Our faux peace: Whether in protests and flames, or parks and flowers, the hate lurks

Just got back from a morning walk in Murray Park, getting in my steps before the heat of the day.

While winding through paths alongside snowmelt-filled streams, flower beds, and enjoying the breeze and sunlight streaming through elms, maples, and evergreen trees, my faux peace was shattered by a drama playing out about 50 feet away on the street leading into the park.

Amid the past few days of riots and destruction nationwide, including in nearby Salt Lake City, it was the kind of scene that makes you stop: Police officers were slowing closing in on an agitated black man in his early 20s. The officers approached with their hands out, seeking to reassure the youth, even as they obviously feared the situation could go awry at any moment.

Another young black man, jogging shirtless, came to a halt next to me and we both watched. Nearby, a middle-aged Latina pulled out her smart phone and began taking video. An ambulance and squad car came to a halt nearby.

The tension was thick. Please, God, not another George Floyd incident, was the unspoken thought and prayer.

"What's going on here?" I mumbled to myself. The jogger answered that he knew.

Turned out he had called 911 because the person of interest, by now talking quietly but still visibly distraught, was being calmed by a paramedic, and two police officers. The jogger said that other man had approached him earlier, saying he "had to do something" about police brutality, and saying he was seeing too many white people in the park.

"I feel for my own people with what's happening," the jogger said. "But I feel for all people right now. He was talking all over the place [and] I thought he was about to hurt people, so I called.”

We shared a bit more, the jogger and I, as we continued to watch the police peacefully (thank God) gently take the young man toward the ambulance, perhaps to get him medical or psychiatric help.

I told my new jogging friend about how I worried for my grandchildren in Baltimore, where someday they may run afoul of a police officer for no reason other than their brown skins.  I had the same concern for their Cameroonian father, a naturalized citizen proud of military service as an Army Reserve Captain in the medical corps. Would my daughter, his wife and mother of my grandsons, likewise be targeted for her paler ancestry?

Here in Utah, where white supremacists have occasionally raised their ugly heads, I also worried for my daughter-in-law and grandson, both of Mexican heritage, amid this plague of mindless hate. 

He nodded. He, too, worried about family. We agreed that such hate made no sense. 

We stood quietly then, a few moments more. It was a snapshot of unity. Finally, we smiled sadly at each other and, after wishing each other safety, walked away.