There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.” – J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

As of this posting, the novel coronavirus, COVID-19, has killed hundreds of thousands worldwide. It has sickened millions. It has rocked governments and brought the global economy to its knees. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. While there may be small pockets of people blissfully unaware of the pandemic we are facing, anyone connected enough to be reading this little blog is well aware of the virus behind quarantines and social distancing and shortages and unemployment and so much fear. For months it felt as though the world had ground to a halt.

And then on May 25, George Floyd, a 46 year old Black man, was murdered by Derek Chauvin, a white Minneapolis police officer. When the video of a smug Chauvin kneeling on George Floyd’s neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds was released, America wasn’t busy with graduation parties or heading off for summer vacations. America wasn’t packed into baseball stadiums or waiting in lines at theme parks. Because of COVID-19 restrictions, America had nothing but time. And America was damn sure paying attention. The murder of George Floyd occurred on the same day that a white woman in Central Park called police on a Black birder after he asked that she leash her dog. And it followed the March 13 shooting death of Breonna Taylor in Louisville, KY by plain clothes officers executing a no-knock warrant. It followed the February lynching of Ahmaud Arbery, a Black man out for a run; despite clear video evidence, Gregory McMichael (a former cop) and his son Travis McMichael were not arrested until May, and only then after a public outcry demanded it. It followed the murders of so many Black Americans at the hands of white cops over too many years. George Floyd’s murder was a breaking point. In America, the quiet of quarantine was replaced by the roar of reckoning.

I have found that I often feel small in big moments. Torn between the desire to take action and a heavy sense of insignificance, a momentary paralysis binds me. And so it is no surprise that my desire to join protesters has become all sorts of tangled with my fear of becoming a vector for COVID-19. Images of Americans of all races, ages, and genders standing up to police brutality makes my heart swell with pride and love. But there is also shame. Shame that I am not among them. Shame that I am choosing to follow social distancing guidelines over standing up to state-sponsored violence. Shame that, as an introvert by nature, I am perhaps even relieved to have the pandemic as an excuse to not join the masses.

But, truth is, shame is a pretty useless emotion. It gives little to work with and can weigh one down with inertia. It’s not a place any one should reside for long. And so I acknowledged the shame and then I got busy picking it apart. I deconstructed it. I assessed its components. And I discovered there was never any reason for it in the first place.

The pandemic is real. It may feel less so at the moment, as the country is beginning to open back up. But the reopening is happening against the advice of medical professionals. Around the world, countries that began to relax restrictions are tightening them again after a surge in cases. And in the United States, Black Americans have been sickened and killed by COVID-19 in disproportionately high numbers. My refusal to participate in activities that could worsen the spread is in and of itself a form of activism (albeit one that outwardly appears to be inaction).

As an introvert, my preferred position will always be outside of a roiling mass of other bodies. That’s not to say there isn’t value in moving beyond comfort zones (as a yogi, breathing into discomfort is an intentional practice for me, both on and off the mat), but it is acknowledging that we aren’t all meant to lead the way with bullhorns. I am starting to realize that my original sense of helplessness originated from an erroneous belief that activism must be loud. Because my natural instinct isn’t to take to the streets, I had mistakenly assumed that I had nothing to offer. I see now that I couldn’t have been more wrong. My activism has just always been of a quiet sort. I have always funneled my rage into words. My words may not be shouted rhyming chants. They may not be accompanied by witty signs. But my words have always been backed by deeply rooted convictions. Throughout my life, I have never shirked from speaking truth to power. I recall being told to “stop being such a goddamn idealist, Chrissy” when, as a young anti-racist, I spoke out against the parental use of a racial slur. I recall fifteen or so years ago when I made it clear to my partner’s father that his racist diatribes would not be tolerated under our roof. And just last month, when a manager used the term “China virus” to refer to COVID-19 in an official work email, I was quick to respond to him with my thoughts on that. And while I absolutely admire the protesters and know that their actions and sacrifices are the battering ram that’s required to break through systemic racism and state-sponsored violence, I also believe that those of us making quiet stands – speaking out against racism in our families, standing up to authority figures in the office, educating ignorant friends, educating ourselves – are laying the foundation and framework that are necessary for true social justice to take hold.

Let’s not forget the money. Let’s not pretend it doesn’t matter. Because it does. What do you care about? I care deeply about the mission of the ACLU. And so I donate. While my small donations are barely a drop in the bucket, every drop counts. I care about unbiased and non-commercial news reporting and television programming, so I donate monthly to my local NPR and PBS stations. Again, not large sums. But something. And in this past week, I’ve contributed a small amount to a local bail fund. To be clear, I’m not looking for a pat on the back, nor am I attempting to spin myself as some high dollar philanthropist. No, I say this as a reminder, both to you, Reader, and to myself, that voting with your dollar is impactful. It is activism. It may not be glamorous. It won’t end with you being dragged off in cuffs before a news crew. But it will provide critical resources to those with the skills to facilitate real change.

To those taking to the streets, breaking curfews, facing down police in riot gear, getting tear gassed, getting arrested, getting bloodied, risking your lives: Thank you. You are representative of all that is good in our country. You make me proud to be American. You give me hope that we will come out of this stronger.

And to my fellow quiet activists: Thank you. You’re making a difference. Real change happens in small steps, one hard conversation at a time. Your actions are not without danger or sacrifice. You may not be risking tear gas or a police baton, but you are likely risking relationships. What you are doing takes great courage. And it matters, even if only one other person sees it. What you are doing is worth it.

Fight on.

Quietly.