The Discomfort of Being a Guest
This week’s blog post is by Shannon Hanf. Shannon is a long time Harborista and a licensed social worker in Ohio.
As some (most? all?) of you know, the 4th Annual Harbor Retreat was just a few weeks ago. The retreat was held at a beautiful retreat center outside of Minneapolis. A group of seven of us decided to use our free time on Sunday to go into the city to visit George Floyd’s memorial.
If you’re unfamiliar with George Floyd and why he has a memorial, go Google him. I’ll wait.
It would be easy to stop right here and say, “I don’t know what we were expecting.” But that’s not true at all. We, a group of mostly white women, were prepared to spend time at the memorial praying, reflecting, thinking about the events that happened there and the movement that they started. We came prepared to financially support local businesses. And we expected to be mostly left alone while we did those things.
We were wrong.
I should mention here that all of the people I’m about to tell you about are Black. That’s an important thing to know as you keep reading. And I’m going to do my best to describe a very emotional experience in only (ok, mostly) factual terms.
As we approached the memorial, we were greeted by a woman who introduced herself as Krystal. Krystal said that she is an activist in the area. She mentioned that there are a number of homeless (her word) people in the area and invited us to support them financially. It is the Year of Our Lord 2026, so exactly none of us had cash. Krystal said that the group’s Venmo had been hacked but that there was an ATM inside the store–the store just a few steps from where George Floyd died.
Krystal encouraged us to take a few moments to take it all in and to take photos. As we were looking around, a gentleman introduced himself as Maestro and said that he takes care of the flowers and plants that are part of the memorial. He told us where we could find a cash jar and Venmo code if we’d like to contribute to his work.
As we were trying to take in the significance of what happened on the ground where we stood, we were approached by a man named Marquise Bowie who called himself a Tourist Interruptor. Marquise asked us why we were there, where we were from, and if we had visited the sites where Black folks had been killed by police in our home states. Some of us had, but it became clear pretty quickly that there were no right answers to Marquise’s questions.
At that point, Krystal asked us if we’d like a tour of the art in the area. We accepted. She led us away from the art to Say Their Names Cemetery, a memorial to the hundreds of Black men, women, and children killed by police. Two of us went down to where the artificial gravestones were to read the names. The others stayed with Krystal, spending all of the time in that area trying to figure out which app to use to compensate her for her time.
We headed back towards the memorial when another gentleman asked if we’d like a tour. This man was King Demetrius Pendleton, a photojournalist who documented the aftermath of George Floyd’s death in painful, beautiful detail. We had hoped to see him and visit his studio as part of our time in the area. Demetrius offered rest in his air conditioned studio, cold water, and a clean bathroom. He introduced us to George Floyd’s aunt, Angela Harrellson, when she popped in. Demetrius and Angela welcomed us to the area and talked about the importance of people visiting the memorial and bearing witness to George’s life and death. Several of us purchased prints and books from Demetrius to support his work.
As we headed back to our vehicles to get back to the retreat center for dinner, Marquise re-emerged to ask us what we’d seen and learned. Again, there didn’t seem to be any right answers. As we left, he handed out his business cards, which included a Venmo link.
What we didn’t get to do in the time we spent in the area was what we went there to do – spend time in the place where George drew his last difficult breaths, reflecting on the significance of who he was and how he came to represent an entire movement.
We left with a lot of questions. Were we, a group of mostly white people, welcome in that space? And if so, was our reason for being there important, or was it our money that mattered? Were some of the people we met exploiting the site of George’s death to put money in their pockets? Who gets to decide if that’s an ok thing for them to do? Not us, that’s for sure.
While parts of the whole experience were enjoyable, the overall feeling was one of discomfort, at least for me. It’s rare that I, a white woman, am in a minority group. My motives are rarely questioned. I am welcomed in most spaces. That was not the case that day. It was uncomfortable, and I was a bit resentful that I hadn’t been left alone to do what I came there to do. But as I’ve processed all that happened that afternoon, I also realize how important it was for me to experience that discomfort. I am grateful not only to the folks who welcomed us wholeheartedly, but to those who reminded me that I was a guest in their space. That I am not entitled to a warm welcome everywhere I go. That not being able to spend a few moments alone at a memorial for a man I never met is nothing compared to the discomfort that folks like George, Krystal, Maestro, Marquise, Demetrius, and Angela experience every day just existing as Black people in a world built by them but not for them. I am grateful for the lessons they taught me, and for the opportunity they gave me to see events like George’s death from a different perspective.