyle Rittenhouse is White.

And who does Rittenhouse align himself with politically? You already know.   
If we all know it without having to see or say it, then it’s a predictable pattern that can’t be explained away. 

I’m tired of the videos, but energized by the people putting their platforms and careers on the line for something more important. Even Jim Gaffigan, the “supposedly apolitical” (his words) Catholic did it! 

I’m tired of people I’m close to willfully closing their eyes because it doesn’t affect them, but energized by those who use their privilege on behalf of others.  

Jake Blake’s kids were in the car. This could be your dad. Your gentle, kind dad who I hear chasing and tickling you as I write. It could be your Uncle Sean. It could be Ronald. 

I understand the cynicism about politics. I really do.

But this is different. 

I’m considering what to do besides vent to an audience that can’t even read yet. There will be something. You might be joining us in strollers and carriers and you won’t understand it all. But you’ll feel love and unity in whatever we decide to be a part of. 

At an absolute MINIMUM, we will vote. It would be embarrassing not to. The Venezuelans didn’t get this chance before their country got taken down with a wannabe dictator at the helm. We have the hard-won chance. I’ll be damned if I don’t do at least that. If I sincerely respect John Lewis and Dr. CT Vivian, it would be an insult not to. 

And if these are the issues topping my mind, you don’t have to see my ballot to know who has my vote: you already know.

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Hi, I’m Alicia. I started writing daily letters to my 3 young kids at the beginning of the pandemic. Their world will forever be shaped by this period in history whether they remember it or not. In addition to writing about it, you better effing believe I’ll be voting like our democracy depends on it. I sincerely believe it does.  

By Alicia East

We were told it was disrespectful to play our beat-tastic music for such a somber occasion. It was too loud. Too irreverent. But we still did it. 

The first year, I wondered if the naysayers were right. It was, after all, a commemoration of a day violent enough to be called Bloody Sunday. But we were doing it for an audience of one: Congressman John Lewis. Our friend Sheyann Webb-Christburg (there she is in the pearls) was with him at the front of the procession as they rounded the block toward us from Brown Chapel. 

He “shed a little blood on that bridge”

But that was far from the tone when he danced with us [hyperlink]. It was such a thrill when he broke away from security and approached us. They must’ve had a heckuva time keeping track of him as he got swallowed up by happy dancing teenagers. And he danced–joyfully!

That was all I needed to know. Every year after that, our frowning companions on the sidewalk didn’t bother me. I danced, too.

Good trouble 

Turns out, as one of the ones beaten bloody that day, he didn’t think it was disrespectful at all. Maybe after a morning of long speeches and stuffy suits, it was just a release for him. Far from irreverent, I like to think all of us dancing together on that street corner showed reverence in a way the lifelong activist understood–a nod to the “good trouble” that had precipitated us standing on that bridge in the first place.

To good trouble! 

By Alicia East

Today, while the world is remembering C.T. Vivian’s important contributions to the American Civil Rights Movement, I’m remembering the character of the man who made me feel important.

I felt like Forrest Gump.

I was no older than 25, with no credentials to my name, when I landed myself with Dr. Vivian— first in a sunny courtyard at a nursing home, next in his living room with Obama ’08 campaign signs in the background, and finally, with reporters in our face while I hugged him on stage at the iconic Brown Chapel.

That first time, he was dressed in a 3 piece suit and tie–appropriate for the camera crew he was expecting. I showed up with a notepad and a friend. He had asked to meet at his wife’s nursing home since he visited her there every day. We sat down in the sunny courtyard together and offered to move to a shady spot. He said, “Don’t worry about me. You’re the ones who are going to get burned out here.”

We did. But a sunburn was a small price to pay.

You know that thing that happens when you tell the same story enough times where your mouth is there—reciting words by muscle memory, but your heart and mind are elsewhere because they’re no longer needed for the thousandth retelling? I had interviewed civil rights icons before and often, it was that way.

This was not. We may as well have been at a brewery–eating onion rings and sipping beer–him at 84 years old with his leg thrown over the edge of the chair, making us laugh.

I remember some of his stories, but mostly, I remember him. When we left, he brought us to his wife’s room and he sat down next to her, rubbing her hand and telling us about her, even though there was little indication she could hear or understand him. She may not have been able to, but we did. He told us how much the women did in the movement—those whose names are unknown. How it wasn’t possible for him to do what he did without his wife doing what she did.

He then led us out and greeted each staff person by name—asking about their families.

We asked for a second meeting because we didn’t get through all of the questions we were sent with. I don’t know if we even got through one.

He agreed to meet with us again and that second time, we were in his home on a rare day that his wife could leave the nursing home. We brought her flowers and she sat, asleep in her wheelchair.

I started in on the questions. They were predictable. I’d even seen him answer them in interviews before. He fell asleep. This was not the man we’d met the first time! He was bored. I was bored! He’d earned the right to sleep through uninspired questions. After trying to tactfully wake him up by clearing my throat and asking the question loudly, I finally said to hell with whatever obligation I felt to get through the list of questions my connection had sent us.

I started asking what I really wanted to know. I asked him about the Obama campaign. I asked him if he ever felt afraid. I asked him what motivated him when it felt like things may not change. And there was the guy from the courtyard again—lively and engaging. FUN.

At the end of our time, I grabbed his hand and tried to communicate what I couldn’t find the words to say. Dr. Vivian looked at us and told us how much he appreciated the time with us. We blinked, confused, and he reiterated, “See, you don’t even know how special you are.”

It was totally unearned. He was the one with the name, with the place in history books, with an association with Dr. King and President Obama. He was the one with the courage to speak truth to power and the integrity to do it both with authority and love. He was the one who sat with us for hours, with no bitterness to note, talking about the world he helped changed.

But he acted like he was the one who was honored to spend time with us. And at a time when I was very discouraged with where my life was at—halfway through my only full year of being a high school teacher—it was something I really needed. Something that fueled me for a long time.

“You want a picture with me? I want a picture with you .”

When I heard he would be speaking at Selma’s yearly commemoration of Bloody Sunday, I decided to go even though all my friends were going somewhere else. I wrote a letter appreciating him—not just for what he did for the movement, but for his character. My only plan was to look for a chance to give it to him. He was the keynote speaker: I was not going to be the only one who wanted a moment of his time. I didn’t know if it would happen: I just knew I was going to try.

I waited in line to enter Brown Chapel. Obama had spoken there as he was campaigning 3 years earlier. Jesse Jackson, Rev. Al Sharpton, and many other figures of the movement make it an annual event. That means there’s a ton of security. Someone like me is never guaranteed entrance. I was able to get in because of our association with Sheyann Webb Christburg (Dr. King’s “youngest freedom fighter).”

There’s always a point at these services where everyone who is “someone” has a chance to stand up and recognize their organization or congregation or political status. I am the head of exactly zero organizations and have equal interest (zero) in speaking in front of crowds, but, because of encouragement from two of my mentors, I recognized my chance to do what I came to do. I would’ve been much more comfortable trying to find him after the service. I didn’t have these words at the time, but I certainly felt the sentiment: “I am not throwing away my shot!”

The time came for people to say who they represented and some politicians stood up. I went over to the podium and stood a little separate. The lady who was running that part of the service was clearly the gatekeeper and her demeanor told me she didn’t want that portion to go on too long. She moved to block the remaining people, but I moved, too, and took a place right next to her.

The person before me returned to her seat and the gatekeeper impatiently waved me to the podium. I didn’t have a plan, but had brought the envelope up with me. I said, “I’m Alicia Sample and I came up here because I had the opportunity to meet with Dr. Vivian twice,” then I turned toward him on stage and said, “and I never got to tell you how much that meant to me. I really don’t like speaking in front of crowds, but I’m up here only because Dr. Vivian, I adore you and I was hoping to give you something.”

I held the envelope out to the guy closest to me on stage, but instead, Jesse Jackson stood up and directed me toward C.T. Vivian, who stood to receive me. I shook his hand and hugged him and he said, “Bless you.” I certainly felt blessed.

There were cameras in our faces and I hardly even knew what was happening until after I sat down. My voice was solid and clear when I was up there, but when I sat, my hands were shaking so bad I could hardly text a few words to the mentors who had encouraged me to take that moment.

As I walked back to my seat, the gatekeeper smiled warmly and said, “Thank you, that was great.” Several other people shook my hand and thanked me as I walked back too. After the service, I went up and asked if I could have a picture. Dr. Vivian said, “You want a picture with me? I want a picture with you .”

I really felt like he meant it. And today, as I remember him, I think about the world he helped create, of course. I appreciate that, but it’s not what’s making me cry as I type. It’s the character I see behind it all. He took the physical blows in the movement, but they didn’t take him. He fought not in spite of the fact that he was kind and gentle, but because of it. And he was often the most “important” person in the room, but made everyone else feel they were.