I don’t understand, but I want to

I spoke with a Black man today who said, “How can you help? Talk to white people. They won’t hear me.”

I spoke with a Hmong woman today who said, “I just need space to feel all of this right now. I’ll get over it, but not for a while.”

I spoke with a Black woman today who said, “I’m tired. I hope my boys stayed inside.”

I spoke with a Muslim woman today who said, “I’m terrified.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. Blonde, my hair getting even lighter as the summer sun begins its work. Blue eyes. Skin so pale my veins tend to show. Woman. Middle aged.

I looked out my window. The sunshine on waving green pastures with 30 cows doing cow things. A tractor. The barns. The cats. The picnic table. The pond. I opened the window and the twittering of birds filtered in. I heard the car on the main road a quarter mile away. A moo. A meow.

I spoke with a Black man today who said, “If only they had heard what that knee meant during the anthem.”

I spoke with a Hmong woman today who said, “There has always been tension between the Asian community and the African American community.”

I spoke with a Black woman today who said, “I’ll let you know when I’m home from work. I’ll be out past the curfew.”

I spoke with a Muslim woman today who said, “I’m going to pray for everyone.”

I can’t understand what it feels like to open my windows and smell the acrid smoke of burning buildings any more than that person can feel my anxiety about record-low corn prices. I can’t understand what it sounds like when Blackhawk helicopters grind through the night above my head any more than that person can understand how the crack of a gun sounds when we’re putting down our own livestock from illness. But we can try to picture it.

I don’t understand what it’s like to look back on a family tree that ends (or does it begin?) in slavery, many records lost over time. I don’t understand what it’s like to fear the police stopping me on the side of the road. I don’t understand growing up in poverty, with no school supplies or tools to do those science experiments. But I want to.

This is an acknowledgment of my privilege as a white woman who lives a comfortable life, insulated from the anger and hatred in the world. This is a declaration of my willingness to listen and hear the words of those who wish to speak. This is a promise that the Anoka County Historical Society will actively work to represent and share the stories of communities missing in our collections at this time. This is an invitation to you — that it begins with your story.

Rebecca Ebnet-Desens is the executive director of the Anoka County Historical Society.