Friends and neighbors, part 1.

Note: this is me and my brother Jonny, one of the most beautiful people on the shoulders of this planet. He is not who I am referring to. I simply included a photo of me and him because I miss him at this moment.

In the near recent past, I was out of town and was introduced to a man, who immediately asked how my trip through Portland had gone; “…through the tens of thousands of protestors and looters.”

I am not going to apologize for not engaging at that time. I smiled at the senior Caucasian man, and pivoted to other topics. I continued to steer the conversation during our time together, inquiring about family, grandkids, work, etc.

I am going to protect his identity here, so I am not going to provide additional context for the conversation. I believe he is a good and decent person in many ways.

So he’s telling me a story about the time he was in L.A., and how he was initially nervous about being in a certain neighborhood, being white and all, but it ended up being fine, because “…the colored people didn’t have a problem with me.”

The colored people didn’t have a problem with me.

Someone asked me later if he was baiting me; knowing my position and beliefs. I said emphatically No.

The truth, I think, is even more sad.

When he saw me, it was outside the scope of his social ecosystem, his environment and experience and personal community, to believe that

I could possibly be on of “those.”

One of those Antifa types; the looters and criminals and terrorists who are all worked up and angry. I truly believe that it did not even occur to him that I might be “one of them.”

I am one of them. Not Antifa. Not a looter, or a criminal, or terrorist, though a certain President appears willing to slap that label onto any marching activist who dares challenge him. I am a protestor. One of those.

Whether I should or should not have said anything during this interaction is irrelevant right now. Some of you might want to call me out, judge me, criticize, etc. Fine. I have strong opinions about cancel culture too and its chilling effect on furthering any sort of dialogues. But that’s not what I’m writing about.

I’m writing about my neighborhood. My mountain, my town. My rural area. First, I am so proud that so many people have shown up in solitary and support for POC communities over the last week and a half. In my current town(s) and in my hometown.

I have also had an exhausting last several days online. On a hyperlocal social media app called NextDoor. It connects you with your neighbors, based on your geographic location. I am going to be writing about that soon.

This mountain is feeling like a lonely place right now. But the joy through the smoggy onslaught of hate, invective, blatant racist commentary, and NIMBY fear propaganda is that I have made some new friends. Online ones.

And some some…not so much friends.

Will share soon. Be well. Mask up when out and remember that real men don’t brandish weapons at peaceful protesters.