Tyler Johnson Was Here(51)

“Everyone stay close by,” I say, leading the way deeper into the crowd to the front line of the protest. I start to see people I recognize, even some from Johntae’s party.

“Aye-yo! There goes Faith!” G-mo shouts, pointing her out as she comes from an alley across the way.

Faith runs over and throws her arms around me, her braids scratching the side of my face. She passes us bullhorns and large white signs.

As we move to the front of the protest, I see the posters up close. Some have my brother’s name on them, and also a list of other names. Some of them say: TYLER’S FREE! Because, I realize, it’s all about how he’s free. It’s not just about how he died. It’s about how he broke free in such a fucked-up way. It’s about how he lived.

Ivy’s sign, held up high in the sky, says: STAY WOKE.

G-mo’s sign says: I AM A HUMAN BEING. I AM YOU.

The sign that I hold up says in big, bold, black letters: MY LIFE MATTERS!

There’s a cacophonous blare of voices that has me flinching.

Everything is so loud and suffocating.

I turn my head and see Ms. Tanner waving us down. When she finally gets over to us, she hugs everyone, even my mom.

I give yet another scan of the crowd to see all types of people: black, white, Asian, Latino, young, and old. And I see Albert Sharp. He stands surrounded by news reporters, by protestors, but when he sees Mama and me, he steps right toward us and first takes Mama’s hands, then my own. His palms are warm and dry. Everyone nearby turns to look at us, and I can feel realization sweeping over the crowd—realization of who we are, that we’re Tyler Johnson’s family.

“I’m glad you came,” Mr. Sharp says, his voice just as deep and slow as molasses as it was on the news. “I know this is a difficult time for you. But we will get justice. For you, and for your son,” he says to Mama.

She’s nodding slowly, eyes tearing up. “Thank you.”

He nods at me with a small smile. “You’ve got a great young man here,” he says. “Contacted me about getting this protest set up.”

Mama looks at me with surprise, but I shrug, embarrassed. “I felt like I couldn’t just sit there. I had to do something.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for the pain you’re feeling.”

Mr. Sharp tells us that God’s going to come through in the end, that he always does, that he’s going to push us right out of this messy tunnel in our lives. He even stops to pray for us, asking the Lord for mercy and grace and peace and justice. Everyone around circles us, including Ivy and G-mo and Faith, their hands reaching in to touch us while we pray—and whether they believe in God or not, whether they’re praying with us or not, I know they’re reaching in so that we’ll know we’re not alone. We’ll know there’re people who want justice for Tyler, too. That they’re hurting also. It’s enough to make the pain bubble up, and tears leak from my eyes. Faith keeps her hand on my shoulder the whole time.

When Albert Sharp finishes his prayer, we stand in a straight line, holding hands, megaphones in front of our faces. And we start chanting. Our chant is simple, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to join in, to become one powerful roar of voices, wanting and needing so desperately to be heard.

“Sterling Point P-D, stop brutality! Sterling Point P-D, stop brutality!” We chant this on a loop, getting louder each time, until our voices crack and dry. And we all do a rally wave–like effect, where one person starts to raise their hands in the air and shout, “Don’t shoot me!” and then everyone else follows.

As the sun beams and blinds me, I put a hand over my eyes like a visor and look across the way, but I can’t quite hide from the hate. There’s a line of angry police officers wearing bulletproof vests and helmets, with plastic shields in one hand and rifles in the other. Some cops are holding leashes attached to equally pissed Rottweilers with foamy mouths and spiky collars. They got all this military gear. For a while, I just take in everything I see, listening to Mama and Ivy and G-mo and Faith shout the chants beside me.

I hear another kind of screaming. I look back over at the line of police officers, and I see a few of them on top of a protestor, one of them with his knee in the protestor’s back as he lies sprawled on the ground. A black kid who just keeps repeating that his phone isn’t a gun, but they don’t even give a shit. They slap on the cuffs anyway.

A phone isn’t dangerous, I tell myself, and neither is black skin.

Ivy clears her throat. “Listen up, ladies and gentlemen,” she shouts into the megaphone. All the chaos and noise comes down to a whisper. “We are here today for a few different reasons! To fight for our homie Tyler Johnson. To take a stand against police brutality and demand change and justice for all. We’re here to say we’ve had enough. No more. We shouldn’t be afraid of the people who’re supposed to protect us. We just shouldn’t have to be. Peace and equality shouldn’t be this hard.”

The crowd cheers and applauds, and I feel Faith’s arm loop with mine as she rests her head on my shoulder, her hand on my chest as if she needs to feel my heartbeat, to know that I am not going to combust from all the feelings pent up inside me.

Ivy slips out her phone and reads something off the screen. “Our lives matter! Oscar Grant mattered! Freddie Gray mattered! Michael Brown mattered! Jordan Davis mattered! Eric Garner mattered! Tarika Wilson mattered! Dontre Hamilton mattered! Sandra Bland mattered! Trayvon Martin mattered! Tanisha Anderson mattered! Yvette Smith mattered! Tamir Rice mattered! Alton Sterling mattered! Philando Castile mattered! Jordan Edwards mattered! Don’t forget—Emmett Till mattered!”