It was only a matter of time before we started seeing increasing racist, bigoted, hateful and aggressive behavior and violence at Trump rallies as his hate speech has always seemed to me that he was inciting to violence. Comparisons to the rise of Hitler and Nazi Germany have been inevitable.
Last night, an escalation. Brave people in Chicago shut down a Trump rally. On display, exposed for all to see was racism and hatred but also a large number of protesters who put their bodies and lives on the line to oppose and protest Trump and everything he stands for.
At the beginning of March, a peaceful student from the University of Louisville, Shiya Nwanguma, was assaulted by a terrifying crowd filled with racist haters. It could have been a scene from long ago. I found this photo on Shaun King’s Facebook page; a side by side image that speaks volumes. On one side, a student walking through a crowd during attempts to integrate a school in Little Rock, AK, and on the right, an image from the Trump rally. As if time stood still.
I was deeply disturbed watching the footage of this young women as she made her way through this crowd, pushed, poked, verbally and physically assaulted because of the color of her skin. I was so angry and sad, I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I sat down to draw and paint.
The man in the red hat is Matthew Heimbach who participated in the assault (you can see him quite clearly on camera). He’s a leader of the Traditionalist Worker Party and is a known white supremacist. The woman at the center is University of Louisville student, Shiya Nwanguma.
Trump has been quoted as saying, “Get them out of here.”
Last week we had another snowstorm here and there was a snow day. From the safe, warm inside the house, I took these first thing in the morning.
I thought of my grandmother, Luba (z”l), who had a gorgeous glass collection in her home by the sea.
I was four when she died way too young, and my memories of her are fuzzy, contained in pictures and in stories from others, but I remember her soft touch on my skin and her closet, dressing up, and being happy with her; the way she brushed my hair. I remember that the bottles and glass pieces were lined up on little shelves built into the window that looked out on the little bay. I could never possibly recreate that, such a dream spot, peaceful, with the water always there, the grasses waving and shells I gathered. The pink rose bushes and monarch butterflies and the paved walk way and that breeze coming off the water on a warm day.
I have spent my life trying to capture color in my own bottles, hanging things, in art, in scarves and clothing and shoes. In the light. Always searching for and finding color and marveling at the way the light hits glass, even in a snowstorm, even when it is cold, even when all is swirling, such as snow or wars outside, or ideas in my head, or good or bad things that happen. And how one responds–to the good or the bad.
I choose color and sometimes black and white. Always, always, searching for the way the light hits. Waiting for the sparkle and shine. Letting tears fall and then laughing.