On Being Black at a Latino March

At Monday's "Dia Sin Inmigrantes/Day Without Immigrants" march in San Francisco, I saw a beautiful, exciting and hopeful vision of the future of this country. I also caught a glimpse of a familiar past, fading away. And I shed a few tears for both.  

From the moment I boarded the BART car, I knew this May Day march and rally would differ from the Bay Area's usual protest fare. The trains headed into downtown San Francisco were filled with working-class Latinos, all wearing white; most had kids in tow. There were few protest signs or banners, but the stars and stripes were everywhere. One tyke on my train kept trying to poke his cousin with a little American flag.  

Some of the teeniest kids were wearing their older sibling's white T-shirts with their shirt hems hanging down past their knees. The children were all well-scrubbed and happy ... and very proud.  

So were their parents. They knew they were part of something new, and big, and promising.  

The bright mood contrasted starkly with the dreary atmosphere that chokes most protests nowadays. On this march, I saw no resigned shuffling of already defeated feet. No sea of scowls. No pierced tongues, screaming. Nor could I spy a single person dragging behind her the weighty conviction that resistance -- though obligatory -- was futile.

To the contrary. Beaming, brown-skinned families walked off those trains with their heads held high. Sure, they may have been poor, facing tough challenges in the near term. But they stepped like they were marching into a future of limitless promise and potential.  

Their optimism brought tears to my eyes. And not only for the obvious reasons.  

Deep inside, I was grieving for my own people. I wished that my beloved African-American community had managed, somehow, to retain our own sparkling sense of faith in a magnificent future. There was once a time when we, too, marched forward together, filled with utter confidence in the new day dawning.  There was a time when we, too, believed that America's tomorrow held something bright for us ... and for our children.  

But those dreams have been eaten away by the AIDS virus, laid off by down-sizers, locked out by smiling bigots, shot up by gang-bangers and buried in a corporate-run prison yard. Now we cling to Black History Month for validation or inspiration. That's because Black Present Moment is so depressing -- with worse, almost certainly, on the way.  

When Katrina's floodwaters washed our problems back onto the front pages, the once-mighty Black Freedom Movement could not rise even to that occasion. Our legendary "movement" has collapsed, fallen apart. It is now a hollowed-out shell -- with our "spokespersons," both young and old, trying somehow to live off our past glories.  

Meanwhile, the white-shirted future was pouring itself down Market Street, chanting "Si, se puede!"  

My feelings of solidarity quickly trumped my sorrows. Thousands of people were standing up, here and across the United States, for their right to live and work in dignity in this country. Deep in my bones, I felt their pain, knew their hopes and affirmed their dreams. And just as non-blacks had supported our freedom movement in the last century, I was determined, as a non-immigrant, to give my passionate support to this righteous cause.  

So I joined the crowds in the street, trying to add my voice to the thunderous chants. But I quickly discovered that, good intentions notwithstanding, political solidarity is sometimes more easily felt than expressed.

My fellow marchers started roaring out: "Zapata! Vive! La lucha! Sigue!"  

I was like, Huh? What?

 

"Zapata! Vive! La lucha! Sigue!"

 

Say what?

 

Then louder, faster: "LaLuchaSigueSigue! ZapataViveVive! LaLuchaSigueSigue! ZapataViveVive!"