There’s an image in my head of two long lines of people, stretching off in different directions. In one line are the people who believe torturing our enemies is okay. And that police officers who shoot unarmed black men are just doing their job. The people in the other line — let’s call it the Sob Sister line — think differently.

Few things in life are black and white but it seems I can only stand in one of those lines so here I am in the Sob Sister line and as I look around, I don’t recognize most of the people in this line. But there are so many familiar faces in that other line. People I grew up with. People I worked with. Of course I think I’m in the “right” line, but so do all those people in the other line.

Up and down the line people are shouting back and forth, pretending to have a “conversation.” (Boy, I hate that word) But that’s not what’s really happening. Here’s what I think is really going on.

If the people in the Other line are right, then I must be wrong. Being wrong about really important stuff like torture and shooting people goes right to the core of who I am. Scary stuff.

Here’s my dilemma: I’m having trouble meeting the gaze of people I know in the Other line. They want to talk. To explain why I’m in the wrong line and persuade me to join them. But I smile awkwardly and look away, convinced nothing good can come from such “conversations.” Ideas, and the words we use to express them, are losing their power and meaning for me. They’re just sounds. Like those dogs whose owners think they can speak or sing. I’m focusing more these days on what I do. Actions seem like real things to me.

Am I being cowardly? Maybe. And I haven’t pefected my Stand Mute strategy yet. It’s difficult to be silent. To be still. But here I am in the Sob Sister line, hands in my pockets. Lips tight, eyes straight ahead.

UPDATE: My analogy is flawed. We need more than two lines. Not a third line, maybe, but a place for people to stand who aren’t comfortable in the two lines I described above. Picture that big infield area at the Indy 500.

These folks believe there are times when a police officer might have to shoot (12 times) an unarmed suspect. You have to look at the facts of each case and try to put yourself in the shoes of the officer. And clearly there are time when torture is justified. If a kidnapper has buried your family alive out in the desert and the only way you could save them was to torture the guy, wouldn’t you do it? Of course you would. So, see? You have to take each case on its merits. I don’t belong in either of your lines. Life’s not that cut and dried. Now. What did I miss?

As I reached the intersection of Madison and High Streets yesterday, I saw — and heard — them. Maybe two dozen young men and women, all college age. And all black. They were striding purposefully down the street, led by a young man with a bullhorn, leading the group in now familiar chants (“Hands up! Don’t shoot!” “No justice, no peace!”).

They were students at Lincoln University and obviously headed to a rally at the state capitol a block a way. As they passed I asked one young man if it would be okay for me to walk along with them and he handed me a small cardboard sign, printed with the hashtag #BLACKLIVESMATTER.

As we moved on to the capitol grounds we could see other groups on the steps and a few organizers in orange vests directed us toward the doors leading into the capitol rotunda. Folding chairs were set up on the floor and lots of folks stood on the staircase leading up to the second floor. Others looked down from the floors above. A few white faces. Not many. Mostly young, a few older.

I saw police officers directing traffic. Missouri Highway Patrol officers at some of the entrances to the capitol and what I assumed were members of the capitol police force in the rotunda area. But they were dressed as police officers. No riot gear. And the ones I saw seemed intent on keeping a low profile. They didn’t appear to be expecting trouble.

A young woman standing next to me had a sign showing news images of black men who had been killed by police officers. Her sign was affixed to a small, child size, wooden baseball bat. She was using it to hold her sign. An officer came up and quietly —and politely— explained to her that the bat wasn’t allowed inside the capitol because it could be used as a weapon. She nodded and the officer went away and came back a minute later with a pair of scissors the young woman used to remove her sign from the bat. The officer pointed toward one of the doors where she could retrieve the bat when she left. And she simply held her sign up with both hands for the rest of the event. A simple thing that could have been fucked up… but wasn’t.

I sensed some tension between the older people in attendance, represented by the NAACP, and a group of younger protestors who had been on the streets in Ferguson when things got ugly. Those who spoke expressed frustration, anger, sadness. I wasn’t expecting any “I have a dream” rhetoric but I found myself wondering if this movement would have a Dr. King. Or a Malcolm X, or Stokely Carmichael.

Following the event I struck up a conversation with an older (my age) gentleman and mentioned Dr. King. He looked me in the eye and quietly said, “Martin Luther King is dead.”

As I thought about that later it dawned on me that Dr. King and the civil right movement are historical events for young black people. Like slavery or the Civil War. Important, but a long time ago. And I had the clear sense the NAACP has lost most of its relevance.

I tried to listen to the speakers but the sound system and the acoustics were awful. So I read the signs people were holding. “No justice, no peace!” “This is what democracy looks like.” “Hands up, don’t shoot!” “#BLACKLIVESMATTER.”

They do.

I suspect many people feel awkward when they find themselves stopped a few feet from a — what is the correct term — panhandler? Beggar seems harsh. Let’s go with panhandler. As you coast up the exit ramp you silently hope you make the light or get stuck far enough down the ramp to avoid having to engage with the man/woman. (“Can you help a brother out?”)

In my experience, most panhandlers let their handmade cardboard sign communicate their message/plea. In cities, however, I gather they can be more aggressive. Is this encounter as awkward for the “asker” as the “askee?”

I frequently make a donation, not always. But when I find myself stopped a few feet away, I usually smile and make a little chit-chat, even when I don’t give money. And while I’m sure they’d rather have a fiver, most smile back and seem to appreciate the interaction (my imagination? phony?).

It would be easy to become invisible to the hundreds of drivers that pass each day. Perhaps you’d rather hear “Get a job!” than endure that strained silence.

I don’t worry too much about my levi’s being the right length but I’m pretty sure I’m in the minority on this fashion point. I rarely (almost never!) see pants that are too short (“high waters” Barb calls ’em) but frequently see pants all chewed up and frayed from dragging the ground. Women seem very prone to this, even nice slacks… all worn and dirty from dragging the sidewalk.

Serious motorcycle dudes give careful attention to this fashion aspect and many — I suspect — have their Levi’s tailored to ride one-quarter inch above the ground.

Baseball players peg the goofy-meter. You couldn’t pay me to watch a baseball game so I don’t lose any sleep over this but would imagine players sometimes fall down because their pants are 18 inches too long. That would be fun to watch.

So can someone explain this fashion mystery?