Breathing, It’s not negotiable. It simply is a thing we (sentient beings and the like) must do to live. In this early part of 2020—pandemic times—taking a breath is very much on the minds of most humans roaming the earth. During our current health crisis, black and brown people have been ceasing to breathe at a criminally higher rate than any other color in this country. And now today, yesterday, and every day before that since Monday evening, we’ve been reminded how the monster deciding whether you are allowed to pass air through your lungs is not only an invisible one named Covid-19 and substandard health care, but also a visible murderer wearing a uniform and under a shield of law. None of this is new. Taken one at a time, that is a devastatingly depressing fact. But when these two facts come together at the same time, my own breath goes ragged with a mix of bone-weary sadness, confused impotence, and vendetta rage.

Words. Under (and I do mean under, since it often feels crushing) our current administration, words have become triggers, dog whistles, empty, dangerous. The man who has defiled the term president of the united states fashions them into sharp objects and bullying machines on the regular. Filling socks with sentence upon poisonous sentence and beating us with them, so that even if they don’t always leave visible marks, they do bring about deep purple and blue bruises that he makes sure to press and knead so that we won’t ever relax. A constant intake of short, sharp breaths guaranteed to deplete oxygen. I’m sure he hopes we’ll just become light-headed and confused, then nod our heads and forget to go to the polls to vote him out of office. And so we have to continue to breathe. Dodge his blows when possible. De-inflate his hateful words.

Words. One of the last George Floyd was able to say before his trachea was crushed by the policeman kneeling on his neck and he died was “Momma.”

I’m just going to step away here for a minute until my eyes aren’t blurry.

“Momma.”

Our comfort. The person, place, or thing where we can lay our heads, be held, be heard. At a time when the kind of human touch that reminds us of our humanity, our needs, our comfort is considered dangerous and to be distanced by six feet, finding the connection … how does it happen? And to express the anger that has to come. How does that happen? Having been sure all my life that once my anger was released, that it would blow like Vesuvias and never stop, it’s been an ongoing project for me to understand how to use it without getting buried by it. When I aim it toward something large and banner-march worthy, I join my voice with others and yell and it feels good and right. Power in numbers. Strength in movement. Of course now, the irony is that shoulder-to-shoulder, aerosol-droplet shouting is a danger zone, yet I see people going there. And even as my emotions react to their bare faces and I hope for them health, I am in sad awe and frustrated respect.

But what else? What else can we do as a collective to breathe life into some goodness right now? This was a powerful thing to see: a man expressing and a newscaster inviting him to go there. On Monday night, June 1, at 8:24 PM, central daylight time, I’m planning on taking a deep breath, and being silent 8 minutes 46 seconds in honor of George Floyd and all the people who have fought for breath.