why we’re still riding

Last Saturday, I took my bike down to Franklin Park for the Ride for Black Lives. Since last summer, a group of us have been meeting there for monthly protest rides through the streets of Boston. The rides began in the wake of George Floyd’s and Breonna Taylor’s deaths, and they have continued (with a winter hiatus) as the racial conversations in this country have shifted, quieted and occasionally flared up again.

This month’s ride drew a much smaller crowd: a few dozen instead of the several hundred we often had last summer. It was a hot day, and there were several other events happening at the same time; people are also taking vacations while they can. More worryingly, it seems some folks have simply moved on from wanting to talk or hear (or ride) about racial justice. (Though I know showing up to an event is far from the only way to participate.)

I often wonder if what we’re doing matters: if a bike ride (or five) will make any difference in the struggle for racial equality. For me personally, it’s often important and moving to show up and hear Black people share their experiences, but these rides are absolutely not about me. My partner is on the organizing committee, so of course I show up for him, too. But sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. If what we do matters at all.

Last week, our speakers were several young people who have worked with Bikes Not Bombs, which (among other things) trains young people in bike mechanics and leadership skills. I was astounded by their bravery in sharing with us, and their vulnerability in admitting how hard life can be when you’re a Black teenager. Their stories (and one poem) reminded me: we are riding because their lives, and other Black lives, matter.

One of the speakers talked about his experience in mostly white schools, how there are so many spaces where he doesn’t feel he can be himself. Another one said simply that his experience is probably “typical” for a Black teenager, and listed a few of the slights he’s received. And another read a poem called “Can You Hear Me?”, a river of spoken word urging us – the adults in the room – to listen to the teenagers we often overlook.

We ride – I was reminded – for them. For the students who spoke and the students we serve at ZUMIX, where I work, and my partner’s son, who leaves for college this week. We ride, and continue the conversation, so that these young people can be their full selves in a country that is theirs as much as it is mine. We are thinking about how to expand our work, starting with a backpack and school supply drive. (We would love your support, if you’re able.) We keep showing up because no matter what the headlines say, it is unjustly hard to be a Black person in this country, and that should change.

I have more of a personal stake in this than ever before: loving a Black man makes a difference, even when you already believe in justice and equality in the abstract. I am proud to stand beside my guy and the others who make these rides happen. I am humbled and honored to fight alongside them. And I – we – will keep doing the work. Which includes, but is in no way limited to, these rides.

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riding for Black lives

It’s been a hell of a year by any standards: a global pandemic; multiple murders and a distinct lack of justice for Black Americans; and an election nightmare that honestly makes me want to crawl into a cave until it is over. (Instead, I requested my mail-in ballot and will be working the polls again in November, because I believe small acts of civic engagement still matter.)

In that spirit, once a month this summer and fall, I’ve been taking my bike (on the train) down to Franklin Park, near the heart of the Black community in Boston and the starting point for the Rides for Black Lives.

I am – as I should be – there to show up and listen, and sometimes to help hand out water bottles. I am a white cis woman who has no direct experience of racism. (I am also an introvert who hates showing up alone to events involving big crowds, and a novice-ish cyclist who is still new to group rides, let alone protest rides. But neither of those things matter as much as the injustice and violence done to Black folks in this country.)

We gather around midday, and listen to a few speakers from communities of color before taking off. Congresswoman Ayanna Pressley and two Boston City Councilors, Michelle Wu and Andrea Campbell, have been among the speakers, as have Black folks who work in mental health, the cycling industry, community organizing and other areas. I learn something new every time I hear them speak, and I join in bearing witness to their stories.

The route is different every time: we’ve ridden to the Common, up to Nubian Square in Roxbury, even over to Cambridge. Sometimes we chant while we’re riding: Black Lives Matter. No justice, no peace. Say her name: Breonna Taylor. (That last one hit me in the gut, since we rode in September just days after the woefully inadequate grand jury verdict in Taylor’s case was handed down.)

I have heard other white folks say they’re “ready to be done” with protests, and I often question (to myself) what the rides will “accomplish” – whether they will effect any “real change.” I put those phrases in air quotes because I don’t think that’s ultimately the way to approach these rides. I don’t think the protests will stop until we have a more just and equitable world. I don’t think a protest ride is a box to check off, or a step on a ladder, or any other linear movement toward change. And I honestly don’t know, sometimes, what we accomplish other than simply saying: we are here. And we believe the violence and racism has to stop.

I am learning along with everyone else: trying to read and listen to voices different from my own. (This includes my Black partner, but it’s not his job to educate me.) I am showing up in small ways, where I can: donating to bail funds or the NAACP, supporting Black-owned bookstores. It’s not enough, and it’s better than nothing. It is a small part of the work that will be ongoing for my whole life.

We have to confront our own racist history, and our current biases, if we truly want a country that allows everyone to thrive. These rides are one small way for me to do that: to show up and listen and then add my voice to the chorus. I am new to both protest and anti-racist work, but I am here for it. And (at least) once a month, that work takes place on two wheels.

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