I had a very heart-to-heart with my son, pictured prominently in the blue mask staring, about “his intentions” going into tonight’s protest.
His heart was torn. He was worn out, too much for a young man, more young than man.
He protested, along with his sister, with emphasis and dissatisfaction with the premise of the march’s de facto “leaders” preaching peace – all the while with the gathering of at least 600 – convinced that there would be no peace without justice. But there is not just rarely justice, almost never justice.
So what is is a broken-hearted young man, his sister and their support system of family to do? Inhibit them, no. Forbid them, no. Moderate them, maybe. Keep them focused, yes. On what is at hand, what is to be done. And who it is to be done to.
And. They shot my children. Who decided to protest with their heart. Peacefully. With every ounce of what’s allegedly their right. And they shot my children.
I love my Danny-man and my Panda. Even though they scare the shit out of me and their mother, and also fuck up my car with pepper spray.
Fuck the Police.