All Things Being Equal
by Bailey Gaylin Moore
When I tell my mom that the Arkansas art museum is opening to members for private viewing, she offers to put us up in a hotel. She says she’s been worried about D these past few weeks, and it’s the least she can do. To make her feel better, I tell her we’ll think about it.
D and I do the math later in the evening, calculating the expense of gas and food and debating whether it is worth a few hours of peace. I say it may be nice to see the Hank Willis Thomas exhibit again, pointing out how we felt rushed with the amount of people on Valentine’s Day. I add, “It may feel powerful to see it, considering everything happening.” D says okay, as long as Beck - my son - is interested in going again.
Over Instagram, I ask my fourteen-year-old if he’s down to see Crystal Bridges in a couple days. He responds, “Bet,” and I have to ask D if this means yes. D nods, laughing, and for a moment, the weight of the protests and social media feeds isn’t clinging to the conversation. For a handful of seconds, my mind isn’t lingering on the dangers that come with D being a black man in Missouri.
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Before dating D, I never recognized the way white people could overcompensate out of guilt, or the amount of microaggressions that come with any given outing. As a white person, I convinced myself I never needed to. Now, it’s less often he’ll need to point out these moments, which even follow us to the quiet visit to Crystal Bridges. On our way in, a couple in their seventies exit, and as we approach, their eyes move toward D. The woman smiles hard beneath her mask, enough to make the fabric move with her mouth. White people have been smiling at D a lot lately. Though it’s not necessarily wanted, the attention that comes with white guilt is preferred to the microaggressions – moments like when the security guard sees us and nods, but then hesitates as we continue our way to the front doors. We’ve already walked past him when he asks whether we are members. We turn around, confirm we are. Even then, his eyebrows narrow. Soon enough he will see our reserved tickets confirmed at the entrance.
I sigh a big, “Wowwwwww.”
Beck asks why the security guard questioned us.
D laughs – says it’s because we don’t look like anyone else here. “I like that we don’t look like anyone here,” he adds. “It’s kind of cool.”
But the security guard gets under my skin, his question carrying with me through the museum as we cross paths with other members — all of them over sixty, and white. Some smile beneath masks, and we smile back. Their gaze doesn’t recoil out of apology when our eyes meet. Under some masks, lips tighten, as if asking who we are – what was our story? The answer is two Ph.D. students and a mother’s son. The answer is a family trying to find some breath.
The stares are the most obvious in the Hank Willis Thomas exhibit, All Things Being Equal. One installation consists of five televisions. James Baldwin flickers across the screens, sometimes separately, sometimes all at once. We sit six feet away from woman already watching; another woman joins, standing off to side. Together, we watch the James Baldwins reflect on being black in America. When the screens grow quiet, the Baldwins sigh, each taking a puff on his cigarette. I notice how each woman, at some point, glances in D’s direction, perhaps half out of apology, perhaps half out of wondering what is going through his mind.
The three of us break off in the next part of the Thomas exhibit. D drifts towards the pieces encouraging flash photography. I hear an attendant explain how, if he takes a photo with flash, the photo will reveal parts of a narrative previously invisible. On the surface, one piece shows a black protestor standing still, both hands offering a peace sign. The flash of a camera reveals police in full military garb, restraining two German Shepherds lunging, teeth bared.
On the other side, I catch Beck staring at Two Little Prisoners, which is a simple but unnerving design. The piece is a large mirror with a superimposed image of a police officer kneeling beside two black boys — one holding a crime booking-card, which reads “24841.” Beck’s face hovers just above the boys’ faces, and he studies his reflection implicated in its history. Until he catches me watching him. Through the mirror, he looks back at me and waves.
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The security guard nods again whenever we make our way back to the car. I try not to carry the irritation with me on the drive back home. Instead, the three of us each take turns with our favorite art of the day.
When I ask D if it was worth the trip, he says, “Definitely,” without a pause.
Over the next few weeks, conversations surrounding the protests and police militarization will grow heavier, and I will find myself going back to our car ride home – a reminder that, even in the midst of massing chaos and rising tension, my partner can find moments of definite peace. And that’s reason enough to push through to the next day, and the days which follow, in hopes that conversations won’t be forgotten – in hopes we continue to learn.
Bailey Gaylin Moore is an Ozarks-based writer and Ph.D. student in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri - Columbia. She serves as the Online Editor and Art Director of Past Ten, and she has work in or forthcoming in AGNI, Willow Springs, Hayden's Ferry Review, and Hobart. Learn more about Bailey here.
