The Air We Breathe

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The Air We Breathe

As I walk into my house after work, I pull off my mask and with relief I breathe- a long deep breath.

I can breathe.

On May 25 George Floyd was handcuffed by a white police officer who pinned him to the ground. The officer kept his knee on George’s neck for 8 minutes 46 seconds as George begged for his life.

I can’t breathe.

The whole world saw the gaping wound of racism. Crowds spilled onto the streets to protest a system that wreaks havoc on the lives of people of colour.

A system that

brutalizes
controls
excludes
takes advantage of people
denies a place at the table where decisions are made
considers some people expendable
values white lives more than the lives of people of colour
refuses to recognize the inherent goodness of all.

I can’t breathe.

I think of the people that I know who can’t breathe.

When Elsa walks into the learning center, you usually hear a deep sigh. A conversation recently went something like this. “They had me working ten hours yesterday. (she’s a housekeeper at a downtown hotel) It’s not busy today so I’m here. I don’t know about tomorrow. Hope I can make rent this month. I’m exhausted. It’s the uncertainty.”

I can’t breathe.

Before the pandemic, this was a typical day for Lyntrell. It began early. Her younger son had to be ready for the school bus at 6:00 A.M. Lyntrell depended on public transportation to get to work for 7:00A.M. She worked at a Catholic school cafeteria. When work finished at 2:30 P.M. she caught a bus to Delgado Community College where she is studying to be a nurse. When she got home about 5:00 P.M. the day wasn’t over. Her children needed help with homework and dinner had to be prepared. Scars from an abusive relationship have taken their toll on Lyntrell. As she said recently, “It plays on my mind. It’s a lot of pressure. I’m determined to make it for me and my sons. I get depressed a lot.”

I can’t breathe.

I talked with our neighbor, Marie, after George Floyd was killed. She has a son who has been in trouble with the law. She’s worried. She knows her son is a police target. ”Every time I see him leave the house, I think about what could happen,” she said.

I can’t breathe.

During these times I am reminded of the disproportionate number of African American who have died of COVID-19. This is attributed to the lack of access to healthcare and poor diet from an early age.

I can’t breathe.

On May 31, Pentecost Sunday, I went to church, my first time since COVID-19 hit. I got a jolt as I listened to the gospel reading. Jesus came into the room where the disciples were and he breathed on them. The breath, the Spirit of God, filled the room. The same Spirit that came on Jesus as he began his public ministry.

The Spirit that sent him out to

bring good news to the poor
liberty to captives
sight to the blind
let the oppressed go free

The happenings of the last few weeks are fresh on my mind. George Floyd’s last breath is now somehow connected with the breath, the Spirit, that Jesus breathed on the disciples.

The Spirit that