The Unyeilding Pursuit of Freedom
by Andrea Fisher
“A genuine feminist politics always brings us from bondage to freedom, from lovelessness to loving.”
-Bell Hooks
It was the time of COVID-19 when the world came to a halt. We were still in shock, not knowing how to process the events unfolding before us. Images of mass graves across the globe entered our living rooms, while trailers lined up as makeshift morgues in my city of New York. We had moved here only seven months before, and like everyone else—we just waited.
Then came the brutal murder of George Floyd—a racist act of violence. Like many others, I sobbed as I watched this play out on YouTube. I felt the wound with every pore of my being. Dragging my body like a dead weight from room to room throughout our apartment, I went through the motions of my day. I desperately wanted to march to express my grief and outrage, but I feared being in close contact with the protesters because of my husband’s compromised health. So, I did what felt second best. I made a sign from a large piece of corrugated cardboard, ripped from a Poland Spring carton; I wrote with the only pen I could find, George Floyd’s final words: “I CAN’T BREATHE!”
I cried and walked; it was all I could do. Wandering the desolate city streets as a ghost, I held my tattered sign in front of me, where it seemingly floated on its own. Occasionally, a passerby stopped to request a selfie with me and my sign. It felt weird. But sensing their solidarity, I positioned my makeshift sign front and center, and at the click of the camera, we said our goodbyes. There was no exchange of hashtags, no conversations. Just a glimmer of light shared with a passing stranger.
I come from a family of freedom fighters; a path has been laid before me. My father joined the United States Marine Corps, as a teenager, with the intention of stopping the Nazis. Although he worked his way up the ranks to Staff Sergeant, while fighting from island to island in the Pacific, he would refuse to collect a medal for having rescued his troops in battle. The pain of taking human lives was too great for him to accept a reward. My dad is my hero.
My British mum tells me that her father had lied about his age to enlist in the First World War. He was only 16, but he loved his England. Seduced by a wave of patriotism, he joined his fellow Brits in the trenches. The trauma would stay with him throughout his life. I remember the pain in my chest the day I found out that he once attempted suicide. Had I known this when he was alive, I would have hugged him tighter. Though my beloved grandpa rarely spoke of the war, he told of a prayer service where dark-skinned, Moroccan soldiers were relegated to back rows, separated from the others—a disturbing image he never forgot. I could envision him—a person of the highest integrity—concerned for others while trying to survive the surreal nightmare of war.
My mum carries his baton by wearing her social conscience as a badge of honor. A poet-activist, her weapon, like mine, is words. No stranger to war, she grew up in London under the constant threat of Hitler’s warplanes, where she witnessed the devastation first-hand. Ninety-five and sharp as a tack, she recalls remarkable stories, including those of her first cousin—and best friend—Martin Block, whose fight for freedom was relentless. Martin was horrified to have returned home, after serving in WWII, to a post-war London infiltrated by white supremacists. Far-right rhetoric of the prominent fascist politician, Oswald Mosley, had spurred an onslaught of violence on the streets of his city. Impelled to act, Martin, one of 43 ex-servicemen and women, formed the collective known as the 43 Group. With Martin in the leadership role of Central London Area Commander, they stormed fascist party rallies, causing enough disturbance to thwart their evil plans. My mum remembers her cousin leaving the house after dark, stepping onto streets where safety had faded into obscurity. “It wasn’t clear where he was going,” she says, “but the feeling of danger was overwhelming”. Martin’s mother remained behind weeping in a chair, often consoled by her sister, my grandmother. There was no peace until her son returned home. He and his brave comrades risked their lives fighting fascism.
Although my little protest did not put my life at risk, as my family fought for freedom, my resolve to speak out against hatred and abuse was strengthened by those who came before me. While marching alone through vacant streets with vacant eyes, alongside the ghosts of my ancestors, I felt part of the ripple of goodness that weaves through humanity. That ripple—hat wave—is the spark of light that sustains me.
I write this today, while the world—once again—is ravished by war. The cries from those who are suffering, innocent people on all sides, are drowned out by cries for revenge. I want to scream. Why can’t we see that the enemy, the real enemy, is hatred? And when nurtured, it continues to infest humanity, searching for hosts and multiplying like a pandemic.
I see myself as if in a dream: I am standing in front of a mile-long glass wall, and I am screaming as loud as I can. My hands press hard on its cold surface, and all I can see are the patterns from the fog of my breath misting the glass. Streams of light surround me before moving toward the transparent wall. The light must reach the other side because only on that other side can we truly see and hear one another. Somewhere in that space, we discover answers to our questions.
The prolific poet/author, Bell Hooks, understood the complexity and depth of healing from personal and societal trauma. With dignity and brilliance, she wrote, “A genuine feminist politics always brings us from bondage to freedom, from lovelessness to loving.”
Assuredly, our work is cut out for us.
BIO: Formerly a dancer and choreographer, Andrea Fisher is a writer living in New York. Awarded Honorable Mention in the Memoirs/Personal Essay category of the 92nd Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition, 2023, her poem “The Reply" was published in Cathexis Northwest Press, March 2024.