Minneapolis is burning

QUARANTINE JOURNAL

Day 80, Friday, May 29, 2020

I wake up feeling like there is a lead blanket on me, a thick version of the one a doctor's assistant lays on my chest for an x-ray. I think about Minneapolis and George Floyd. I feel the weight of the enormity of frustration that explodes periodically in one American city or another: it was Chicago when I was in college; Los Angeles when I was working at the Natural History Museum. And again when Rodney King was beaten and the jury – moved to all white Simi Valley – brought back a “not guilty” verdict.

On my walk, trying to shake depression about what is happening in Minneapolis, a memory comes from when I was there years ago. I was crossing a bridge early in the morning on a fall day. Two teenage boys were crossing too, first behind me, then alongside, and finally in front. One was on a bike and his friend was loping along trying to keep up. I didn’t know the language they were speaking so I asked. They were from Somalia. As they continued on I admired their ease, that amazing liquidity of the joints of young men and women. The way they were relaxed and happy in each other’s company. Their long, thin limbs made beautiful arcs as they gestured and teased each other. And I realized I hadn’t seen black men being so easy in their bodies since weekend dance parties in high-school. There were so few spaces where black bodies were comfortable, not policed by one form of authority or another. But on Saturdays, when we danced, all bodies were free.

A kind pastor let us have his basement to dance in. I remember smelling the men’s shirts, my nose pressed against the pocket when we slow danced. The boys wore pastel Brooks Brothers shirts, starched and smelling of Ajax or Tide. Early on their shirts were crisp, but later their sweat would stain under the arms and mix with the soap smell and together we would make a heady body aroma as we packed our teenage bodies into the small, hot room. We were doing partner dances and line dances to pure Motown sounds. The DJ paced the 45 record singles perfectly so after several fast dances we could catch our breath with a slow one. With my cheek against his chest, I could feel my partner's heart beating fast at first, then slowing as the song went on. I danced all night, I was never on the side. It was pure heaven.