Code Pink Journals CodePINK Journals

Work 4 Peace,Hold All Life Sacred,Eliminate Violence! I am on my mobile version of the door-to-door, going town-to-town holding readings/gatherings/discussions of my book "But What Can I Do?" This is my often neglected blog mostly about my travels since 9/11 as I engage in dialogue and actions. It is steaming with my opinions, insights, analyses toward that end of holding all life sacred, dismantling the empire and eliminating violence while creating the society we want ALL to thrive in

Saturday, July 04, 2015


I’m here & I begin my sequestered attempts at finishing my book, But What Can I do?

My journey began at the San Francisco airport last nite when I attempted to get on the last direct flight of the day to Atlanta.

When I got there, about 7 people were in front of me with 9 seats available – but people not on the list kept being cleared as the number of seats available slowly diminished.

By the time the plane left at 11:15, there were 3 peeps in front of me… I didn’t make that plane.
The next plane was going at 12:30am to Minneapolis – 13 seats and I’m number 11. I got on and got a window seat – I had forgotten how much easier it is to sleep a little in a window seat as I normally fly with Mujasi who HAS to have the window seat.

I arrived at the gate in Minneapolis at 5:30 and my plane for Atlanta was leaving at 6:15 – I had to hurry thru a couple of walkways but made it to a half-empty plane. This time I got a large "oversized" seat by myself in the row of 3!

Arriving in the terminal the red white & blue is almost blinding. If I had spaced the 4th of da lie day, it certainly wasn’t for long.

Pushing thru the starred and striped crowd, escaping onto an almost empty Marta I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a large extremely boisterous group of mostly white people all decked in red, white and blue, with permed hair, caked make-up running in the heat like uncooked batter, and smelling like cheap aftershave and avon lotion.

I curse myself for bringing so much luggage making it impossible to easily navigate the crowd and seek another car. I comfort myself with the thought that it’s only 6 quick stops.

I buried my head in my book, determined to ignore their ra ra ra god love amerikkka freedom cries...grrrr unless they stepped over the line.

Finally at my daughter's, I hang out with her and my grandson, stock up on vitals for my isolated writing home, and share our last meal together before I leave.

Driving thru Atlanta to get on the freeway north, several cars honk and wave. Quickly leaving the city behind, I try not to see the infrequent but gigantic confederate flags on buildings, back of pick-up trucks, and front lawns, the frequency of which increases the closer I get to womyn's land, as my heart sinks rapidly.

Turning off the freeway and navigating thru the mountains that share a border between Alabama  and Georgia, I’m further disheartened to see brand new signs “Pray For Our Nation” with a Corinthian? chapter and verse under it. I remember seeing these signs when Obama was elected & I'm thinking they went up again when the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage.

Pulling onto the last stretch of the country road that will take me to this womyn’s land, huge confederate flags mar the beautiful lush green forest – one house even has a flag pole in the middle of a giant pick-up truck with a confederate flag that must drape over the windshield when the driver slows down…

I wonder instantly if the white womyn of this land even notice their neighbors hostile signs and racist flags.
And I wonder about coming to the south to finish my book.

Well dah....everyone knows it's better to be white...

I’m with my grandson in the parking lot of Sevananda pushing him in the grocery cart heading for the store when the sun bursts out of the overcast skies, toasting us with hot, bright rays. He holds out his arm, looking down at it, urging me to hurry – not because the moist warm air bathing us is suddenly hot as hell but because he declares he doesn’t want to get any darker.

Now here is a little boy who has the most beautiful golden brown skin ever, a boy whose mom is half black, half white and whose sperm donor is Black; a boy who lives in a house full of Black people, a neighborhood that is predominantly Black, a boy who went to an Afro-centric school one of his pre-school years, a Black Montessori school for his other pre-school year, and for first grade to a home school that is all Black. He is on a Black soccer team with a Black coach and all his friends are Black.

A boy for whom Black is the “norm” in his every day life, and who should be Black and proud – a boy who at three years old claimed he was white and vehemently denied he is Black. But when I asked him what it means to be white, he looked confused and couldn’t put into words what it meant to him.

 When he was four, he proudly and confidently confided in me that he is now “peach”.  He then told me that when white people want to be dark they go out into the sun.

Next, he holds his arm up to me and asks me what do dark people do to be white?

Now at 6 years old, in the parking lot with me encouraging him to embrace the sun’s rays, he wistfully tells me that he wishes he is white and when I ask why, he turns his black sad eyes on me and tells me something like I should know: it is better to be white.