Thoughts on a walk through downtown Denver

Taking a walk in a once-familiar place is like reading one of those layered books showing changes over time. That’s what I felt yesterday morning when I made a rare visit to what was once the center of Denver, the “overgrown cow-town”, as some called it when I arrived here in 1976. There was no 16th Street Mall then, just a busy downtown street with department stores, restaurants and offices, and sidewalks filled with people. The long-gone May D&F department store created a large ice rink in the winter, and the street looked like an auto parade route on Saturday nights.I worked for a time in the Petroleum Club Building near Broadway and Colfax, a short walk from the small central library and an art museum that looked like a castle. I stayed for a decade and more as changes came and visited during my Japan years. Following the construction of the mall, skyscrapers came to dot the town, and the library and museum grew new additions. 

And so I remembered these things when I went downtown yesterday, a warm December morning—three tasks in mind. I walked  from the Cultural Center parking garage adjoining the library down to a pharmacy on the 16th Street mall, blocks away. And during that walk I saw and felt the changes of recent years. A microcosm of the US, as the year rolls to an end. A familiar sight in many cities, only with different names.

As I walked along the perimeter of Civic Center Park, sandwiched between the Courthouse and the Capitol Building, I immediately saw the fencing keeping everyone out, put up in September to evict homeless campers and control trash and drug activity. One path leading to a small cluster of tents, the Christkindl market, looked like a mirage in an urban desert. I walked on. The library was fenced off too—a construction project no doubt timed by pandemic closures. 

I continued, crossing into a street bordering the mall, and came across a bunched sleeping bag on the street, wheelchair by the side of the person who was probably inside. I paused, uncertain, but decided not to disturb.  As I walked further, it took me a few moments to start seeing what wasn’t there on the streets—crowds of shoppers, tourists or workers heading to their offices, days before Christmas. There was very little traffic as well, and it was easy to cross against the light. Just a few pedestrians on their way to somewhere, workers hosing down outdoor tables on the 16th Street Mall, and a solitary waiter wiping tables on the patio of the Hard Rock Cafe. But there were signs of manufactured cheer, like this merry-go-round, no kids in sight.

Walking along the mall, I saw the empty storefronts, a few covered with murals promoting a Denver that once existed—snow-capped mountains in the distance, packed restaurants, city attractions. 

Department stores were few, and the open businesses tended to be franchises, a few fast food places, and the two pharmacies I was headed for. I was in search of a rapid covid test kit, and an online listing led me to believe that the downtown CVC had them in stock. In reality, no luck and no need to enter the store. Leaving the pharmacy, I encountered a woman in a wheelchair, asking for a dollar. I gave her the cookies in my bag and she seemed pleased. As I continued my return journey down 16th Street, I passed several other apparently homeless people, seeking donations. I sometimes carry protein bars to hand out when I think I might encounter those in need, and I regretted not having done that on this trip. 

I turned around and headed toward my next destination. Approaching Broadway, I saw well-kept thriving institutions—the real success stories of these past two years—banks and lending institutions. Starbuck’s was also open and well-tended. I passed by, aiming for the RTD office where I bought a packet of discount bus tickets. I haven’t been on a bus since pre-lockdown days, but I expect to hop on when necessary this coming year. Then my major destination of the morning appeared—a rally on the West steps of the Capitol. 

                                        

It was a rally for justice on behalf of Rogel Aguilera-Mederos , a 26-year-old truck driver who was recently sentenced to 110 years in prison for a 2019 crash  on I-70, that led to the deaths of four people. You can read about it here—about the mountain-inexperienced driver whose brakes failed and who missed the runaway ramps. The result was a crash that killed four people, caused by a man who was not reckless or impaired, a man with no criminal record or intent to harm, an immigrant from Cuba. Just about everyone agrees the sentence was wildly unfair, the judge included, but apparently required under the state’s mandatory sentencing laws. 

When I arrived, the rally had already started, a bilingual one, aimed at organizing people to understand what mandatory sentencing laws have created. Originally designed to eliminate racial disparities in sentencing, they have instead led to more injustice, in the opinion of rally speakers, particularly former State Rep Joe Salazar. Salazar gave a fiery speech, lambasting the misuse of power by prosecutors who often use the law to browbeat accused criminals into a plea bargain. Rogel’s mother, who spoke in Spanish wept through most of her speech, her pain so obvious that words were unnecessary. The crowd broke into chants of Justice Now, justicia ahora!. The crowd was small, perhaps 100, and there were several TV cameras. 

In just a few days this has become a high profile case. More than 5 million people, including me, signed a petition asking Gov. Polis to grant clemency to Rogel—either setting him free or reducing his sentence. Attendees were encouraged to call Gov. Polis’ office to request clemency, and there are legal moves underway to reduce Rogel’s sentence. Gov. Polis’s legal team is considering this as I write, and a decision is expected soon.

I returned to the parking garage, walking past History Colorado and the Denver Art Museum, both of which appear to be thriving. claimed my car, and returned home. And I thought of how easy it is to let the what counts as legal reform in one decade—in this case mandatory sentencing—lead to a whole new set of abuses unless underlying causes are addressed.  I had the feeling as I listened that this was a kind of George Floyd moment—an individual case that was so horrendously unjust that it might take us closer to creating a more just law enforcement system. A year past the Rallies for Black Lives Matter, we see that change can happen, but it’s often limited or non-existent in places, and will remain that way unless the patient work of nurturing change continues, both inside and outside the system.

Racism Part 2: My journey to understand race

My participation in Dr. King's 1965 march into Montgomery, Alabama, was the beginning of my journey to participate in the struggle for racial justice that emerged in the 1960s. As I wrote in a blog entry about that event, I joined a group of Mundelein College students who rode a bus from Chicago to Alabama. Our goal was to join the last leg of Dr. King's historic march. It was the first time I was in a racially diverse setting and the first time I saw that I could participate in the civil rights movement of that era. Of course, I still had a long way to go in my understanding of racism, a process that continues to this day. This blog is about what happened in years afterwards and how my thinking changed.

The march experience energized both the students and the administration of my college after we returned to Chicago. In 1965 the Johnson Administration launched the Upward Bound Program, and my school was among the first to sign up. Upward Bound was based on the premise that minority and inner city students were disadvantaged because of poverty and inferior schools. Many could succeed, however, if they were given a chance to get study skills, tutoring and encouragement. Colleges could play a role in bridging the gap between them and their more privileged counterparts by offering summer programs designed to provide these things. Perhaps because of my experience with the Montgomery march, I was hired for the first two summers. I think the program reflected what I then understood the struggle to be: bridging the gap while supporting all efforts to end poverty and erase prejudice. 

I loved my work as a tutor-counselor for Upward Bound and felt that I learned much. It was emotionally powerful as well. Perhaps the strongest benefit was the chance to be a tutor for the first time and also to get to know students who were African-American, the largest category of participants. Wanting to refresh my memory about the program, I started with Wikipedia, learning that the program exists to this day. And I was even more surprised to learn that a short 30-minute documentary was made in 1968 about the program. It's called A Space to Grow, and can be viewed on YouTube. Narrated by Henry Fonda, it was nominated for an Oscar.  As I watched it this morning, I was incredibly surprised to see that I was in it! (My brief scene is at 15:08.) This is the only fragment of my 20-year-old-self that I have, never having owned a video camera. Our lives are probably over-documented today, but for those of us who came of age then, finding such a fragment is is akin to a surprise discovery on an archeological dig. I digress.

As we all know, progress is not a straight line. Dr. King came to my city, Chicago, in the late sixties as a leader in the open housing marches held there. Due to what I later came to know as "red-lining"--the practice banks and mortgage companies used to limit where black people could live--Chicago housing remained starkly segregated: a largely white North Side, and largely African-American South Side. The exploitive parts of the real estate industry reinforced that through "block-busting"--the practice of selling a house in a white area to a Black family, prompting other white families to sell cheaply to avoid the threat of collapsing property values. And then there was my father. He was not a hateful man, but he nevertheless expressed a common form of racism at the time: segregation was good for everybody because "birds of a feather flock together", and attempts to change that often result in violence or economic ruin; furthermore, individuals should have the right to sell to whoever they chose. I didn't think I believed that, but I lacked a place to discuss it (Why I didn't raise the question in class I don't know.), a support group, or a way of dealing with the fear I probably felt about joining. (Marches were peaceful, I remember--except for angry whites who tried to disrupt them.) Things had seemed more clear-cut in The South: laws preventing African-Americans from voting amid the practice of Jim Crow.

In 1968 it was time to graduate and enter the workforce as a community journalist. At my first job, as a reporter for a community newspaper chain, I wrote a series with another reporter on poverty in Chicago, and I also covered a story on the murder of Black Panther Fred Hampton  by police. News stories of Hampton's death, including my own story, clearly pointed to a police massacre, but those stories led nowhere. We were still decades away from a reckoning with police violence against people of color. The miscarriage of justice then was part of my growing understanding that news reports would not, by themselves, lead to any change. Other concerns were growing at the time as well: the ongoing Vietnam War and my own fledgling understanding of feminism. It wasn't until the 1970s that my understanding went to another level.

In 1977, shortly after my move to Colorado, the TV miniseries Roots was broadcast, and like millions of others, I watched it.  Much of the research behind it, based on Alex Haley's novel of the same name, has since been challenged, but for me at the time it was my first real introduction to the history and brutality of slavery. And though I may not have it explained it as such, I began to see the links between that tragic episode of racism--along with more reading about the early wars against Indigenous people in the US-- and the issues of the day. The 70s were also a time when people challenged many of the assumptions of the 60s--that government programs like the War on Poverty and Upward Bound--could reverse intractable problems like war and racism.

But there was a new program that I thought might really help. As in Chicago, housing patterns were segregated in Denver and there were calls for change. During the early 80s, for a few years, I drove a school bus for the Denver Public Schools. I was one of many drivers hired for the district's attempts to desegregate schools through busing. Every morning and afternoon I drove white kids to largely black schools and vice versa. The aim was to boost the academic achievement of minority students, but once again real change failed to materialize. Years later, after I left my driving job, the program ended, and school choice became the focus of efforts to mitigate racial disparities in education. During those years, I had no ready arguments for what should be done, and my focus shifted to feminism.

By 1981, I had joined the volunteer collective of the Woman to Woman Feminist Book Center in Denver. In the larger feminist world, white women were being taken to task for insensitivity and neglect of issues important to women of color. (See This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color.) The bookstore collective, which had some diversity but was primarily white, had disagreements about many things, and in that year, about racism. White members were challenged by Jewish women and women of color, who said they, including me, were insensitive to communication differences (e.g., spontaneity vs. rules), religious symbols (a Christmas tree in the window, for example) and insufficient materials about diversity in the movement. At a collective meeting one night, four other members besides myself were told to leave. I was devastated, but the event led to a year-long study group that the five of us started for ourselves to try to understand what had happened. 

Eventually I developed an interest in different communication patterns among cultures and then followed my decision to go back to school with the aim of becoming an English teacher for foreign students. New understandings showed me that racism was not only prejudice and discrimination but also insensitivity to cultural differences and what is now called intersectionality.

By 1990 I had graduated with an MA in Education and had left Denver to teach English in Japan. During the 20 years I spent there I saw in different ways how race, gender and economic privilege can intersect and contradict each other. The setting shifted from US issues to those in Japan. For example, how did I look at my status as a white woman hired to teach a prestige language--and also a foreigner and a non-citizen in another country? There was a lot of debate among my friends about this.

At the same time, I was also absorbed in language learning and its various aspects. One was cross-cultural communication--a rather new academic field at the time. It invited us to examine how communication involved much more than learning vocabulary. Also important were a culture's values, non-verbal practices, communication strategies and cognitive processing. More and more I began to learn how important it is to really understand how our minds work in order to understand motivation, memory and many other aspects including bias and decision-making. In the 10 years since I retired and left Japan, it's psychology and cognitive bias that have come to fascinate me. More on that in my next blog: Racism: Part 3.

Journal of a plague year: the first six weeks

March 6--exactly six weeks ago from today, and I was busy planning my normal weekly schedule. I went to a women's salon at The Center for our usual monthly discussion. For the upcoming weekend, it was a tax preparation appointment, and then a Sunday afternoon rehearsal with SAGE Singers, the senior chorus I'm part of. On Monday, my usual session of Laughter Yoga at St. Barnabas Church followed by lunch in an area restaurant--this time The Irish Snug. Square dance was a possibility for Tuesday and then a theater performance at Aurora Fox on Thursday to see Secrets of the Universe. Those events marked my last "normal" week. The following day, March 13,  everything changed. Gov. Polis ordered a ban on large gatherings and closure of non-essential businesses to stem the spread of Covid-19.

As I look back, I see a series of emotional and behavior changes that none of us could have anticipated just 2 months earlier when we toasted to the new year. And now, as I write this today, April 17, it's hard to remember the feeling of the "old normal"--one that I had taken for granted my whole adult life. An old normal of freedom from invasion whether it be a foreign army or a plague. With two exceptions. In childhood I remember being called inside by my mother, ordered to rest for fear of catching the polio virus. I didn't quite understand what it was, but I knew it traveled silently through the air and could cause terrible paralysis damage to victims. Then in junior high came the Cold War-induced scare of nuclear war. Radiation would come from the air, we were told--another invisible enemy. Today you can find online now-humorous stories of kids crouching under desks during school drills and families building bomb shelters in hopes of surviving the deadly radiation sure to come. I remember giving a speech in school arguing in favor of those shelters, though neither I nor my family ever tried to build one. On some level we all knew it was absurd. (Below: a New York Times photo of a "duck and cover" exercise)

Those fears and responses passed, and now we're in another fear and response period--one with much uncertainty: the Covid-19 pandemic. As I look back to that first week--the last one of the old normal--I think of it as  a time of trying to get a grip on what was happening. I remember joking that I wish I had studied for my ACTs as hard as I studied this virus--one showing disturbing signs of not being contained.

In the days following the governor's call for closures, all of my usual activities were cancelled. At home in Montview Manor, where all residents are over 62--a high-risk group for Covid--a series of new procedures were rolled out. By the end of the month, all gatherings in common areas were stopped, the building was closed to all but essential visitors and residents were urged to stay in their apartments. Sanitizer appeared in the lobby, and we were exhorted to wash our hands frequently. "Social distancing" had already become a household phrase. During those mid-March days, I remember thinking of Covid as the third invisible enemy of my lifetime, and I was quite diligent with the precautions. The only exception during week two and three was the lack of masks. Public health officials did not want to cause a run on badly-needed N95 respirators for medical workers, so we were not encouraged to wear them. By early April Gov. Polis encouraged masks--homemade cloth ones or simple surgical ones--for everyone going outside. I think of weeks 2 and 3 as the time of adjustment and making of new habits. I was pleased to find a no-sew pattern for a cloth mask that can be made in two minutes from a handkerchief and two loops of stretchy nylon or elastic. Meanwhile, I was becoming proficient with Zoom, the app of choice for groups wishing to communicate during this ban on in-person meetings. (More on that in a separate blog entry.) Daily, sometimes twice-daily walks in City Park across the street, became my new normal--a comforting reminder of the old normal, as many in the neighborhood showed up to walk dogs, go bike riding with their kids, or simply watch the beginnings of spring.

All the while information-gathering continued. Should we wipe down groceries or not? Is it necessary to wear gloves? What is the best way to handle shopping? We were encouraged to limit grocery shopping to once a week, and stores began instituting senior shopping hours. An unfortunate incident at my local Sprouts store--where two neighbors encountered a sick check-out clerk--caused me to change my allegiance. I now shop at Trader Joe's where I'm confident of their procedures. You can read about them here.  Meanwhile, all of my information gathering continued. I spent at least two hours a day reading my digital New York Times, checking the spread in other countries as well as the emerging facts about the virus. And then there were the human stories--the deaths, the heroism of medical workers, the machinations of a US administration that belatedly acknowledged the pandemic while creating daily doses of misinformation. Dr. Fauci became almost everyone's standard-bearer in the battle to "flatten the curve", by then another household phrase.

During the second half of March I began to settle into a new home routine. I cooked more--something I've always liked to do, but now it had the added benefit of focusing my concentration. Neighbors, including me,  offered to pick up things for others during their weekly shopping excursions. Many cultural offerings went online, including free daily streams of filmed operas from The Metropolitan Opera via the Met on Demand app. I'm a fledgling opera listener, so these streams were a wonderful opportunity.  In addition, Youtube became my go-to source for inspirational music performances or plays, such as Jane Eyre by the National Theatre of London. 

As the first week of April came to a close, I had become a nightly howler from my balcony. It's still happening, every night at 8 p.m., and many Denverites and others are joining in with voices or the banging of pots and pans. It's our tribute to medical workers and others who are risking their lives to help Covid victims. The battle had become more personal. There appeared to be no infections in my building, where a nurse is stationed in the lobby, 7 to 3 every day to check temperatures and monitor deliveries. However, Jeff, a friend in Denver, and Laura, my niece in Illinois were suffering from the virus, both recovering slowly. Reports of infections and deaths continued to dominate the news, but the conversations began to shift. When would it be time to begin a restart of the economy? 

The economy had been in free-fall for awhile, rising or sinking like a leaky balloon, depending on the outlook for bailout plans in Washington. Battles for political power ensued. Meanwhile, far too little was known about the path of Covid infections and test availability was far too small. The race for a vaccine was underway, a worldwide effort, but no timetable was claimed. Shelter-in-place orders were just a month-old. What would be possible as spring became summer? What would happen to planned events? In January my biggest dilemma had been how I could attend the national square dance convention to be hosted by my club, The Rainbeaus, in July. It would overlap with The SAGE Singers planned debut at the GALA festival in Minneapolis. I dithered back and forth: Could I do both? I finally made a decision, but that decision is now moot. GALA 2020 has been postponed for a year, and the fate of the square dance convention is in doubt. "Man plans, God laughs" is an old saying I used to quote when things would fall apart. It now had a whole new resonance. (Next: my life on Zoom)

This Pridefest is brought to you by....

Denver's Pride Parade--or The Coors Light Pride Parade--was Sunday, and thousands of others, I found a spot along the East Colfax route to watch what is truly Denver's best party. For two and a half hours, laughing, dancing, singing marchers--on foot or on float--paraded down the street enroute to a rainbow festival of food and entertainment in Civic Center Park. I had hoped to be part of the parade, as I have in the past few years, but a wonky foot led me to a chair under a shady tree instead. Watching is of course, a big part of the fun so no regrets there.

As I often do, I summoned up one of my younger selves--one who would have been marching in the early 80s down this street, a time when the AIDS epidemic was at its peak and the legalization of gay marriage was far from a possibility in anyone's minds. More a protest than a parade, though I remember its playful irreverence, such as the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence--gay men dressed as nuns--posing on cathedral stairs. This younger self would have felt awe and joy at how mainstream LBGTQ acceptance has become--though in fairness she would not have used most of that acronym--just "L" and "G". At the same time, she would have been appalled at just how corporate everything has become. Perhaps she would have stalked off and joined her friends in the park to grouse about it. We would have thoroughly dissected the rainbow equivalent of "green-washing", a distraction from corporate practices that should be questioned.

Coors was a major sponsor of the parade this year, as it has been for a number of years now, but it was not the only one backing Pridefest, the weeklong celebration preceding the parade. Other big players were Walmart, Wells Fargo, Nissan, Smirnoff, Comcast Xfinity, along with Channel 7TV and The Colorado Department of Health and Environment. There were a host of supporting and participating sponsors too--retail outlets, oil and gas companies, banks, among others. (Click here for a full list.) Many, many other groups participated, not for profit, but with a message to share: churches, non-profits, politicians, cultural and student groups. My beloved square dance group, The Rainbeaus, danced their way down the street, while behind them the Mile High Freedom Band played.

Older Kathy is less likely to rush to judgment, while lamenting the fact that Coors beer has been and probably remains a taste abomination, far inferior to the numerous craft beers in Colorado. Craft breweries were banned from selling their tasty wares because of the deal with Coors and instead held an alternate event in West Denver. (Perhaps I'll take younger Kathy there next year.) Older Kathy would have also pointed out the fact that sponsorships underwrite programs for the LBGTQ community at The Center all year long. And--let's face it--we're in a corporate age, in which non-corporate funds are scarce and the costs of putting on any public event--insurance, security, materials--are well outside the limits of passing the hat around.

Seeing the youthful energy and creative decorations of the marchers on Sunday, I found it impossible to be churlish. This year was the 50th anniversary of what's now called the Stonewall Uprising, that night in June when patrons of the Stonewall Inn in NYC rebelled against the police harassment they were constantly subjected to. That rebellion provided the energy to launch a gay liberation movement that led to such amazing changes in US culture. The results of this long struggle led to Sunday's celebration, which I cheered on along with everyone else.  I didn't take a single picture, knowing that The Rainbeaus' chief photographer, Frank Bull, would share his album with me and other club members. Here are a few photos I downloaded from his collection. The first one expresses the conviction I'm sure all would share.

And this one expresses the contradictions. Corporations may well have excellent hiring practices for LBGTQ job seekers, but their work in the world raises questions, such as: How is our community affected by fracking of oil and gas in Colorado?

I enjoyed the creativity here on this float and many others.

Then too, the spirit of protest still lives.

Skipping the party, I headed toward the bus stop on 17th, ready to give my foot a complete rest. Two women passed by and pressed a rainbow crown in my hands--with the King Soopers supermarket logo. How appropriate, I smiled to myself. And at the same time, in my heart, I thought: Until next year--all good wishes for pride, activism, persistence and above all--love.

Thoughts on our daily walk with Death

We're always walking with Death--that's the truth built into the Buddhist acknowledgement of impermanence. Like so many,  I've gone through hours, days, weeks, months--giving D scarcely a thought, pushing the knowledge of my eventual demise to the back of my consciousness as I plunge into daily tasks and distractions.

There are always moments when the reality of impermanence breaks through--historical photos, for example. I feel a kind of poignance of looking at images of people going through their daily routines, seemingly oblivious to the preciousness of that fleeting moment. There are other times--reading obituaries and noting the age of the deceased. Is she older or younger?--as if that really had any relevance. Death can arrive anytime, anywhere, at any age; we all know that but tend to wince when reminded. And then there are other times--when someone I know dies. This month three deaths occurred in my immediate world. Shortly after the third one, my weekend Buddhist reading list came via an email from the magazine Lion's Roar. The article, "The Supreme Meditation" by Larry Rosenberg, focused on the theme of death. Although Western culture is structured to take us away from that awareness, he asserts, the key to living fully is embedded in keeping that awareness up front and center.

Of course, if death is always with us, it has many guises. I've passed a few frivolous moments imagining how often death would change his profile picture if he were on Facebook. I finally settled on an image that I saw on the cover of a children's book, Cry Heart But Never Break, featured in one of my favorite blogs. It's a gentle image; I so dislike horror.



The Buddhist tradition tends to be more in-your-face about it. This image, Zazen on Waves by Maruyama Okyo (1787), can be seen at Daijoji Temple in Hyogo, Japan.



Recently, visiting the Denver Public Library, I checked out The Five Invitations by Frank Ostaseski (Flatiron Books, 2017). I just finished it this morning and found it very useful--thought-provoking and well, calming. A teacher/caregiver who cofounded the Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco, Ostaseski interweaves stories of his experiences there with other examples of those five invitations, invitations to use death-awareness as a means of bringing us "closer to our truest selves". The invitations are: (1) Don't wait; (2) Welcome everything, push away nothing; (3) Bring your whole self to the experience; (4) Find a place of rest in the middle of things, and (5) Cultivate "Don't Know Mind". Click here for extended definitions of all of them.

As I attended two memorial services this month, I had a chance to think about these invitations and what they might have meant for those whose lives were honored. One of them was for Gerry S., the lawyer who gave me my first job when I came to Denver in 1976. He was an open-hearted man who at that time was just recently in recovery and discovering the joy of living without addiction. He had left a high-powered legal office to open his own practice. He was kind to me, offering a very relaxed work environment and passing on books and information about Colorado life. I think he knew how to live fully, especially within his large family and the AA community where he supported numerous others on the path to recovery. We lost touch after I left the job three years later. But now, decades later, when a mutual friend told me that he had passed away at the age of 87, I knew I wanted to attend his memorial and tell his widow how much his kindness had meant to me. I did that following a service at a small Anglican church in South Denver, packed with the many friends and family members who loved and missed him. I believe the stories and images showed a man who brought his whole self to the experience of living.

A week later I learned of the death of Angela S., one of my OLOC sisters. Dealing with a terminal cancer diagnosis, Angela entered home hospice after treatments were no longer useful. Shortly before her death at age 76, she married her longtime partner, Cindy. I was not prepared for the very powerful discovery I made at her memorial service, held at the Church of the Beloved in a suburb north of Denver. Angela, who had grown up Roman Catholic, was part of the Catholic Ecumenical Communion, a faith community that creates an inclusive environment for Catholics who accept the liturgy but not the restrictive politics of the Roman Catholic Church. Not surprisingly, it is not recognized by the establishment church. But it was through this faith community that Angela's family and friends could bring their whole selves to the experience of honoring her life at the ceremony, officiated by a minister who was also a woman. And we could all find a "place of rest" in the inclusivity in which Angela's spouse and commitment to her community could be fully recognized.

There has still been no memorial service for Joanne K., the 85-year-old former neighbor I had visited weekly before her death last month. Perhaps there has been or will be a service at the local Catholic church she attended. We had started a friendly-neighbor relationship during my last year living at Camellia House, one which probably would have ended when she moved last summer. However, shortly before the move, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given less than 6 months to live. Joanne also had a secret that she had told no one else: she had loved another woman in her youth, a woman who left her, and it seems I was the only one she could talk to about this. Alienated from her surviving brother, she kept her secret from the 3 women who formed her social circle. With others, she was closed, often seeming snobbish but perhaps just not sure how to relate after a lifetime of closure and focusing solely on her career in music. During my visits I hoped to create space for her to open and remember, but she did not choose that path. She wanted to "stop thinking about it." One day she broke a hip, then had surgery, then on to rehab, but was suddenly transferred to hospital when she developed an infection. She was hours away from death the last time I saw her. Hooked to various machines, she labored to breathe and I held her hand for awhile. A friend was coming to accompany her transfer to a long-term care facility that afternoon, so I left. She died alone early the next morning.

The memorial services for Gerry S. and Angela S. gave mourners some closure--and no doubt some reminder of our own mortality, of the invitation to live more fully in whatever ways we find meaningful--through friends, family and/or communities. I wonder how many others leave life as Joanne did, still unresolved about the events and people who disappointed them. May her memory rest in peace in the lives she left behind.

Jan. 21, 2017: Pride and power in a sea of pink

It's been 10 days since I joined the Women's March on Denver, one of many sister marches to the massive gathering in Washington D.C. Altogether it was the largest protest in US history and it was a global event: nearly 700 sister marches were scheduled in more than 60 countries, and the estimated number of participants is nearly 5 million.

The terrible first week of the Trump Presidency unfolded after that, and I know I'm not the only one who carried the strength and determination of that march with me through the following days. I'm writing today about why that was so, and how that was so. I know I'll draw on that energy over the coming months and years.

On Friday, the day before, my friend Roberta and new friend Suzanne drove down from Boulder to stay overnight with me. We enjoyed dinner with some of my neighbors and then had a sign-making party. Suzanne, a novice to marching, came with a very clever trick of the trade: take a poster board, fold it in half and tape it, leaving room for a hand in the center. When tired of carrying it, it slips easily in a backpack. Two different messages on front and back. Here you see one with Suzanne and the other later with me. Organizers had asked participants to make signs with the C.A.R.E. acronym--another reason for the gentle vibe of this event. I didn't make my own sign, guessing correctly I'd have no trouble finding one. Suzanne later left her sign with me.



Here's Roberta with her sign: the rights of Mother Earth played a strong role in this march.



In the morning, we breakfasted and donned our pink hats, a gift of Roberta's sister, Bunnie, and Jackie, a friend in my square dance club. We joined others in the lobby of my building--neighbors as well as 3 other friends who wanted to start the day with us. A minute later we were at the bus stop, naively expecting to hop on one heading toward Civic Center Park downtown. We soon learned that full buses were passing people by further up the line. Thanks to neighbor Sid who offered to drive, we arrived downtown in 15 minutes. As we joined hundreds walking toward the park along the 16th Street Mall, we got a preview of the joyful, peaceful event this would be.

I was delighted by the signs--by their creativity and also the range. Though history shows achievements can be reversed, the underlying connections among people are less easily changed. The signs were so diverse. Some visual images in collage form, thanks to Roberta's work with my photos:



And more...



I don't often say I'm proud to be American--shame being the first feeling coming to mind these days when I think of this country's impact on other countries under the Trump administration. However, that morning I was proud, and it was oh, such a good feeling.

The march snaked through downtown streets--there was a shorter and longer option for walkers--returning us to Civic Center Park. There were an array of speakers and performers, all women. I didn't hear all of them, as we left early that chilly day. It was also not easy to hear everyone, the crowd being much larger than expected. (115,000 the latest estimate). But I was impressed by the accomplishments of these women, listed on the march website here.

For me the memories were in the walking, the spirit of being "for" rather than "against", waves from onlookers. There were no counter protesters that I saw. It was easy to walk on that sunny/cloudy morning, chatting briefly with sister/fellow walkers, enjoying our energy, reminding ourselves that we are not alone in our belief that America could become great--not again, but perhaps for the first time.

Finding a ride back home with two friends, we continued the event online. Roberta, Lauren and I watched speeches at the Washington rally; we talked all afternoon about ways to resist, to continue work important to us, to keep our lives in balance. It was good we did this, as we did not yet realize how many civil liberties and constitutional issues would be challenged in the coming week.

We talked more over dinner; it grew dark, Lauren headed back home, and Roberta and I continued on to our monthly square dance event. I laughed to myself, thinking that the day was the political equivalent of a visit to Lourdes. I threw away my metaphorical crutches (fears/limitations) and drew on an energy I didn't know I had. I didn't dance every tip that night, but I could have. The important thing then and now is that I know how to pace myself.
(NEXT: Post-march resistance)

Meeting MLK on his birthday, in a dream cafe

It was a snowy, cold day in Denver yesterday, the day of what is usually the largest march/parade in honor of the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I sat at my desk, listening to the megaphones in City Park, as a hardy band organized itself, and suddenly I found myself sitting in a cafe facing the Marade route, Colfax Avenue. An elderly gentleman sat next to me, and as he turned to acknowledge me taking the seat next to him, I gasped in surprise. Beneath the wrinkled forehead and thinning hairline, there was no mistaking those eyes and calm gaze.

"Dr. King," I stammered. "I can't believe what I'm seeing....."
"I can't either," he said smiling. I turned 88 yesterday. Hard to believe. Especially when you don't expect to live to old age, you can't quite imagine what it's like."
"But...how....how is this possible? You died in 1968....and now...."
"Yes, I passed when I was 39, but I took the return option--leave a little sooner and you can come back once a year to see how things turned out."
"You can do that?! I always wanted to.... Never mind, I have so many questions! First--why here?"
"Well, I always loved Soul Food, and....", he glanced back at the chef, lowering his voice, "and this isn't exactly the best place for that, but when the marchers come down Colfax in a bit, we'll have an excellent view. Every year I go to a different city, and usually I march too, but today...."
We smiled at each other. "Me too," I answered. "As my friend Linda puts it, 'you don't want to break an old lady bone' by going out in bad weather. But enough about that. I want to know what you think about today, about what's happening, about your birthday being a national holiday, about Obama, about who really carries your legacy, about...."

"Whoa," he stopped me. "Let's start with one of those". Then he continued, using the more sonorous language he's known for. First, about my birthday. I'm honored, not because I need ego satisfaction, not because Martin Luther King Jr. needs people to look at him, not because the past needs exalting, but because the nation needs a day to focus on its soul, on its ability to love and to seek justice above all." He stopped and looked at me.
"Sometimes," I said, it seems that gets lost amid all the press speculation about possible disruptions or loss of corporate sponsors or news about your oldest son meeting with Trump."
He winced. "I'd prefer to not talk about that... Let's just say our children are always going to chart their own paths." He paused. "I wonder sometimes if I wasn't home enough, that too much burden fell on Coretta. I still miss Yolanda. We used to play and swim together when I was home...."

Seeing his eyes mist, I changed the subject. "Please tell me, Dr. King, who carries your legacy today? I mean in the community."
"Why, everyone, of course. Everyone who carries the message of love and commitment to justice. There will always be a special place in my heart for my contemporaries, those who shared the struggle of the early days with me. John Lewis especially. He's been carrying on for a long time and is getting some pushback this year."
"Yeah," I mumbled. "War by Twitter...." Hoping to pin him down a little more, I asked, "Who were you marching with last year and where were you?"
He smiled, seeing where I was going. "I could say I was marching with everyone, but in fact...I was in Ferguson, walking with Black Lives Matter. Some people think my spirit wasn't there, but it was. And those young people knew it was. I'm still with them."
"As you probably know--your know everything now, right?--the Denver organizers said the BLM disruption last year cost them some corporate sponsors--the people whose money pays for scholarships and all the costs of marching these days."

"Corporate sponsors." He tilted his chin, staring into the distance. "Did you know when I went to college back in 1944, Morehouse College said it would accept any high school junior who could pass its admissions exam? They were trying to fill classrooms. So many young men and women had left to fight in World War II. I got in, got my degree and then went on to the seminary. Free of encumbrances."
"Very different situation today," I responded.
"Yes," he nodded slowly. "And I think we have to remember that corporate scholarships are not the answer. We need justice: an educational system dedicated to excellence, affordability and non-discrimination. That's really the root of everything," I've become convinced. Today's young people will inevitably create the future. Our life spans are limited, and we must always be aware of what we are passing on. I think Mr. Obama understands that."

"Do you ever wish human life spans were just longer?" I asked. I mean that a person could live to see more of the 'moral arc of the universe', as you used to call it--could live to see more of what happens with the struggles they were part of, could live, for example, to see the first African-American president take office."



"I think about that every year when I come back," he admitted. And I've concluded....well, the answer is no. The Creator knew what he was doing when he gave us 'fourscore and 10'. You see, I've realized that 'arc' was not the best metaphor for progressive change. Change doesn't move in a line, we see. It's more like a spiral, and with every return to an old issue, the issue becomes more complex. I don't know how I could lead if I were still on earth today. Perhaps I would have learned to cope the technology, continued to reframe my assumptions...lived through the death of a child...." His voice trailed off. Then he turned to me and said, "No, it's best that we have new leaders, new chances for youth to show us new directions to the promised land. I do wish I had had a chance to shake Mr. Obama's hand, though. I'm 88, two years shy of 'fourscore and 10'. Had things been different...."
"I remember that day," I said, turning to him. "I was a college senior, walking home from the library when I heard the news. I couldn't believe it. I remember feeling frightened about this world I would soon graduate into."
We both grew silent. Our food had arrived, and the first marchers were passing by, braving the cold and tapering snow. "Look at them," Dr. King said, sipping his coffee. "We have hope, yes, we have hope."

A room with a view--and a balcony

I'm facing City Park as I write this, having moved into a one-bedroom apartment nearby in October. After two years on the wait list, I was thrilled to be offered a unit with a long balcony facing the park I first discovered back in the late 70s. It's on the 11th floor--the highest I've ever lived--high enough that street distractions don't interfere with a wide view of the park's small lake, winding paths and trees. "I'll take it," I remember saying without hesitation when I was shown the apartment in September. By mid-November, the park was on the cusp of winter, and I took this photo as the morning light covered the tree tops.



I'm lucky enough to have a corner apartment with an east view. This was the scene in mid-October:



I lived just a few blocks away from City Park throughout the 80s and visited just periodically--as Cheesman Park to the south of my old place was a more favored spot for outings with friends.  A few image memories stand out: as a school bus driver, walking around the lake during my breaks between runs, a clean quiet place to stretch my legs and reflect. Another stroll several years later in '89 on a cold March day with my visiting sister and brother-in-law, shortly before I left for Japan. A warm November day with Paula and Linda, watching and laughing as they played touch football.

My building is just a couple of minutes from a park entrance and I've enjoyed a number of walks there since moving to the neighborhood. This photo, taken in early November, shows the restored park pavilion with a view of the Front Range mountains in the distance.



The pavilion up close, followed by my favorite sculpture, dating back to the early 1900s:





Nearby are several displays of the park's long history, starting in the late 19th century. I enjoy learning the deep history of the park, which adds another layer of seeing. There were concerts and picnics, and even an auto campground in the early 20th century. By 1914 as many as 300 "gasoline gypsies" were camped there every night, with the city offering free fuel and amenities. Later it all got to be too much and the campground was moved elsewhere.



My neighbor, Virginia, who is in her 80s and remembers growing up just east of the park, adds more context. In the summer people sat on risers to listen to free concerts--people didn't sit on the ground then--and in the winter, ice skaters could glide over the pond. It hasn't been cold enough for the pond to solidly freeze over since the 50s, she tells me.

The lake--and the smaller one just behind the pavilion--are just fine for the many birds that winter over or migrate over the park. Canada geese are the resident species--perhaps a thousand or more. Last week, when I joined a morning birding event in the park, I took this photo of geese feeding on the small lake.



It's December, and the first snowfalls have arrived, transforming the park every day. The Denver Zoo, with its holiday light display, is immediately north of the park. Every evening I've been enjoying the display and city lights illuminating the darkness. I tried to capture a photo of the park during first real snowfall last Friday evening and took this shot with my iPhone. It doesn't do nearly enough justice to the loveliness of it all. (Google Denver Zoo lights images for close-ups of the "safari" lights.)



Spring will bring new images and I can hardly wait, though of course I will.

Standing Rock and Big Mountain: two issues, two eras, same movement

Just a few days before the Dec. 3 Standing Rock victory--the decision by the Army Corps of Engineers to reroute the contested pipeline segment--I discovered an old photo from another battle for water rights. I was standing with friends in front of Safeway one November afternoon in Denver, circa 1980, and we were in costume, handing out flyers about the "true story" of Thanksgiving. Here I am (right) with Marty Mathers (center) and Kim Womantree, dressed as pilgrims and Indian, ready to talk about our interpretation of the Thanksgiving story as one of continuing oppression. That oppression was then taking place then on Indian land at Big Mountain in the Four Corners region. A lot of Indian water was being used there to transport coal in slurry pipes.



I don't remember that we had too many real conversations with Thanksgiving-dinner shoppers that day, but we enjoyed the event and felt we were contributing to the support work local activists were doing at Big Mountain, also known as the Black Mesa coal fields. There corporate interests, especially Peabody Coal Company, were exploiting land shared by Navajo and Hopi tribes, to mine coal at Black Mesa. The precious aquifer, the only source of water for the tribes, then became the source of water to carry the coal in slurry pipes to feed power plants in Arizona and Nevada. Billions of gallons of precious ground water.

Of course, there was no Internet then, and like the struggle at Standing Rock, this was hardly a story that made mainstream news. Nevertheless, there were stories in counterculture papers and some of our friends travelled to the area to oppose the exploitation of the land. But then the issue dragged on in the courts, as such often do, and our own political work continued on in other ways. A line from a Judy Grahn poem, "A Woman is Talking to Death", ran through my mind: "(W)e left, as we have left all of our lovers, as all lovers leave all lovers, much too soon to get the real loving done." Substitute "causes" for "lovers", and you see the parallel.

Finding these photos in my friend Vickie Barriga's collection, I wondered what had become of the Big Mountain issue, 35 years later. I found some answers in a 2014 review of Judith Nies' Unreal City: Las Vegas, Black Mesa, and the Fate of the West. "The Indians were not the major players" in the deals taking place on their own land, Nies writes. "The real story was about energy and resources, about how coal was going to be used, and about who would make money." The leases the energy companies got from the US Interior Department violated every guideline the department had set up and the royalties were outrageously low. It was all done legally, Nies wrote, and Black Mesa became a "crucial resource colony for the expansion of the New West". By the late 1990s, the company strip mining Black Mesa was sold to a British takeover specialist,  Lord James Hanson. The review of Nies book reports, "At a 1996 stockholders' meeting in London, Hanson is surprised by the arrival of a delegation of Hopi and Navajo Indians who proceed to describe the effects of coal mining on their desert home: polluted water holes that kill their sheep, skyrocketing asthma rates caused by coal dust, and land stripped of vegetation that will never grow back thanks to desertification."

The parallel to Standing Rock seems obvious. Again, Native tribes--and the rural poor surrounding them-- are likely to pay the cost of our energy policy, still based in fossil fuels. There is reason to believe that Sunday's victory may be a mirage. A day later, the company building the DAPL announced they plan to continue building without rerouting. The pipeline, one of many crisscrossing the country is already more than 90 percent complete. The validity of 19th century treaty rights has long since been set aside in constitutional law. The President-Elect is an investor, and even if private gain were not an issue, he is advocating privatization of Native lands for energy development. Meanwhile, pipelines crisscross the nation, spills continue, the nation continues its dependency on fossil fuels.

Yet, there is reason to believe that Standing Rock can succeed in ways Big Mountain did not. I believe it is truly a victory, whether or not the pipeline is rerouted. As I write, about 10,000 protesters are camped at Cannonball, North Dakota, where the weather today is 4F and more snow is on the way. Clearly they have resilience and staying power. Tribes have come together. Millennials and their elders have come together, US military veterans have arrived to assist the water protectors. Thanks to social media, support has grown and mainstream media is now involved. A new generation is learning about Native American history, the risks of pipelines, the alternatives to a fossil fuel economy. This learning is all part of a movement that will certainly grow. The indefensible violation of civil rights by law enforcement on the land in recent weeks may be to this movement what attack dogs and beatings were to the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s--a galvanizing force.

I think back to the struggle to save Big Mountain in the 70s and 80s with sorrow and compassion for all of us who gave up too soon, who left our causes (lovers) too soon. Protestors have tools today that we didn't even dream of: the power of Facebook as a truth-telling arena and a decentralized media, the understanding of and growth of opposition to climate change, the growth of alternative energy worldwide, and best of all, a belief in their ability to succeed. Perhaps my generation, those members who became history teachers and taught a different version of Native American history can claim some credit in the process.

Last month I attended a rally on the University of Denver campus in support of Standing Rock. I think these two photos, one of students who spoke and the other of the audience, show something of the passion and determination in this movement. I look forward to finding new ways to support their vision and efforts in 2017. Here are the photos:

PrideFest 2016: Look who's celebrating

This year I attended Pridefest 2016, my first time to join a US gay pride march in 30 years. It was an exhilarating experience--and a relaxing one, as I rode the Banjo Billy bus with other older friends from Cheesman Park to downtown. More than 2000 took part, on foot, on floats, on stilts, on horseback, in wheelchairs. Lesbian, gay, transgender or not, all moving to music, to shouts or just happy silence. I've followed and celebrated so many changes affecting LBGT communities over the years that I hadn't expected to be surprised. And yet I was, as the feeling was so different from my memories of marching here in the 80s. PrideFest is now Denver's answer to Mardi Gras as well as a celebration of the progress made since 1969 when Stonewall marked the beginning of the gay liberation movement. Do you believe we've seen these changes in our lifetimes? I asked Gayle, who rode on the bus with me. She nodded, knowing just what I meant.

Jump back to the 80s: I can't remember exactly what year I participated or even who I marched with, having unearthed no pictures from that earlier era. Also, I was more left-leaning lesbian-feminist than gay identified in those days, marching for other events: safe streets (Take Back the Night) or an end to US military interference in Central America. As for gay pride, I do remember that we were clearly less festive then, clearly out of the mainstream. In the 1980s, banners called for an end to gay oppression, for unity in the community, for resources to fight the AIDS epidemic. Not that we were without humor. I still remember two men dressed as nuns, posed provocatively on the steps of the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception on Colfax as the rest of us marched past. I refreshed my memory of gay pride events in Denver through an excellent article by Aaron Marcus in Colorado Heritage magazine a few years ago. You can access the pdf here.

Fast forward to 2016. Here I'd like to show the spirit and diversity of Pridefest through these photos, shared by photographer Frank Bull, fellow square dancer in the Rainbeaus.

There were many remembrances of the victims of the mass shooting in Orlando, like the banner carried by these cyclists.

It wasn't until 1997 that New Jersey became the first state to allow same-sex couples to adopt jointly--another landmark change in my lifetime. Colorado allows LBGT individuals and couples to adopt or become foster parents. Marchers affiliated with Denver Foster Care and Adoption turned out on Sunday. Photos of family diversity are on their website.

Founded in 1972, Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) was one of the earliest--if not *the* earliest) support groups for the community. There are seven chapters in Colorado today.

This contingent reminds us all that HIV and other health concerns remain a priority.

What would a parade be without horses? The International Gay Rodeo Association had its representatives at the march. The Rocky Mountain Regional Rodeo is scheduled for July in Denver.

Sen. Michael Bennet, who is up for reelection, was present along with other politicians and candidates. Sen. Bennet is expected to win--and his popularity rose recently after he joined other Democratic senators demanding Congressional action on gun control.

Yes, and what would a parade be without the Imperial Court of the Rocky Mountain Empire? At least I think that's their float here. I don't know much about them, actually, but a check of their website shows they've been around since 1974 and have provided fun and fund-raising for a variety of LBGT organizations. In the 80s, I would have disparaged them perhaps. Now I wish they had been my fashion consultants.

An LGBT Equality Caucus was formed in the US Congress in 2008, and now Colorado has one too. Their mission: to support bills promoting equality.

Hillary supporters joined the parade and so did Bernie's, still not unified, but all agreeing to "trump" hate.

The Colorado Society of School Psychologists were there too, reminding us that they support all students.

Who knew? Denver continues to grow and change and drink kava too. So what is kava, I wondered? A relaxing, social drink, it's said. Find out more here.

I looked for my square dance friends, but couldn't find them! Not surprising. The parade was so long. The Banjo Billy bus was at the front, and my friends danced along near the rear, on a float or on the street. Perhaps next year....

Such a satisfying morning. After Gayle and I hopped off the bus, we watched from a shady patch of pavement on Sherman Street in front of the State Capitol before seeking refuge in air-conditioned Capitol Hill Books. We skipped the security check, the speeches, and the hundreds of vendors in Civic Center Park. The temperature was climbing to 100F that day. Later I saw coverage and photos of this year's iconic symbol, a large black box with messages honoring the lives of the shooting victims in Orlando. And I made my own silent promise to remember in the November elections all candidates who support--or don't support--effective gun control.

Reflections on the Marade

I attended my first Marade last year, and this year knew I wanted to go again. The Marade is an annual Denver event held every January on the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King. This year it was held on Jan. 18, and two weeks later, I’m still thinking about it. Like last year, the weather was sunny and relatively warm, always a boon for outdoor events, and thousands turned out for it. Like last year, I walked from home and met marchers along the parade route, ready to watch and then join in. Judging by the signs, there were members of church groups and non-profits and progressive movements, along with parents and kids and friends. There were horses too, and bringing up the rear, a fire truck in parade mode. Unlike last year, however, there was less music and a different mood at the front of the march. Members of Black Lives Matter had displaced the traditional leaders—the mayor, various dignitaries and corporate sponsors. They did it by getting an early start, walking down a different street and then cutting in front of the others.

Looking at the diversity of faces and signs, I wondered how many others felt as I did, feeling that combination of pride in all that’s been done amid reminders of all that needs to be done for equality and justice in this country. Despite the pressing needs of now, I wanted the past to get its due. Dr. King’s work had been my initiation to political work. Fifty years ago, it was, and it still surprises me to realize that. Yes, half a century ago, I was a freshman at Mundelein College, a Catholic women’s college in Chicago, where a group of older students and nuns were planning to join the last leg of the historic Selma to Montgomery march. I knew right away I wanted to go, and when my worried parents objected, got a job to earn the $20 round trip bus fare. The Civil Rights Movement was in full swing in the South, where African-Americans were fighting for the basic right to vote and an end to oppression from the white power structure. Such excitement in the air! I remember many moments of that event—the beginning of my understanding of how people of different races could unite to make change. Months later, the landmark 1965 Voting Rights Act was signed into law.

Fast forward to the Marade. This year it was clear that the injustices needing to be addressed superceded any reflections on history. There were lots of signs and banners calling for specific things— an end to the death penalty, the freeing of Native American activist Leonard Peltier, a woman’s right to control her body, among others. Two Muslim women marched together holding a sign expressing hopes that children of all races might live in peace together. “Reclaim MLK” was one sign I noticed and wondered about. The answer came when the marchers spilled into the park facing the State Capitol and the speeches began.

I confess I skipped the speeches. Call it an aversion to crowds and waiting and noise. My friends and I watched the horses and the riders who let kids take a turn. I approached one of riders and learned that some of them were from Buffalo Soldiers of the American West, and some from a local horse rescue network. We enjoyed this somewhat quiet, pleasant corner of the park. In the background we could hear clapping, drumming, and the echoes of words. Before the speeches finished, we left the park and went to lunch.

Only later did we learn what we had missed. Thanks to youtube, I later heard the speech delivered by Amy Brown of Black Lives Matter 5280. You can listen to it here. The group—which had not sought any official permission to speak—had four demands. A key one surrounded the deaths of two men, one Michael Marshall, an African-American who died in police custody, and the other, Native American Paul Castaway, who was shot and killed by police called to help during a schizophrenic episode. In her speech, Amy Brown demanded the release of a video of Marshall’s death.* Black Lives Matter also called for more affordable housing in Denver, an end to the urban camping ban, and a renaming of the Stapleton community, as its namesake former mayor was a member of the KuKluxKlan. It was clear that the sign “Reclaim MLK” was a reference to making the day a time for taking on Dr. King’s own campaign against poverty and discrimination— not making it simply a safe acknowledgment of past victories.

Later, Denver Mayor Hancock was booed as he tried to say he was on board with Dr. King’s dream. You can hear his speech in this youtube video. My age shows here, as I don’t like what seems to be the political temper of the times: enhancing your own message by shouting down someone else’s. Yet, at the same time, I remember the words of Rev. Osagyefo Sekou, a Christian minister who gave an inspiring speech last summer. (Thanks to yes! Magazine for reporting on it.) “Martin Luther King ain’t coming back. Get over it,” Rev. Sekou said during a lecture at Warner Pacific College in Portland, Oregon. “(Today’s movement) won’t look like the civil rights movement. It’s angry. It’s profane. If you’re more concerned about young people using profanity than about the profane conditions they live in, there’s something wrong with you.”

Speaking to a Christian audience, Rev. Sekou had four suggestions for white churches who want to continue Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream. These are his words:  1) Your attitude toward the plight of African-Americans in this country reflects your theology. If you tell me what you think about Jesus, I can tell you what you think about Ferguson. Christianity in and of itself is not simply about the redemption of the world, it's about some peasant articulating a vision of the world and the state crucified him and he rose again.
2) White churches don't need to become multicultural. They need to show up. What if the next time a black boy gets shot a white church shows up? They don't say a word but they go sit with that mama and ask what she needs. What if some white clergy showed up in their robes and stood between the protestors and the police, telling the police, 'You're going to have to get through us to get to these babies.’
3) The first step toward understanding and justice is friendship.
4) Your opinion of the rioters' distasteful language and behavior shouldn't shape your opinion of their message.
5) Change is going to require sacrifice. Are you willing to fight for a world you’re never going to live in?

Perhaps, as much as the images and the pleasure of the day and the march itself, I’ll carry these words with me this year.

*The video was subsequently released, but the District Attorney did not press charges against any of the officers involved in Marshall’s death, saying multiple causes were involved.