In the Streets for Black Lives

My hands stretched towards the sky, the scorching summer sun melting into cotton pink and yellow clouds as we swept down Pennsylvania Avenue towards the gleaming dome of the U.S. Capitol.

“HANDS UP!”

The sharp and confident cry came from a fellow marcher, leading us in one of the many refrains that have come to define the movement for Black lives.

“DON’T SHOOT!”

We answered, marching together for justice, peace and an end to white supremacy, state violence, and police brutality against people of color. After a week in which two violent and intimate videos documenting the police killings of Black men demanded our attention — first Alton Sterling then Philando Castille — communities around the nation looked for a constructive outlet for our collective anger, disgust, and sadness. So we marched to the People’s House to demand action from our Representatives.

I’d joined the march about 30 minutes earlier as the crowd began to swell just north of the White House. Like many, I was there to mourn. I was there to shout. As a white man, I was there as an ally to marginalized groups and people of color and as an agent in the fight against white supremacy. I was there to join the display of humanity, pride, and solidarity in the face of injustice and indefensible violence perpetrated by the state, protesting to make it clear that Black lives matter just as much as my own, and that Black Americans deserve the same sense of safety and security over their bodies that I’ve taken for granted every day of my life.

The hostile humidity of July in Washington, D.C., and a visibly angry crowd created a potential powder keg. Protesters pushed forward to listen as activists shared stories. We called for justice and peace. Violence would not derail this rally.

Instead, we marched.

By the time we made it to the Capitol, the evening had cooled but tempers had not. The crowd grew anxious as the rally stagnated on the building’s grand steps. I’d been here before and expected much the same result: our passionate and well-meaning calls for justice and action echoing off the hard white stone of the Capitol, out of sight and earshot from those elected to govern, ultimately melting away into the familiar futile cycle of protest and inaction. If they could ignore the hundreds of Americans — a grossly disproportionate number of which are black — who have already been killed by the police in 2016 along and the growing glut of grisly videos cataloging these murders, then surely they would also ignore a few thousand people knocking on their door.

I was wrong.

Cheers rippled through the crowd as dozens of members of the Congressional Black Caucus broke through the security line. They descended the steps to address us, passing the bullhorn from civil rights icon Rep. John Lewis to California’s Rep. Maxine Waters to my fellow Hoosier (and former police officer) Rep. Andre Carson and others, urging us to stay vigilant, to keep the pressure on, to not give up the fight. Many in the crowd refused to let them speak, and shouts of “DO YOUR JOB!” or “WE WANT JUSTICE!” often drowned them out. Moments of confusion followed as it became clear that the crowd wouldn’t stand by to listen and organizers urged patience and calm.

Soon, one chant caught on and grew to impressive force: “MARCH WITH US! MARCH WITH US!” And, just like that, they were. Suddenly we were moving again, this time under a darkened sky instead of the stifling sun. And this time with members of Congress, marching shoulder to shoulder with protesters young and old, white and black, together for peace and justice and sanity in a world too often devoid of all three.

When we returned to the White House, it was after 10:30 pm and I was exhausted. Our numbers had dwindled from a few thousand to a few hundred, but our ranks had grown to include dozens of members of Congress in addition to the ordinary people who powered the night. It was a successful evening of catharsis and hope. Surely, members of Congress addressing protesters on the steps of the Capitol and marching in solidarity to a White House vigil would garner media attention and help focus the national discussion on constructive and concrete actions to end the destruction of Black lives by the state.

As I settled into my seat on the bus home, a quiet smile on my face, I received a strange text about Dallas. I spent the rest of the ride home in silence, hands down and head hung low.