The Fight to Breathe

It’s a weird time to be alive.

It’s a weird time to be breathing.

Because this virus keeps spreading across the world, carried by breath. You could inhale sickness and never know where it came from. You could exhale death and never know where it landed.

Because wildfire keeps spreading across the mountains in Tucson. Even far from the danger, we feel its burn in our eyes and throats as we breathe in the smoke.

Because violence keeps spreading across the U.S.

When you saw that an officer would block an unarmed man’s windpipe with the weight of his knee, did you feel your own throat tighten? When you saw how quickly police would turn on the people they’re supposed to protect, did you realize you were holding your breath?

When you remembered that air can still pass into your lungs, did you wonder what it means that you’re still breathing? And what we should do now?

Some raged against the injustice by smashing windows and starting fires. Some by showing up in the morning to pick up the pieces and sweep up the glass. Some by activism and art.

Tucson has a history of making art in response to tragedy, mosaics from shards.

After two nights of anger spilling into downtown Tucson streets, volunteers came to clean up.

Over boarded-up windows, they painted the Ben’s Bells symbol – that bright green flower shape with the words “be kind” in the center. If you’ve been to Tucson in recent years, you’ve seen it. But you might not know the project’s story, that it began as a way for founder Jeannette Maré to work through the grief of losing her son, Ben. She threw her energy into spreading kindness and making ceramic windchimes.

Art is helping us navigate this perplexing time too.

Black Lives Matter Tucson held a Celebration of Black Lives on the U of A campus with speakers and music. You can see videos of it on their Facebook page, including this transcendent dance performance by Na-il Ali Emmert.

There are new murals popping up around Tucson. One that feels particularly of the moment is by Camila Ibarra on the north wall of Hotel Congress. Her portrait of a face-mask-wearing Black woman with the words “Black Lives Matter” in her natural hair has this intensity, this electricity in every brushstroke.

Muralist Joe Pagac has been connecting Black artists with downtown Tucson walls. Several murals have already gone up at MSA Annex. I was walking Quijote around there the other day and got to meet one of the artists, To-Ree’-Nee’ Wolf, who was in the process of painting an extension to her mural.

A week after George Floyd’s death, there was a vigil in his honor outside The Dunbar Pavilion, an African American art and cultural center. There was a stage set up, where Tucsonans took turns at the mic, sharing stories of loved ones they’ve lost to police violence, about fearing for their children, about the need for grassroots change.

Because being Black in America – simply existing – puts you in more danger.

As nature photographer Gina Danza wrote, “Peace doesn’t come without worry, fear for Black womxn. There is never a moment where we can be fully at peace.”

We can’t let that continue to be the case.

The Enough is Enough vigil wrapped up with a moment of silence – actually 8 minutes and 46 seconds of silence – to remember George Floyd. As we lit candles or turned on cell phone lights to hold up, the speaker said, “When your arm starts getting tired, remember that at least you’re not on the ground with someone’s knee on your neck.”

Before leaving, people placed flowers and candles and handmade signs on a table in front of the stage, turning it into a kind of a shrine.

Of course, the fight is far from over.

There’s been some rain, but the fire in the Catalinas isn’t out yet. There was a short reprieve, but the virus is spreading quickly. There has been some progress, but the violence hasn’t stopped.

We need to look out for each other, make sure everyone can keep breathing.

We need to be kind.