Racial Rejuvenation

Dilemma: Mom Wanted Me To Take Down My George Floyd Sign

How one home-made sign created a conflict and a connection

Until 2015, I considered myself kind, but I had no regard for how other races were impacted by flags, statues, buildings, or cops. It wasn’t my problem, I thought.

In 2016, my church held meetings to confront not only our egregious racial sins dating back to the Civil Rights Movement but our continuous failure to learn to do good, seek justice, and correct oppression. It was then that my eyes began to open to the callous disregard in my own heart toward what other races were experiencing — and I hated what I saw. So, one month ago, when George Floyd’s murder was made public, I would be silent no more.

I grew up in a small Southern town where my friends, nearly all of whom were White, wore Confederate flags as t-shirts. My mom, the only parent in my life since I was a teen, is conservative in all respects — and we are close. In 2015, when our governor led the removal of the confederate flag from our state grounds, Mom shook her head and said: “Why would we erase this symbol of history?” I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t know.”

I had a lot to learn.

Five years have passed since that event, and I am as aware as always that my loving mother will give me her advice, solicited or not. I am also learning that life goes on if I don’t always follow it.

In June of 2020, I attempted to participate in a peaceful protest for justice for George Floyd — from a distance. I couldn’t get too close because the leaders and participants were locking arms, and my mother, who volunteered to go with me, is in the vulnerable group for COVID-19. My mother insisted that I walk without her. I didn’t want to risk leaving her alone — it was 100 degrees. “Well, I tried,” I thought.

Yet something was burning inside of me, screaming to get out. I went home, watched the footage, and endured cyber slaps and rebel flags in defiance of my supportive comments. It was uncomfortable, but taking a stand on social media was insufficient. I yearned to speed back to the protest, but it was ending in 30 minutes, and I lived an hour away.

Plus, I saw first-hand that they were not practicing social distancing, and I didn’t want to risk infecting my mom.

My friend Amy listened to me vent and said, “You can still protest; make a sign and place it in your yard or on your door.” It wasn’t as brave as risking COVID to walk in unity, but it was something, at least. I crafted two “George Floyd Mattered” signs and stuck them to my door.

My mom was the first one who saw it. “Take down those tacky signs,” she said.

Her daggers pierced right through me. I could have been neater, I suppose. I kept them up, but she persisted for the next fourteen days.

“Beth, all you are doing is reminding everyone of the looting and the violence. People don’t want to be reminded.”

I tried to explain why I posted my signs. She stormed out but later called to see if I had respected her wishes. To her, I was doing nothing but depressing my neighbors, reminding them of buildings that burned. She added that she has always been kind to people of all backgrounds — I should listen to her.

She is kind. But as much as I love her, I knew I couldn’t honor her wishes this time.

Between friends and people I knew from my hometown, I must have heard ten reminders that George’s funeral was over. A cousin advised me to take my posters down to avoid upsetting my dear mother. Between these voices and the desire to have my voice heard, I began to wonder if this sign truly supported my Black neighbors.

I walked outside and carefully dislodged my green sign. Removing it left me with a sinking feeling. I was empty; I could feel my own life escaping from my body. I tried rationalizations: At least I kept it up for two weeks. I withstood criticism because of it. I had made a protest. But I wasn’t fooled.

My stomach tightened. The smaller, brighter square in the center of my door also said, “George Floyd Mattered.” But before I removed it, something happened.

I reached for the small sign, but I couldn’t touch it. It was as if removing that sign was declaring that George Floyd didn’t matter anymore. I kept hearing those words my mother and others said,” We need to move on with our lives.”

Not this time!

There were louder, more influential voices that spoke up — and I finally heard them.

Something bigger than me stopped me from removing my statement in the middle of my door.

It was the roar of the protesters. The cries of the past.The pleas of the silent ones who are too tired to cry anymore.

No!

I would not drown out the voices of the people — the beautiful people who have suffered long enough while their White brothers and sisters watched from a distance, refusing to stand beside them.

Images of George Floyd’s face filled my soul.

It was louder than any siren. The message was clear: Keep reminding people and don’t let them forget! The reminder was for my neighbors, my mom, my social media nay-sayers, but also for myself.

But before I re-posted my emblem, a neighbor on my street, Richard (not his real name), a Black man, saw me outside.

“I noticed you took down your ‘Black Lives Matter’ sign.”

My heart began to open — I was starting to see, to learn. I didn’t write those words, but that is what Richard saw.

“Did somebody tell you to take it down?”

I saw the tenderness in his eyes. I had injured him.

That tore my heart apart.

Then it hit me: I have been neighbors with Richard for four years. We’ve never been inside each other’s homes. One week after posting my signs, he knocked on my door, asked for a favor, and stayed awhile to talk. Did my sign have that much power?

I shook my head and told him I was going to add more adhesive to it. Did he need to know I had momentarily caved to the same voices of oppression that had grieved him most of his life?

I waited until Richard left. Then, I grabbed my discarded poster, added a phrase, and with my new adhesive, firmly stuck it back to my door. When my mom came over and saw it again, she made her opinion known, and I made mine.

I love my family and friends, but we don’t always agree.

I will keep my signs as long as they will hold regardless of what my family says about it. If they fall or get tattered, I will make another one. Then another one.

Because Richard matters.

George Floyd matters.

And Black lives matter.

And it’s about time I stand beside these beautiful souls and show the world they matter too.