We Are Not Like Them(39)
At the next light, I check my phone for video of the march taking place across town. KYX has a crew covering it live online, and I asked them to send the footage we’ll be using as b-roll for tonight’s package. I load the clips they’ve sent over, and it’s as though the screen itself shakes with the energy of the crowd. We have three cameras at various points on location. The clips offer snatches of footage from each of them—a close-up of the front of the march, where Pastor Price, bald head gleaming in the sunlight, walks, arms linked, with several community leaders and a woman. It takes me a moment to place her: Rashanda Montgomery. Her mentally ill daughter was shot by a police officer in North Carolina last year. She’s wearing a sweatshirt that reads, “M.O.M., Mothers of the Movement,” with her daughter’s face below it.
There’s an aerial shot of the crowd behind Pastor Price, a mass of people, young, old, white, Black, snaking down Broad Street, at least ten blocks deep. I’d suspected the turnout would be strong—local activists have been beating the drum all week, putting up stickers and flyers all over town. And no doubt more decided to come out after hearing Justin died last night. The perfect weather helps too: activism is easier when it’s cloudless and fifty-five degrees.
I search for my family, though I know it’s pointless given the sheer number of people. Shaun and I got into an argument at my parents’ dinner table last night about him attending today. Sure, it’s supposed to be a peaceful protest, but plenty of events are peaceful until they aren’t. If things get out of hand, the first person the police are going to go after is the six-foot-two Black guy wearing a T-shirt with Colin Kaepernick taking a knee.
“It’s not worth the risk. You get arrested and you’re screwed,” I’d told him.
“Protesting for civil rights isn’t worth the risk?” he shot back. “Do you even hear yourself? There’s no way I’m missing this.”
“You can’t go.”
“First of all, I’m a grown-ass man. You can’t tell me what to do. That’s the difference between you and me, sis. They’re not going to make me afraid. I’m not hiding. I’m gonna be seen and heard.”
“We’ll all go together. As a family,” Dad chimed in. “And your sister’s right, it could get dicey out there. You know there’ll be some young bloods out there getting up to no good, giving us all a bad name. I got caught up in all that mess back in the ’64 riots—tear-gassed and everything. All I’d hoped was that it would be better for y’all. But here we are again, fifty years later and ain’t nothing changed but the music. I swear it’s like we’re on a damn treadmill set to the highest setting and we just keep trying to climb, going nowhere fast,” Dad said, taking a giant bite of his peach pie.
My phone dings now with a text from Shaun. He’s sent a selfie from the march, standing in front of city hall with Mom and Dad.
I’m relieved to see that the crowd really is peaceful, so many faces filled with righteous conviction and purpose. Nonetheless, my cynicism creeps in. Ain’t nothing changed but the music. All the clever signs and chants, the people who showed up just so they could post it to their social media, what does it add up to? How many marches have there been? How many calls for justice? How many lawsuits? How many “national conversations about race”? But then again, maybe this is something. No one had marched for Jimmy; no one had demanded justice. Instead, terror had chased our family out of town, paralyzed them in silence for decades. So maybe the marching, rallying, showing up, it serves a purpose. It says, We will not be invisible or afraid. We will not give up. And that’s not nothing. It might actually be everything.
Traffic is light this side of town, and I arrive at Tamara’s earlier than I intended. So after I park on the street, I take a detour and walk into the alley, the one behind the liquor store, the one Justin walked down on his way home from school. I expect something more menacing, but it’s just a dark narrow alley. There’s a pile of candles, sympathy cards, battered teddy bears, and fistfuls of deli flowers that serve as a makeshift memorial. I stand there alone and look left and right, imagine turning around and seeing the barrel of a gun. I open my mouth and scream—I scream for Justin and for Jimmy. I half expect to see the cops show up just then, but the only witness to my moment of madness is a stray alley cat with a nub tail rubbing himself against the brick wall. I trace the path Justin didn’t get to take that day, squinting my eyes to read the numbers on the line of crumbling brick row houses. When I see the bicycle on the porch—a blue Huffy lying on its side next to a set of concrete steps—I know it’s the right one.
As I climb the Dwyers’ porch stairs, my gaze lingers on the bike, the one Justin will never ride again. Before I can even knock, Tamara opens the door. She’s wearing a red Phillies cap with dried sweat stains along the rim.
“Hi, I’m Riley.”
I extend my hand right as she steps forward for a hug, and then we switch, her hand out, me stepping forward, and end up laughing at our awkward dance.
“I’m a hugger,” she says, and pulls me in for an embrace that lasts longer than I expected. Even though Wes warned me, I’m not prepared to feel her bones through her skin. She moves away and leads me across the threshold into the living room. All the blinds are drawn, and shadows fall over the room. It takes me a minute to see that the couches and chairs are filled with people. Three teenage boys sit on the floor, watching a video on one of their phones, the sound turned off.