I take a walk most days, a habit that I hope keeps me at least a bit healthier as I continue to age than I might otherwise be. Research seems to be consistently on the side of this activity even regarding its ability to promote cognitive and emotional well-being. That's certainly been the case for me, I think. My husband can testify that if I take too long a break from my regular walks, I'm a little pricklier than usual. I know I don't cope with stress as well as I used to without my walks. I think it has a lot to do with time spent just letting events and perceptions and new information process correctly in the brain.
Most of my walks are uneventful, although over the last few years I've had some that stood out. There was the time I got forced off the road by an inattentive motorist and came away with an injury that you're tired of reading about, but which left me forever changed. There was a morning I got cornered by a vicious dog, and couldn't make a move without it lunging at me, and was finally rescued by a couple I know from church. The second (and, likely, last) half marathon I walked concluded with a phone conversation with my mother, which would be the last time I ever heard her voice.
I took another walk last week that will always stand out for me. It was a walk up Montgomery's historic Dexter Avenue, from the Court Square Fountain that exists in close proximity to what was once Montgomery's slave market, past the Winter building from whence the telegram instructing Gen. Beauregard to fire on Ft. Sumter on April 11, 1861 was sent, past the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church that houses the pulpit from which Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., preached a message of peaceful resistance, to the steps of the Alabama Capitol building. At the top of that staircase is a star marking the spot where Jefferson Davis was sworn in as president of the Confederate States of America. I didn't need the reminder, but it is very true that no matter where you stand in downtown Montgomery, you stand on ground that was part of this country's darkest moments in history, as well as some that shone so bright they changed the world.
Last Sunday, August 13, I woke after a night of literal tossing and turning in bed. I don't often let what's happened in the world invade my sleep, but I could not shake the vision of scores of angry fellow citizens who assembled in Charlottesville, Virginia, some dressed in Nazi attire and sporting an assortment of firearms and combat gear, others waving the flag of the Confederacy, shouting that they intended to take back America. As horribly distressing as it was to hear about -- and then see footage of -- one of their sympathizers driving his car down a street crowded with people who were there to counter the protest with their own, striking and killing a woman and injuring scores of others, that's not what kept me awake. What kept me awake were the faces of raw hatred, no longer even concerned that they should hide those faces under sheets. What kept me awake was the tepid response of the President. What kept me awake was the support his response received from people I know.
When I got out of bed Sunday morning, I opened Facebook and saw that there was a walk planned for that evening up Dexter Avenue. I checked the box saying I'd participate. After I had a cup of coffee and made plans to head to church I had begun to think maybe I wouldn't. I noticed that some groups whose agendas I can't really endorse were taking part, and began to worry that the focus of the walk would be lessened by a barrage of side issues (albeit issues that deserve attention).
I just wanted to walk because, as I went to bed Saturday night with the pictures of those Nazi flags in America in my head, I kept asking myself, "Where were the good Germans? Who were they? What did they do?" Surely there were activists among them, but for the most part I think they probably did what I usually do: they assumed that the movement they were witnessing was confined to a few loud people with an oddly charismatic leader. They assumed that the ideas they were hearing were so counter to human decency they'd not take hold. They allowed themselves not to wonder what might happen if they decided to just ignore it and hope it would die down on its own.
And then they were helpless to stop it, afraid to resist it, and became, by their silence, complicit in what is arguably the most wretched episode in the modern history of the Western world.
So, after a little more thought and prayer, and hearing my preacher's impassioned sermon calling us to "get out of the boat," I decided I would follow through. I was proud that my sons and my husband agreed to go, as well. So very, very proud.
The event was just as billed. There were folks from all walks of life, it seemed to me, about 150 of us (which is huge for what is ordinarily a pretty apathetic populace), mostly white. Some of the crowd wore shirts or buttons indicating their affiliation with various groups. My own "badge" was my t-shirt emblazoned with a quotation from 1 Corinthians ("Love never fails") and a cross around my neck, hoping to serve as witness for those who have come to believe otherwise, that there are still those of us for whom being a Christian means you'll know us by our love. When, at the terminus of the walk, people were invited to speak their minds, the messages never devolved into screed, never called for violence, never suggested anybody take up arms, never mentioned the president's name, never ridiculed people because of their political party or faith.
I am sure there were plenty of folks there whose causes I don't support, but that ultimately made no difference to me. I took that walk in opposition to those who espouse cleansing of our nation until it fits their narrow, hateful vision of who is fit to be an American. I will walk abreast of anyone who feels the same way.
There was no singing, no "We Shall Overcome." Instead, we were encouraged to walk with people we didn't know. A young black man and I talked most of the way. He's not from here, and was surprised to know that I was born and raised here. He admitted to me that he came to Montgomery with a pretty firmly held idea that if you were a white person raised in the South, you were a racist, even if you were polite about it. I pointed out to him along the way the church my great-grandparents attended, which is across the street from Dr. King's church. My roots run deep here. I love my hometown. I want him to love my hometown.
I walked because I needed something to do with my outrage. After nearly a week's reflection, I'm left with nothing more articulate to say about why I took part than what a friend said about her experience.
"I don't show up thinking I will change the world by being there. I just hope somebody looks up and says "look at that nice old lady up there standing for what she believes. Maybe that's not such a bad idea!!"
Most of my walks are uneventful, although over the last few years I've had some that stood out. There was the time I got forced off the road by an inattentive motorist and came away with an injury that you're tired of reading about, but which left me forever changed. There was a morning I got cornered by a vicious dog, and couldn't make a move without it lunging at me, and was finally rescued by a couple I know from church. The second (and, likely, last) half marathon I walked concluded with a phone conversation with my mother, which would be the last time I ever heard her voice.
I took another walk last week that will always stand out for me. It was a walk up Montgomery's historic Dexter Avenue, from the Court Square Fountain that exists in close proximity to what was once Montgomery's slave market, past the Winter building from whence the telegram instructing Gen. Beauregard to fire on Ft. Sumter on April 11, 1861 was sent, past the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church that houses the pulpit from which Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., preached a message of peaceful resistance, to the steps of the Alabama Capitol building. At the top of that staircase is a star marking the spot where Jefferson Davis was sworn in as president of the Confederate States of America. I didn't need the reminder, but it is very true that no matter where you stand in downtown Montgomery, you stand on ground that was part of this country's darkest moments in history, as well as some that shone so bright they changed the world.
Last Sunday, August 13, I woke after a night of literal tossing and turning in bed. I don't often let what's happened in the world invade my sleep, but I could not shake the vision of scores of angry fellow citizens who assembled in Charlottesville, Virginia, some dressed in Nazi attire and sporting an assortment of firearms and combat gear, others waving the flag of the Confederacy, shouting that they intended to take back America. As horribly distressing as it was to hear about -- and then see footage of -- one of their sympathizers driving his car down a street crowded with people who were there to counter the protest with their own, striking and killing a woman and injuring scores of others, that's not what kept me awake. What kept me awake were the faces of raw hatred, no longer even concerned that they should hide those faces under sheets. What kept me awake was the tepid response of the President. What kept me awake was the support his response received from people I know.
When I got out of bed Sunday morning, I opened Facebook and saw that there was a walk planned for that evening up Dexter Avenue. I checked the box saying I'd participate. After I had a cup of coffee and made plans to head to church I had begun to think maybe I wouldn't. I noticed that some groups whose agendas I can't really endorse were taking part, and began to worry that the focus of the walk would be lessened by a barrage of side issues (albeit issues that deserve attention).
I just wanted to walk because, as I went to bed Saturday night with the pictures of those Nazi flags in America in my head, I kept asking myself, "Where were the good Germans? Who were they? What did they do?" Surely there were activists among them, but for the most part I think they probably did what I usually do: they assumed that the movement they were witnessing was confined to a few loud people with an oddly charismatic leader. They assumed that the ideas they were hearing were so counter to human decency they'd not take hold. They allowed themselves not to wonder what might happen if they decided to just ignore it and hope it would die down on its own.
And then they were helpless to stop it, afraid to resist it, and became, by their silence, complicit in what is arguably the most wretched episode in the modern history of the Western world.
So, after a little more thought and prayer, and hearing my preacher's impassioned sermon calling us to "get out of the boat," I decided I would follow through. I was proud that my sons and my husband agreed to go, as well. So very, very proud.
The event was just as billed. There were folks from all walks of life, it seemed to me, about 150 of us (which is huge for what is ordinarily a pretty apathetic populace), mostly white. Some of the crowd wore shirts or buttons indicating their affiliation with various groups. My own "badge" was my t-shirt emblazoned with a quotation from 1 Corinthians ("Love never fails") and a cross around my neck, hoping to serve as witness for those who have come to believe otherwise, that there are still those of us for whom being a Christian means you'll know us by our love. When, at the terminus of the walk, people were invited to speak their minds, the messages never devolved into screed, never called for violence, never suggested anybody take up arms, never mentioned the president's name, never ridiculed people because of their political party or faith.
I am sure there were plenty of folks there whose causes I don't support, but that ultimately made no difference to me. I took that walk in opposition to those who espouse cleansing of our nation until it fits their narrow, hateful vision of who is fit to be an American. I will walk abreast of anyone who feels the same way.
There was no singing, no "We Shall Overcome." Instead, we were encouraged to walk with people we didn't know. A young black man and I talked most of the way. He's not from here, and was surprised to know that I was born and raised here. He admitted to me that he came to Montgomery with a pretty firmly held idea that if you were a white person raised in the South, you were a racist, even if you were polite about it. I pointed out to him along the way the church my great-grandparents attended, which is across the street from Dr. King's church. My roots run deep here. I love my hometown. I want him to love my hometown.
I walked because I needed something to do with my outrage. After nearly a week's reflection, I'm left with nothing more articulate to say about why I took part than what a friend said about her experience.
"I don't show up thinking I will change the world by being there. I just hope somebody looks up and says "look at that nice old lady up there standing for what she believes. Maybe that's not such a bad idea!!"
