I heard the shofar blowing in Selma, Ala.
I was there last weekend, and there was nowhere else I would have rather have been.
It was, for me personally, a moment for reflection, commemoration, and accountability. There have been moments in my life where I am in the middle of something I know is deeper than I can comprehend at the time. What I want, more than anything at such times, is to absorb, and to comprehend, as much of it as I can.
On Saturday, as I listened to one of our elder civil rights foot soldiers, U.S. Rep. John Lewis, D-Ga., introduce President Barack Obama, I was filled with pride.
I stepped away from the press area to see the speech from a giant television screen further up the road where some of the general public was standing.
A few minutes later, my attention was pulled away from the screen and towards a crowd of protestors who were chanting, screaming, and beating drums.
The group had traveled to Selma from Ferguson, Mo. to attend the event. While I too am disappointed and frankly, angry, at the outcome in Ferguson following the shooting death of Michael Brown Jr. as well as other similar instances all across the country, I couldn’t help but be a bit disheartened at the fact that while they were chanting, the president was simultaneously addressing the very issue they were protesting.
“Just this week, I was asked whether I thought the Department of Justice’s Ferguson report shows that, with respect to race, little has changed in this country. And I understood the question; the report’s narrative was sadly familiar. It evoked the kind of abuse and disregard for citizens that spawned the Civil Rights Movement. But I rejected the notion that nothing’s changed. What happened in Ferguson may not be unique, but it’s no longer endemic. It’s no longer sanctioned by law or by custom. And before the Civil Rights Movement, it most surely was,” said President Obama.
Perhaps, that was their point. To get loud and serve a reminder to everyone who was there in attendance that injustice will not be taken lightly. Social progress, in its truest form, is rarely clean, and easily digestible. Similar to the sound of an alarm clock, it must annoy and disarm you in order to serve its purpose.
In the midst of all the pomp and protest I wondered what it all meant in the grand scheme of things. “Bloody Sunday” was 50 years ago, yet today there is a new fight for voting rights happening right before our eyes.
Nationwide, and here in the Hoosier state, lawmakers are seeking to advance legislation to cut early voting times, add more stringent policies regarding voter identification and more requirements, all under the guise of streamlining the voting process and preventing fraud.
However, analysis shows these expanded regulations disproportionately affect minority voters as well as the elderly.
On Sunday, Attorney General Eric Holder said to a crowd at the Brown Chapel AME church that the Voting Rights Act of 1965 was under siege. “Fair and free access to the franchise is still, in some areas, under siege,” he said. “Shortly after the historic election of President Obama in 2008, numerous states and jurisdictions attempted to impose rules and laws that had the effect of restricting Americans’ opportunities to vote — particularly, and disproportionately, communities of color.”
He added that the Department of Justice would continue doing its part to fight the Supreme Court’s 2013 decision, which threatened to dismantle Section 5 of the 1965 act, a move that left a number of voters vulnerable to unjust legislation.
When I joined in with the thousands of other marchers crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridge Sunday afternoon, a wave of different emotions passed over me.
I felt gratitude in knowing that in the not so distant past, a group of brave souls took the same steps on the same land I was standing on in hopes of a brighter day ahead despite the clear and obvious danger awaiting them.
I felt anger in thinking there are still powers working to snuff out the voice of those who have already been given the short end of the stick.
I felt disappointment considering the fact that in my own hometown, less than 30 percent of voters showed up in the last election.
I carry with me the legacy and memories of my own immediate ancestors. I consider my grandmother, Virginia B. Ryder, who despite growing up at a time where she and her family experienced segregation, and racism, became a respected community leader in our neighborhood of Haughville. And I think of my aunt, Deborah Morris, who since the age of 18 never, ever missed an opportunity to vote. “Too many people died so that we could have this right,” she would tell me.
A few moments later, the sounds of a shofar pierced through the noise of my thoughts and I suddenly felt… free.
The shofar, a wind instrument made of a ram’s horn, is used in Jewish religious ceremonies to signify a new beginning. Despite our troubled past and the turbulence of present times, one thing Selma showed me is that the time is now to begin again. Thousands watched all over the world as marchers crossed the bridge then and now. All eyes are on those seeking to wake up, step out, and make a change.
It’s time to get to work.
