The Protest

I try to stop myself, but I can’t resist checking my phone again. It’s summer, and I haven’t seen anyone in days. I’ve liked a hundred posts, and no one even cares if I’m alive?

Nothing. I set the phone down, then it dings, as if rewarding me for giving up hope. It’s a message from Jill. I haven’t seen her in weeks.

Did you hear what happened?

No?

A kid got shot by cops. A Black teenager. Everyone is going downtown to protest. Want to come? We can pick you up.

I think for a minute, thumbs paused. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like going into the city. And anyway, Dad will say no.

Who’s we?

Me and Nick. We’re dating now

Jill adds a blushing smiley.

No way! That is lit. idk, let me get back to you.

Ok but hurry we r leaving like now.

I look around for Dad and find him sitting on the porch, reading.

“Gotta soak up some rays,” he says.

“Yeah. Speaking of which, Jill invited me to go into the city. To… Unique Donuts.” I’m amazed by what comes out of my own mouth. I meant to tell the truth right up until I lied.

Dad grimaces and shakes his head. Maybe he’s going to say no, anyway.

“What is it with Unique Donuts? The donuts are not good. They’re too chewy. Who wants a chewy donut? Even if it does have violet icing and a plastic fish. I don’t get it.”

I laugh, but my chest tightens. The contrast between eating a goofy donut and protesting a police shooting seems tragic, and suddenly I’m determined to go.

“It’s not really about the donuts,” I say. Keep it light. “It’s about waiting in line for a hour and getting the purple box that says you’ve been there.”

Dad snaps his fingers. “I knew I was missing something. Sure, go ahead. But just Unique Donuts and back, alright? It’s not in a great neighborhood, and things are a little volatile lately.”

“Of course,” I say, fizzy with relief.

“Hey, you’re only young once! Thank God. Bring me back a chocolate old-fashioned, if they have anything so mundane.”

That’s probably not going to happen. I go back inside and text Jill.

Yes, pick me up. But my dad thinks we’re going to Unique Donuts.

There in 10

* * *

When the car pulls up, Jill lowers the passenger window and says hi to my dad. It looks like she’s wearing a fancy hat but it turns out to be her hair, newly dyed magenta and standing high on one side, like a cresting wave. It’s been interesting to watch the transformation of Jill over the past year. I’ve always dressed dark and a little edgy. But Jill started the year with a blonde ponytail and button-down shirts.

I get in the back seat and wave as the car pulls away. Only then do I notice that someone is already sitting in the back seat.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Dominic. People call me Dom.”

Dom has dark wavy hair and bright brown eyes. He wears silver necklaces that look sexy against his collarbone, which shows through the V of an unbuttoned navy polo shirt. The shirt has the logo of a carwash. Maybe he works there.

“So, what happened, exactly? I didn’t have time to look at the news.”

All three faces swivel towards me, frowning.

“I mean, I got that a cop killed a Black kid. Where?”

“In Chicago. He pulled out a cell phone. Maybe to record what was happening.”

“Oh.” It makes me feel sick, picturing this. Sick, sad, and angry. I can tell that everyone in the car feels the same way. This changes my anger, makes it steadier. Like something pushing me forward instead of burning me up.

Nick takes a curve a bit fast and the boxy Prius throws me against Dom’s muscled shoulder. It feels good.

“Where do you think we should park?” Nick asks Dom.

“Why don’t you grab this exit and park by the station. We can take the train downtown. That way you don’t have to worry about your car getting blocked or damaged or whatever.”

My stomach twists a little. Blocked or damaged?

“I’ve never done this before,” I confess as Nick slows for the exit. “I mean, I’ve never been to a protest that had more than a few people.”

“Oh, no worries,” Dom says, and flashes a big warm smile. “In a way, little protests are harder. In a big one, you just join in. The only thing is, with this protest, which is against cops, the cops might not play nice. Sometimes… certain people grow up thinking the cops are on their side, and in this case, they basically are not. So be prepared for that. But hey, you’re with me. I’ll keep an eye out. You’ll be fine.”

My heart flutters when Dom says, “you’re with me.” He was just stating a fact, I tell myself. You are here, in the car, with him.

Nick parks on a side street. “Only take what you really need,” he instructs everyone, and gives Jill an extra key to the Prius, in case, he says, he gets arrested.

“It wouldn’t help much, since I can’t drive,” she says.

“Well, if I get arrested, stick with Dom,” Nick says, and fist-bumps Dom.

There’s a little swagger in Nick’s attitude, like he’s about to go skiing or rafting, something “manly,” and part of him is turned on by the danger. It sets off a warning bell in me.

We board a Red train toward City Square. It’s crammed with people who look like they’re headed for the protest, too. Some are young like us, a few wearing snatched outfits but mostly just casual. Others are adults in jeans and t-shirts, carrying signs. Some even brought children. I find this reassuring. The cops wouldn’t attack or arrest people like that—regular citizens who vote and pay taxes, have little kids.

Sure enough, the train empties at City Square. The four of us join a tide of bodies—hundreds, maybe thousands—gently surging through the plaza, around flower beds and down sidewalks. A sound system is set up atop the raised base of one statue, and a young Black man, long braids tied back, is speaking into the mic. I want to hear what he’s saying, but it’s hard to make out. He’s built like a football player, wearing a t-shirt that reads, “I CAN’T BREATHE.” I close my eyes and try to imagine what it’s like to have such a strong, capable, powerful body and have it be a liability because in the eyes of prejudiced people you pose a threat.

I shout in Dom’s ear, “Can we get closer? So we can hear?”

He nods and touches Nick’s shoulder, tilting his head toward a speaker. Nick and Jill follow as we make our way through the crowd. Most people are holding home-made signs with Magic Marker messages:

“Black Lives Matter!”

“Say Their Names.”

“Not One More.”

“Injustice Anywhere is a Threat to Justice Everywhere!”

“Money for housing and education, not police and incarceration!”

Now I can hear the young man’s words, his voice distorted through the audio system but still powerful.

“We witnessed this murder in broad daylight, a man shot down like an animal, without justification. We’re all heartbroken, not only people of color. We are all heartbroken, we are all brought down and laid low by this latest killing of an unarmed Black man by racist police. Police who automatically see people of color as less than fully human. We cannot look away from this, from all of the lives lost to senseless racism in this country. This terrible legacy of slavery and segregation, this is our inheritance. It’s not what we wanted. It’s not what we asked for. But now that it’s ours, what will we do?”

The last words boom through the speakers, and in their wake, goosebumps rise on my arms. The quiet is collective. Everyone is held together by this man’s words and the feeling they carry.

“How can we destroy this legacy of anger, fear, and hatred, instead of destroying lives? How can we learn to love and appreciate each other despite differences? We must build bridges, not burn them.”

There’s a shift in the crowd, like an exhalation, in response to the promise of hope the voice holds, the possibility of joy and love.

“I look out on the crowd today, and I see mostly white faces. But I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re hearing me. Because the killing of Black people by police is not a Black problem. It is a white problem. White people dominate the political structures that give the police power to hurt and kill Black and Brown people. White people dominate the economic systems that have created massive wealth inequality between white and Black America. If you don’t stand up against it, if you don’t use the safety of your whiteness to speak out, you are not neutral. You are benefitting from the violent, unequal systems. White silence is white violence!”

The crowd takes up the slogan and chants it back. “White silence is white violence!” The third time, I join in. My voice is so loud that my throat vibrates, but I don’t hear it: it merges with all the voices, making something strong and unselfconscious. This crowd isn’t scary at all. It feels natural, a human environment where everyone can be together, on the same side.

My voice is so loud that my throat vibrates, but I don’t hear it: it merges with all the voices, making something strong and unselfconscious. This crowd isn’t scary at all. It feels natural, a human environment where everyone can be together, on the same side.

“So today, we’re going to raise our voices, and we’re going to march. We’re going to hold ourselves, our people, and the police accountable. Because, as someone said, the only thing needed for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.”

A vibrant murmur runs through the crowd: agitation, determination.

“We cannot remain silent. We will not be silenced! To all the victims of racist police violence, we say, Rest in Power! We remember you. And we say, not one more!”

The crowd echoes in a roar. “Not one more! Not one more!” And the crowd starts to move. People turn, gather themselves, hold up their signs and walk down the street. No one seems hurried or pushy. Everyone moves at their own pace, finding a spot, heading the same way, chanting. Dom is still by my side, but Jill and Nick aren’t. It doesn’t seem to matter, since in the crowd, we’ve all become part of something larger, moving on its own, like a big slow river.

We roll through intersections, confidently, without changing our pace. All cars stop. Drivers honk and wave in support. It’s late afternoon, and the sun slants low, pouring gold over the crowd. We keep moving forward. I realize that I’m smiling, and people smile back at me. There are people of many races, all ages, from blue-haired teens to blue-haired seniors, wearing hijabs, saris, baseball caps. Work boots, high tops, black Doc Martens. Dogs on leashes, babies in strollers: we’re all making this shared effort. Something about the walking and chanting is almost hypnotic, like dancing. The melding of different people, the unity in itself, is joyful, despite the tragic origin. Maybe this is what church is supposed to feel like.

I stop chanting for a minute, needing to rest my voice. I’m not sure where we are or how far we’ve come. Something is happening, up ahead. The crowd stalls, shifts: we are no longer making smooth forward progress. Some of the people in front of us are turning around, going back. Others move to the side and stop, or start down a nearby side street. The crowd is losing cohesion. Some people try to keep up the chant, but soon they’re drowned out by disjoined shouting and the roar of a news channel helicopter.

Dom stops a young Black man who is hurrying back the way we came. “What’s going on?”

“Police are kettling us down there! They’ve cut off the intersection, they’re not letting people through. Turn around and go back!”

“What?” I yell, shocked. “The police… why?”

The man opens his arms and looks at me in despair. “They don’t give a damn about us. Can’t you see?”

We lock eyes for a minute, my chest fills with pain. He shakes his head and jogs away. The crowd is shredding around us. A moment ago we were one force; now the street is dotted with individuals—two here, three there, people stranded, seeking direction.

The crowd ahead has thinned, so we can see down the hill. Police in riot gear have formed a thick line across the street. They’re wearing black armored suits and helmets, carrying batons and full-length plastic shields. Part of the crowd is on the other side of the line, cut off and surrounded by police.

A new chant is starting: “Who do you protect? Who do you serve?”

Someone from our side throws a plastic water bottle toward the police. I see it arc through the air, but I don’t see where it lands. An officer responds by throwing a silver canister into the crowd. A cloud of bluish gas or smoke puffs into the air and floats toward us. People cry out and run. I catch a whiff of it, and it chokes me.

“We have to get out of here,” Dom yells, grabbing my arm. “Come on!”

I don’t want to turn away, but I let Dom pull me up the block. Then I stumble, slow down, and a woman rushes past us, carrying a red-haired child. I realize with horror that the child’s hair isn’t red—it’s blood. The child’s head is bleeding. The woman stops, sits the child on the curb and speaks to him soothingly as she parts his hair, looking at the wound.

“You’re ok, it’s bleeding a lot, but it’s just superficial,” she says, tremblingly. “The skin is broken, but you’re ok. It’s not deep.”

I take a packet of tissues from my pocket, kneel down and offer it to the mother. She is crying as well as the kid, who might be seven or eight. Noise surges from the intersection, a confused roar punctuated by bangs and thuds.

“Thank you,” the mother shouts. She holds the wad of tissue to her child’s head, cradling him against her chest. “He got hit with a canister. The police threw it.”

“Do you need help?” Dom yells.

The mother looks up at us, her face white and strained. “Why did they do that?” she gasps. “We were almost at the end, everyone was going home, it was peaceful. And now…” She waves the hand holding the blood-soaked tissue at the chaos in the street. “Now, who knows what will happen?”

Dom squats down near her. “We should get out of here. Where do you need to go? Do you want to take him to the doctor? There’s an urgent care on Fifth Avenue, not far. A block or two. I think I could carry him.”

The mother nods and Dom picks up the crying child. I help the mother up.

“Stay close to me,” Dom says. We hurry along the sidewalk. People pass us, most running away from the action but a few, wearing stocking caps and bandanas across their faces, running toward it. People hold up cell phones, walk backward, filming. Drones fly overhead. Police are suddenly everywhere, blocking alleys, running together in groups. I look up and see police on the rooftops, with rifles.

“Where did they even come from?” I ask Dom, who just shakes his head.

The mother and I follow Dom around a corner, to the urgent care. Through the glass doors, we can see a waiting room full of people. The mother speaks up. “Thank you so much. God bless you, both.” She takes the boy from Dom and hurries inside.

With the child’s blood on his hands and neck, Dom just stands there, looking blank.

“Dom?” I say, and he doesn’t respond. I summon up my inner resources. “Ok, look, we need to get a train, but without going back to City Square. How about Greene Station?”

I wait a beat, but he doesn’t answer, so I put my arm around his waist and start walking. With my other hand, I text Jill.

You ok? Getting train at Greene. Meet at car?

I send the text and nothing comes back.

“Do you know if they were ahead or behind us? Nick and Jill?”

Dom looks grim. “I’m pretty sure they were ahead of us.”

“Dang,” I whisper.

We pass Unique Donuts, which is closed. Two guys are nailing plywood across the front window. Jill still hasn’t replied when we reach the station, but I do have a message from Dad.

You ok? Saw bad news.

I write back. I’m ok. On my way home.

The train station is crowded with people trying to get out of downtown. A well-dressed woman is venting about not being able to reach her car, because of barricades and protesters clogging the roads. A businessman nods and says he wishes the protestors would get tired of shouting so he could use his parking lot again.

White silence.

“Why don’t you wish that police would stop being racist killers so the protestors don’t have to shout anymore?” I say. He doesn’t answer, but gives a little smirk at the woman. I move over to where Dom is talking to a group of college-aged kids.

“We were passing the sheriff’s station,” one of them is saying. “It has a recessed entrance, like an alley, and there were a whole bunch of cops in there. I mean, to us it was just another building, right? But somebody saw all the cops and threw a water bottle at them, and it was the excuse they were waiting for. They ran across the road in a big line, and some ran around the other side. Then, it was like, all hell broke loose.”

“Were people being arrested?” I ask.

“They were bringing in vans when we left. It’s messed up, because they’re supposed to disperse the crowd. But they made it impossible for the crowd to disperse. How messed up is that?” The boy’s voice cracks.

My phone dings. It’s Jill.

We’re ok. We’re out. Can you take the train home?

Yes! Getting on now. I add a broken heart.

The train pulls in and people crowd onto it. We stand, holding the bars, for a few stops, then a seat toward the back empties and we take it.

We’re surrounded by people from the protest, and every few minutes, someone says something, like “I cannot f-ing believe that just happened!” Other people agree, cry, hug. As the train makes its way west, more and more of those folks get off. People get on carrying salads or sports equipment. They laugh loudly, tell jokes, apply lip gloss, share a TikTok. It’s like they’re living in another world.

How could they not know? How could they not care? Was I one of those people, only this morning? If so, I’m not the same person now.

I look over at Dom. His eyes are dark and sad. His face looks pinched and grim.

“I didn’t really get it,” I say after awhile, searching for words. “I knew they shot that kid, shot people, but this is America, it’s supposed to be…” I shake my head and try again. “I didn’t know the police would treat the people like the enemy.”

I look at Dom again, and one corner of his mouth turns up, lips closed, a pained smile. I notice how long his mouth is, how sensitive, a mouth that could move in many ways. I tilt toward that mouth, and for a minute I think we’re going to kiss. Then he pulls back. He takes my hand, and holds it.

Late that night, I keep watching YouTube on my phone. The police broke the crowd and changed its nature. After dark, the videos show gangs of people using crowbars and barrels to smash windows and force open doors. Some enter the stores and drag out merchandise. Maybe they think, if the law doesn’t protect people, it shouldn’t protect property. Or maybe they just want a new TV.

In one video, I spot the young man who’d spoken so eloquently. He’s standing in the middle of a street, holding a megaphone. The street is littered with debris, and a trash can is on fire. People are rushing every which way. He shouts into the megaphone, “Stop. Stop! We have to work together! We have to work together!”

But this time, no one is listening.