Dying Out
I’ve been scheduling my life around #blacklivesmatter rallies, marches and vigils since Trayvon Martin was killed. Over the weekend I realized why. I realized it’s a calling, a calling to be myself. Showing up, adding my voice to the crowd, fighting for justice, and pumping my fist in the air, along side a community of like-minded spirited humanitarians, is exactly where I feel at home. Yes, it can be physically exhausting, emotionally draining, dangerous and render one to tears, but it’s exhilarating too. Exhilarating because it’s what love looks like in public — to quote Dr Cornel West. And I’m a lover.
Last Sunday was the first anniversary of Michael Brown’s murder in Ferguson. Activists gathered at the Barclay’s Center in Brooklyn to celebrate Mike’s short life, and to remind the media present that we would continue to protest until a racist system was reformed.
It wasn’t my first rodeo, so when we performed a die-in for four and a half minutes, symbolizing the four and a half hours Mike’s body lay in the street after he was killed by Darren Wilson, I was surprised at how different it felt.
Not able to put my finger on it at first, I went along with the crowd, following the community leader’s instructions as we marched into the streets of downtown Brooklyn. Looking around me, I noticed what was different, this crowd was majority white. Hardly surprising, given our geographic location. The gentrification of downtown Brooklyn has lead to the uprooting of minorities, resulting in an overtaking by hipsters, young white progressive families and Wall St suits. Love it or hate it, I couldn’t quite believe my eyes at the number of middle aged WHITE MEN at this rally. Akin to spotting a unicorn, I couldn’t trust my eyes at first, but then, in an instant it became undeniably clear. Let me recount the story.
It was a beautiful sunny day and as I looked around, I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly this unscripted, unrehearsed and un-choreographed rally was forming by the aforementioned majority white crowd. Organizing hundreds of people to march on the road, otherwise occupied by cars and trucks, is no easy feat, so when we set out to do just that, naturally, police presence multiplied. Chants were yelled out with passion, nobody stepped on anyone else’s toes, and when we hit major intersections, we remained organized without skipping a beat. It was fast paced and adrenalin filled as police tried to contain us, but we somehow managed to organize and march in sync. We would have made the most seasoned activists proud. Indeed, all was going well up until an altercation shy of Flatbush avenue.
Preoccupied by chanting, and studying the heels of the person in front of me, I noticed a swarm of officers gathering around a protester ahead of me. Unable to make out exactly what was happening at first, it was clear that there was resistance by the sheer number of officers gathered around him, not to mention the intensity of limbs flying in every direction. As I got closer, unlike the rest of us, I realized the protester wasn’t complying with the NYPD to move to the sidewalk.
“Get the fuck off of me.” yelled the protester, kicking, screaming and shadow boxing at four male officers.
Everyone else participating in the rally had made the logical, and intelligent decision to be lead off the road by the NYPD and onto the sidewalk in that moment, because it was the SAFE thing to do, Flatbush ave is dangerous, but not this guy. He continued to throw punches, yell profanities and resist all attempts to lead him to safety. He crossed that line where he was now putting his fellow protesters in danger.
As I got closer, I was able to make him out. Middle aged white guy, wearing shorts, boat shoes and a polo neck. He was pissed and he was making it known. Coming up behind him, my instinct as a fellow protester was to calm him down and to attempt to de-escalate the situation but this guy was so hot my instincts were to stay away. I watched his behavior as he gave in and finally moved to the sidewalk. I can only describe it as child-like, as he regressed to an ugly behavior of continuing to yell profanities at the officers and flirted with the idea of stepping onto the road again, rather than stay on the sidewalk. He even went so far as to follow one of the cops with his camera.
I became overwhelmed with the thought of a Black man in his situation, and how differently it would have played out. A Black man in his situation would end up on a spectrum, somewhere between a misdemeanor at one end and dead. Think about that for a minute. This white man’s citizenship and privilege had been challenged, perhaps for the first time, and he had no idea that his frustration in that moment is an every day occurrence for many Black and Brown men and women in this country. But nothing happened to him. He was afforded the space to cool off. To pick his humanity back up off the road.
I’m familiar with planted agitators at rallies but this guy was different. I wanted to freeze time. I wanted to sit him down and explain it to him. He was reacting like a human being under oppression. A preview of a not too distant future if America continues on the path to destruction and neglects to dismantle the machine.
Until then, in the words of Assata Shakur:
“It is our duty to fight.
It is our duty to win.
We must love each other and support each other.
We have nothing to lose but our chains.”
