13 Days in Ferguson Page 4

  As a child, taking it all in, I struggled to comprehend how our family structure had been so suddenly disrupted and disordered. My father’s career as a police officer had been put on hold, his future uncertain. All of our futures were now uncertain. Who was my father now? What kind of a man would he be? I had lost the father I knew.

  For the first time in my life, I felt hatred. I hated my uncle—this man I had never met, who had mutilated my father’s legs, ruined his life and his family.

  And now I had to return to St. Louis—to everything new and uncertain—without a father.

  When we got home from San Francisco, we found our sidewalk and driveway buried under snow. At first, I didn’t register what that meant. Any other time, my dad would have put on his parka, slung the snow shovel over his shoulder, headed outside, and cleared the snow away in rhythmic, machinelike movements.

  No more.

  My mother and I trudged outside together, crunching down the driveway through snow that came halfway up my boots. Mom jabbed the blade of the shovel into the packed-in snow, jiggled the blade, hauled up a small mountain of snow, grunted softly, and tossed the snow onto the lawn.

  Then she handed the snow shovel to me.

  I fumbled with the handle, copied her technique, and lifted a tiny lump of snow, which I dumped to the side.

  Mom nodded. “Keep at it,” she said. “This is your job now.”

  I wanted to protest, but I had no choice. My sister would be doing double duty in the kitchen, helping Mom prepare meals and cleaning the house. Seven-year-old Bernard would help me, but not really. The burden of keeping our sidewalk and driveway clear and usable in winter fell squarely on me.

  I thought of my favorite game—“Family”—in which I always played the dad. I exhaled, sliced the shovel into a clump of snow on the driveway, dug out a more substantial hill of snow, and flung it onto Mom’s pile. I was no longer playing a game. This was real.

  The first time I walked into my new school, time slowed. The school day seemed to last a week. Everywhere I walked, I felt eyes on me—people staring, assessing, judging. Hating. I felt their hatred drilling into me.

  I didn’t know where to look. Sometimes I looked at the floor. Sometimes I looked straight ahead, past the blank faces that flooded my vision. Maybe someone said hello; maybe someone smiled. I don’t know. I didn’t hear or see that. I heard only the hatred—and the word. It was part of our vocabulary back in our old neighborhood, used in fun with my black friends. The younger kids used the word because the older kids incorporated it into their everyday speech without a second thought, a substitute for man. They used the word lightly, as a punch line, as a verbal tic, but never ever hatefully. Here at my new school, the white kids spewed the word at me like poison. The word burned. The word singed my heart.

  I walked straight ahead. I couldn’t let anyone see my fear. But fear was all I felt. It filled me up and threatened to spill out. The fear made my lip tremble. I bit my lip until it bled.

  When I got home, my mother asked me about my first day.

  “Why did I leave my old school?” I said.

  The first time I experienced hatred directed toward me, it was from other nine-year-olds, who hated me for no reason other than the color of my skin. They spit the word at me because I didn’t look like them.

  But children don’t come into this world knowing how to hate.

  Somebody has to teach them.

  The days dragged by. Other vile words raked me, wounded me, sickened me. Some I hadn’t heard before, but I knew what they meant. At school, I lived in constant fear. And then I started to feel something else. Something worse. I started to feel alone.

  At night, safe at home, I asked my mother to stop the hatred. I asked her to fix it. She started to cry.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

  She hugged me, and we held on to each other for a long time. Clinging to her, I wondered whether my father would be able to fix it.

  During the second week at our new school, my mother baked a chocolate cake for my sister to take to her class because it was her turn to provide a snack. After school, Regina came home with the whole cake, uncut.

  “Nobody would touch it,” she said.

  I knew why but didn’t say anything.

  “They wouldn’t touch the cake because I’m black,” my sister said, pressing down on the word, making sure my mother and I heard and felt her pain and her fury.

  “What about the teacher?” my mother asked.

  “Especially the teacher,” my sister said.

  One day as I shoveled our sidewalk, snow flurries pecking my face, a police car drove slowly past our house and pulled into a driveway at the far corner of our block. I leaned on the shovel as the driver’s door opened and a state trooper stepped out of the car. He closed his car door and saw me watching him. He grinned and waved. I waved back. He turned and went into his house. I liked the way he strode up his driveway, his back straight and strong. He looked regal. He looked like a soldier. A warrior.

  From then on, whenever I saw the trooper who lived on our street, I made sure to wave, and he always waved back.

  Two months after the accident, my father came home in a wheelchair.

  When I saw him, I didn’t cry, but my stomach flipped. He looked diminished. I thought about how we used to spend our time together. Everything involved physical activity—tossing a football, playing catch, shooting hoops, puttering around the house, shoveling snow, mowing the lawn, pulling weeds.

  You can be my legs.

  I don’t know whether my father said those words or I imagined him saying them. But I didn’t want to be his legs. I wanted him to have his own powerful legs. His old legs.

  I wished I could have invented a time machine. I would only ask to go back in time three months, that’s all. I wouldn’t get on that train for San Francisco. I wouldn’t spend Christmas in California. I wouldn’t move into the house in the suburbs. That’s all I wanted—to go back in time three months.

  Instead, I witnessed a miracle. In no time at all, my father abandoned the wheelchair, stood to his feet, and walked, leaning and supporting himself with both arms on a metal contraption he used to traverse the living room, the kitchen, the whole house. Shortly after that, he graduated from the walker to two canes, and finally to one cane. He walked slowly, deliberately, his steps strong and determined. He still couldn’t run or play sports, but he could walk. My father was a miracle.

  People drove their cars through our front yard. Teenagers, mostly. They tore up our lawn, leaving muddy tire tracks that looked like scars. The cars would gash our grass, digging gullies and sinkholes, and run over anything we planted. These teenagers would roll down their windows as they tore across our yard, scream the word at our door, and then drive off laughing.

  My brother, sister, and I would cower in the kitchen. We felt vulnerable, exposed, attacked. My mother and father said nothing, but I could see the fear, anger, and confusion on their faces. I wanted to ask, Why are they doing this? but by then I knew that nobody had the answer.

  One afternoon several months after we moved in, Bernard, Regina, and I were playing in the basement while Mom prepared dinner in the kitchen. Suddenly I heard a thud and a crack from outside, followed by a gurgle and a whoosh. Someone shouted a muffled curse, and I heard my mother yell something to my father. Regina, Bernard, and I scrambled upstairs to find Mom fiddling with the kitchen faucet.

  “The water’s been cut off,” she said.

  My father limped into the room, stopped, and stared out the window. I followed his eyes.

  Several people were milling around outside on our lawn. Within seconds, more people arrived, and then even more, until a mob filled the yard. Sirens screeched; red and blue lights flickered through our windows and across our faces. Police officers began to filter in among the people on our lawn.

  I could see now that a car had rammed into the fire hydrant on our corner and knocked it over. Water gush
ed from the top of the decapitated hydrant. I looked at the crowd amassed on our lawn. Every person I could see was white. Nobody came to our door. Nobody offered to help. Nobody took responsibility for leveling the fire hydrant and ripping up our lawn.

  “We have no water,” my mother said, her voice shaking. “All these people—”

  “Everybody stay in the house,” my father said.

  My mother blinked at him. “What are you going to do?”

  “Just stay here,” he said. “And keep away from the windows,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  “They could’ve hit our home,” my mother said softly, her voice quaking.

  My father retrieved his cane, which was leaning against the kitchen table, tapped the bottom on the floor as if for luck, then went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.

  I started to follow him, but my mother pulled me back gently. After a moment, I wriggled away and stretched as tall as I could to look out the window.

  “Nobody said anything,” my mother muttered. “Why didn’t they tell us? Why didn’t somebody knock on the door and tell us?”

  Outside, my father limped forward and stepped into the crowd. He walked slowly, calmly, with great purpose. The crowd parted, allowing him to approach a police officer. My father seemed so alone—so isolated; but at that moment, he also seemed regal.

  More than forty years later, I still remember my father’s solitary walk into the middle of that crowd of people on our lawn—many of them hostile, some calling him the word. I see his walk as an act of courage and of faith.

  His walk will always inspire me and guide me. His walk will give me direction and resolve. His walk will give me courage and faith.

  In the aftermath of Michael Brown’s death, I can see my life coming full circle. I see my father beginning the circle, walking without fear into the mob amassed on our lawn. I see myself completing the circle, walking without fear down the streets of Ferguson. I never could have made that walk if I hadn’t seen my father’s walk first.

  That night in my childhood home, after the crowd had dispersed, I sat in the living room with my family. Earlier, the police had told my father that they’d apprehended the kid who drove into the fire hydrant. Nobody knew whether he would be punished—and we never found out. We never heard from him. He never apologized, nor did he or anyone else offer to pay for the damage to our yard. No one showed any concern or uttered of sympathy. No one offered to help us in any way. But I did hear several people call us names, including the word, as they left our yard.

  “Why are we different?” I asked my parents that night, and I saw them struggle to answer.

  “I look different,” I said, “but I do the same things as everybody else. I eat the same foods as everybody else. I play the same games, the same sports. I watch TV like everybody else. I live in a house like everybody else’s. I hurt the same, I feel the same, I pray to the same God. I say the Lord’s Prayer before I go to bed, the same as every other kid I know. So—”

  I swallowed, then choked on the words. “Why am I different?”

  On Tuesday, August 12, the fourth day of the protests in Ferguson, organizers lead hundreds of people to Clayton, the county seat, demanding criminal prosecution for the officer who shot Michael Brown. As of now, the Ferguson police have not released the officer’s name. The protesters carry signs and hold their hands in the air, shouting, “Hands up, don’t shoot!” referring to reports that Michael Brown had his hands in the air when the officer shot him.

  After a spokesperson informs the crowd that Tom Jackson, the Ferguson police chief, will reveal the name of the officer shortly, the protesters march peacefully and without incident. The spokesperson returns later and announces that the officer’s name will not be released until the following day. The protesters object, insist, shout, and demand answers, their frustration and anger as palpable and real as the heat that simmers up from the sidewalk; but they remain peaceful.

  Around noon, the Reverend Al Sharpton meets with Michael Brown’s parents in Ferguson. He holds a news conference and asks for calm and for people to end the rioting. Referring to Michael Brown, he says, “Some of us are making the story ‘how mad we are’ rather than how promising he was.”

  Later in the day, President Obama issues a statement, pleading for calm, urging people to “remember this young man through reflection and understanding.”

  For the most part, I stay at the command post. When I do go outside during daylight hours, I see pockets of protesters—including young mothers pushing their babies in strollers. Young children under the age of ten trail them, holding signs that say “Don’t shoot!” I see clusters of young men running with their shirts off, sweat beading on their chests in the stifling afternoon heat, their fists raised, their movements jerky and anxious.

  For the briefest moment, the civility of the protests in Clayton, the appearance of Rev. Sharpton, the young moms with their children, and the exuberant but peaceful young men on the streets lull me into thinking that tonight will be different, that we will see an evening of calm and peaceful protests. But when night falls, this disparate group of people with their melting pot of issues boils into rage and ugliness, and everything turns dark.

  The crowd grows until West Florissant teems with people. Tonight the crowd appears to be the largest, the most impatient, the most violent.

  The police presence has grown as well, with rows of police forming from city, state, and county agencies. Lines of officers in riot gear and camouflage assemble, with armored vehicles grinding behind them, canine patrol officers alongside them, and SWAT sharpshooters perched atop police vehicles.

  Some of the rioters, hopped up on adrenaline and anger and furious at the militarized police presence, converge and charge the lines of law enforcement, hurling bottles and Molotov cocktails. The homemade explosives shatter on the ground—popping, spurting flames, and sending up clouds of smoke. A few bottles hit officers directly or carom off their riot shields. Through it all, the ground rumbles in a deep, vibrating bass, a hip-hop beat, as hundreds of people start running—some seemingly going in circles, others still coming at the line of officers who block their way and attempt to stifle their fury.

  The police, starting with the SWAT teams, respond in the moment. Through bullhorns, police commanders tell the protesters to disperse—now, immediately—but either the protesters refuse to move or they don’t retreat fast enough, because suddenly the police fire a barrage of tiny nonlethal projectiles that screech through the air and rain down on the crowd. Tear gas canisters follow, whistling through the night. Smoky, noxious clouds rise, engulfing the street—the protesters coughing, choking, stumbling, vomiting. The scene is something out of a fever dream.

  As I take it all in—the chaos, the panic, the despair, the fear, the pain—a deep sorrow grips me. Somehow I know this is only the beginning. In my heart, I know what’s coming.

  It’s as if I’m looking out a window and seeing in the distance a dark, massive, malevolent cloud moving slowly . . . slowly . . . but starting to pick up speed.

  I see the storm of storms coming.

  I see it, but I can’t stop it.

  Back at the command post, Major Bret Johnson—my boss and my friend—notices the troubled look in my eye.

  “What, Ron?” he asks.

  I want to say, There’s a hellacious storm coming. It’s going to be bad, so very bad—we can’t imagine how bad. I just hope we can all endure it.

  “I can’t—” I stop, swallow. “I can’t explain it.”

  I get home late, after 2:00 a.m. I don’t want to wake Lori, so I go into another room. To be honest, I don’t want her to see my concern, my fear. I close the door and drop to my knees. I close my eyes.

  I have no idea what to say.

  I have no idea what to pray.

  For some time now, I have questioned my faith. I have questioned God. Not his existence, but his intentions. I have felt . . . doubt.

  And I have wonder
ed why.

  Why was my dad hurt so badly in that accident?

  When I asked my mom that question as a child, she told me, “Things happen for a reason.”

  On my knees, I hear my mom’s voice: “God will never leave you alone.”

  I have never gone this deep into my faith before. I feel myself drawing closer to God, closer than I have ever felt.

  “Please, Lord,” I say finally. “Please—”

  I go blank.

  I take a deep breath, exhale, and the words rush out in a whisper: “Please help all of us endure the storm that I know is coming.”

  I pause.

  “And Dad . . . and Bernard . . . please . . . watch over me. Guide me. I need your strength.”

  WAITING FOR THE STORM

  * * *

  The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

  MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.

  STRENGTH TO LOVE

  LATE IN THE MORNING, as I drive to work, my cell phone rings. I glance at my dashboard readout and see my father-in-law’s name and number. I click on the Bluetooth.

  “Hey, Pops.”

  “How you doing?”

  “Okaaaay.” The word comes out in three syllables, an involuntary sigh.

  “I’ve been thinking,” my father-in-law says.

  Lori’s dad, a retired police officer, always reflective, has become even more so since his retirement. During his time on the job, he saw it all. I value his wisdom and insight and often seek his advice.

  “They ought to put the state patrol in charge,” he says.

  “What?”

  “The governor ought to put you guys in charge.”

  “Well,” I say, “it doesn’t work that way. Besides, I don’t know what we’d do if we were in charge.”