Walking for Justice

The most enduring image for me of the past week is of young people wearing backpacks walking. Nationally, we've seen this in many cities, but especially in Los Angeles, with its sprawling basin set against the San Gabriel Mountains.

Up north on Wednesday, from 10-16,000 people marched through the streets of San Francisco, converging on the Mission Police Station. There was no violence.

Three of my children were in that crowd, along with their friends. They are in their 20s now, ready to assume a greater role in how our society conducts itself. They don't condone racism or injustice of any kind; they abhor war. Their voice is firm.

Some might consider them privileged but they are not rich. They've been working for years, at or near the minimum wage, as grocery store and bakery clerks, office workers in a synagogue, babysitters, camp counselors, construction work helpers, cat sitters, drivers, personal assistants, soccer coaches, art gallery assistants, EMTs and on and on.

Now they are marching for peace in our cities and justice on our streets. They are continuing the work my generation was known for in the '60s.

The San Francisco Bay Area is frequently recognized as the cradle for social movements that later sweep the land. This was demonstrably the case for decades; lately, I believe many parts of the country have populations and activism similar to San Francico's.

Our youth are multiracial and multicultural; they are black, brown, Asian, Latino, white, gay, straight, trans, gender-neutral, well-educated, hard-working, thoughtful, opinionated and fun. They have a sense of style as diverse as their orientations. 

As one who is much older, and not only a parent of Millennials but worked as the supervisor of many as well, I love this generation. I love the way they think and talk; I love their music and their art.

Now they are walking through our streets, masked, mostly in silence, sometimes chanting and singing; some carry signs, some raise their arms, all walking for justice. 

In the words of the 19th century processional hymn:

We are not divided;

All one body we:

One in hope and doctrine,

One in charity.  --Sabine Baring-Gould

***

Reports indicate the new cases of Covid-19 are spiking in various parts of the nation. It is not unreasonable to suppose that mass gatherings may be contributing to the spread of the disease. 

Our EMTs patrol our streets, caring for Covid-19 patients, accident victims, elderly people and in the Bay Area and elsewhere, many 5150s. The latter are mentally disorganized individuals, often young and often suicidal.

"Some of them don't want to talk," my son tells me, "But others will and I try to cheer them up. I'll tell a joke, try to get them to smile."

This is in the back of an ambulance, where the patient is lying on a stretcher as he checks their vital signs.

It's the essential message, of course, to someone who just tried or threatened to end their own life.

"Life is weird, but you are not alone."

We are social creatures; isolation doesn't suit us. There are many things we need and want to do alone -- writing is one example -- but most writers want to meet a friend at a coffee shop or take a walk or share a drink when the writing is done.

Many writers find their way to San Francisco, either to visit for a while or to stay. Mark Twain is famously credited for commenting on our summer weather; over the years I have met descendants of his who still live in the area.

Twain, of course, was the ultimate humorist and influenced every other American writer of his time and since. One of my favorite stories about Twain is that he noted he had been born soon after the appearance of Halley's Comet in 1835 and he predicted he would "go out with it"  as well. Accordingly, he died the day after the comet reappeared in 1910.

The man sure knew how to write a kicker.

Many young writers have asked me for advice over the years. It's easy to spot the ones for whom this is a dream they can achieve. There are two tell-tale characteristics. One, they just know instinctively how to tell a story. Naturally, I ask them to tell me their story, and that reveals what I need to know.

The second is an irrepressible sense of humor, the wackier and more profane the better.  Taking yourself too seriously is not a good sign, but telling a good joke about yourself most definitely is.

Of course, why should these young writers listen to me; what do I know?

As the great Robert Frost wrote, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by,"

That's what *he* did. But my name, on paper, is Weir, D. I -- I walked straight into the tree.

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