After an incendiary Rose Garden speech on Monday— in which he threatened to deploy the military if mayors and state governors refused to call out the National Guard to end protests of police brutality — President Donald Trump crossed Lafayette Park to pose for pictures while holding a Bible in front of the historic St. John Episcopal Church. Before his photo op, police used tear gas and rubber bullets to clear peaceful protesters from the park, which stands between the White House and the church.
In more than 60 cities across the country, people stopped on June 1 to remember the more than 100,000 people who have died from COVID-19 as part of a National Day of Mourning and Lament.
"There are white supremacists, there are anarchists, there are people who are burning down the institutions that are core to our identity and who we are," Flanagan said, pointing to Migizi, a nonprofit organization serving Native American youth, which was trashed and its historical archives destroyed amid the protests. " ... We need to create the space for people to be able to grieve, to come together, to mourn the loss of George Floyd, but in order to be able to do that, we need to create the space to remove the people who are doing us harm."
The nation must be given the chance to mourn, lament, and remember the dead.
Derek Chauvin, the Minneapolis police officer who is seen on a bystander's cellphone video kneeling on George Floyd's neck on Monday, has been charged with third-degree murder in Floyd's death, according to Mike Freeman, Hennepin County attorney.
As a person of peace, “Big Floyd” opened up ministry opportunities in the Third Ward housing projects.
The economic downturn is shaping up to be particularly devastating for renters, who are more likely to be lower-income and work hourly jobs cut during the pandemic.
As we pass the horrifying milestone of 100,000 American deaths to the coronavirus, we’re using the hashtag #Lament100k to urge people to pause — to lament.
I was never concerned that there could be consequences for crossing a main road that separated our immediate neighborhood from the adjacent one, or that the Confederate flags I passed along my route might be intended as a “no trespassing” sign for people who looked like me. I wasn’t Ahmaud. Scores of childhood friends donned camo and lugged military-style toy rifles from yard to yard as we replayed World War II battles. No one worried a police officer, or a neighborhood vigilante, patrolling our streets would mistake us for a real threat. We weren’t Tamir Rice or Trayvon Martin.
I can remember when it first happened — when my dungeon shook and my chains fell off. I had recently gone through a horrible experience and felt there was nowhere to turn, no one who could give voice to my ache, my pain, and my rage.