Davka Daze

(Old Man At Sea, Open Edition, by Mark Ludy) I recently turned 40 years old. As a Millennial man, I assume that I'll be lucky to make it another 40 years. This true mid life has prompted a crisis, of sorts. Because I never expect to live this long in the first place. Like many young people, I thought I'd live fast forever in death as a beautiful corpse. So when I didn't, I wasn't sure how to react. I fell in love, graduated college, started a career, got married, had children, bought a house, graduated college again, and before I knew it I was here. Exactly where I wanted to be and exactly where I never expected to find myself. A good life with good people and good works. (Even as the world at large descends into madness, corruption, and strife.) It's a privilege built on survival, tenacity, and sheer luck. So many other people in my life didn't make it. They lost something, someone, or even themselves, in whole or in part. I thought that was my fate. I assumed ...

I waited to post until now. I wanted to sit with my feelings about the first official Steven Taylor Day this past April 18, 2021. The day commemorated not his murder by SLPD, but rather his life as a father, a son, a grandson, an artist, an SLHS alumnus, and so much more. He was a human being. His life mattered. It was self-evident, inherent. His worth was more than 40 seconds or $40 dollars of generic retail items. However, because he was a Black man, mentally ill, and homeless, he was discarded, disregarded, callously calculated as less than and less deserving than. Sadly, his story is not unique or even rare. It's why Steven Taylor Day was also made into a memorial for every life, every victim, every survivor, every family touched by police violence. It’s a reminder that racism is not a bygone era or fringe feeling. It was built into the foundations of our nation, intertwined within our institutions, our values, our way of life. So, yes, I wanted to sit with it, because so much ...