5/31/20

By Josh Rubin

Borders establish a line of force that prevent those with a righteous claim on the bounty of the earth from getting it away from those who hoard that bounty. Borders may be lines along rivers guarded by automatic weapons and gates, and they may be lines more deceptively enforced, like the ones that reach along the chains of slavery to the present, link after link weighing down a people.

The flashpoint of Covid, the flashpoint of still another murder, has lit up the uncrossable line that they would rather we did not see. But each flash bang grenade shows us, and burns into our eyes, the truths that the gauze of complacency drapes over in other times. Other times when we comfort ourselves with vagueness and promises of someday-soon lullabies to drown out the miserable moans that rise above the din.

Black and brown people want what is theirs. And what is theirs is on the other side of a border. Across a line. When they come to cross that line, we need to decide which side we are on. The whole country, the whole world, is on the line.