One Too Many

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

We’ve all seen the Bernie memes popping up on our social media accounts. Bernie in Emily Dickinson’s bedroom in Amherst. Bernie on the set of “Schitt’s Creek.” And, my personal favorite, Bernie sitting alone in one of our local independent bookstores. I liked that one so much I reposted it as an Instagram story with the caption, “So nice of @berniesanders to be first in line for my 2022 book signing!”

Then I saw that D. L. Mayfield had commented on a Bernie meme. D.L. Mayfield is an activist and author of The Myth of the American Dream: Reflections on Affluence, Autonomy, Safety, and Power. She’s spent more than a decade working with refugee communities, so her comment got my attention. It went something like: Well, you know what my friend Shane says, ‘If you have an extra coat, you have one too many. Give one away.‘ All of a sudden Bernie’s worn-out coat and mittens took on new meaning.

I thought of the nearly new pink dress coat I’d bought on impulse. And the two raincoats I’d held onto for walking Fiona, our rescue. Fiona passed away in October and I really don’t need that pink coat. So I’m giving them away.

Our parents grew up poor and taught us to care for the less fortunate. My oldest brother, Lawrence, was involved in the Civil Rights movement in the mid-to-late sixties. (My memoir, Untethered, tells the story of Lawrence and his tragic death in 1971 at the age of twenty-three.)

I didn’t get involved in social justice until I was in my fifties. In 2010, I went to Capitol Hill with a group of women to gather signatures for a bill drafted by then-Senator Hillary Clinton calling for a special envoy to Congo. We got the needed signatures and an envoy was appointed. It was empowering.

In the years that followed, I signed petitions, called Congress, and even marched a few times. But I was working and raising children and my activism waned. Then, in 2018, I received an envelope of letters from a close friend of Lawrence’s. She’d been looking for me for years so she could send me the half-dozen letters he’d written her in high school and college.

I was so grateful for this package covered in colorful stamps. I stared at it for several days before opening it. Just seeing Lawrence’s handwriting stirred up my grief.

One particular letter caught my attention. Sarah* told me he’d written it to her while sitting in the back of a bus coming home from a trip to New York City. Lawrence had failed to show up for a recent march and he was upset with himself. It’s dated March 27, 1965.

“Two or three weeks ago in Raleigh, a march of Negroes (Note: the word “Negro” was commonly used in 1965) was made to the capitol in sympathy with the workers who had died in Alabama. I thought of marching but I was ‘afraid.’ I had too much to do. I should have gone but I ‘neglected thine inspirations’ (his relationship with God) . . . . On this basis, I make this promise. As long as one of God’s children is in bondage, oppressed, taunted, discriminated against or used, then I shall be at war with the oppressor.”

“The next time there is a freedom march for the Negro cause in Raleigh, I will march unless I am sick, in school, or dead.” He continued, “Anytime I hear of man’s inhumanity to man wherever it exists, I will stand up, speak out, and fight until freedom wins.”

I wept when I read these words. I’d become silent, and lazy, something privileged people do. Lawrence was sending a message to me: wake up, stand up, speak up. I got busy.

As our country begins a new chapter, there’s work to do. As for me, I have a few coats to give away.

*name changed

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