All the Heavy Rain

I didn’t go to the third funeral this week because it was raining.

At first, the rain was light but now it’s pouring and I’m glad for that because the rain is affirming my decision not to go. If I had gone, it would have been the second funeral today. Two funerals in one day and I am not a pastor. I am just a person. A living person.

I am rubbed raw by the funerals and by the shooting of Nicole Good in Minneapolis. Last night, I went with my friend, Karen, to a demonstration in front of the ICE office in downtown Milwaukee. As we walked toward the crowd, we were each handed signs, beautiful signs with messages printed on fabric stapled to sturdy four-foot-long wooden poles. I held my sign like I might a flag if I were in the front line of a high school marching band. It was heavy but felt like a lifeline. I don’t know why.

Up in front where all the speakers gathered, there was a sign that said ICE Killed Nicole Good and that was the first time I saw her name. I said to Karen, “Her name was Good.” And I felt the tears welling up, much like this very moment. We stood with our signs and listened to short speeches and then yelled the chants as loud as we could. It felt good to chant, to yell because we couldn’t scream. It wasn’t the time for screaming.

We marched in a wide, wide circle up and down the street. We did this for ourselves but also for the media so they could see all the people, the signs, and the stepping. The sign became heavy and because it was dark, walking became trickier, the pavement uneven. Because we are old women, we got tired the second go round and so we stepped out and surrendered our signs. It was alright. We came. We stood. We marched. That was last night.

The rain came just in time tonight. Saved me from the third funeral. Actually, you might call it the fourth funeral if you count last night.