Tyler Johnson Was Here(52)

The last one sticks and makes me feel nauseous: “Tyler Johnson mattered!” I raise my fist, all clenched and tight. Ivy, G-mo, Faith, Mama, and a bunch of others put their fists in the air, too. And we look like an ocean of multicolored fists. The fist in the air originated as a symbol of black power and pride, but it’s also a symbol of solidarity and unity, and I think the fact that so many protestors showed up says a lot about how we stand as a people, and about how we can bring change. Together.

I look to my left when I see something move out the corner of my eye. I notice a kid wearing a white T-shirt with #TYLERJOHNSONWASHERE written in thick black Sharpie breaking away from the crowd and walking closer and closer to the cops. The dogs are barking, and the boy—a white boy I recognize from Ms. Tanner’s class—stomps his feet hard on the ground to send the dogs jumping back. It only makes them more pissed.

I think to myself, I don’t know what he’s about to do, but it’s not going to be good.

It feels like the world is moving slower as the boy crosses over the cutoff line, entering into dangerous territory.

Suddenly, the line of police officers breaks and disperses into our crowd. I hear a few bangs and pops. Rubber bullets hail down on my skin like sharp droplets from the sky.

Bodies fall over, crying out.

Rage and hate in the eyes of the people who’re supposed to be protecting us.

People run in all directions, and I lose Faith, Ivy, G-mo, and Mama in the crowd. I spin around, looking for Mama, trying to find her in the mess of faces blurring by, cringing in pain. I run down the block, away from the chaos, and stand there, looking at it all with my hands on my head.

My lungs feel tight.

Feet heavy.

I hear the shattering of glass. I turn to my left and see a group of people with ski masks on and bats in hand busting the windows out of nearby cars and school buses and news vans.

No, I say to myself. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.

Faith comes running toward me. She links arms with me.

“What do you wanna do?” she says. “Join the riot? If these pigs want to play dirty, we can, too. Two can play that game.”

What the hell, Faith? No. I try to remind myself that I don’t believe in violence. But a part of me wants to say fuck everything, fuck everybody, fuck the peace. If they want to do this, then we can get ugly back. And sometimes, anger is the only way to really get people to pay attention—to listen.

But I know this isn’t how I want to remember Tyler. The rage built up in me isn’t going to bring him back. I shake my head at Faith, and she nods, like she respects my decision. And we stand there and watch as the protest falls apart around us.

Some guys hop on top of cars and news vans, vandalizing and stomping on them. The shattering of glass plays on loop until there’s no more unbroken glass in sight. The protestors don’t leave Sojo Truth High intact either. The entrance door has dents in it, and its glass window is shattered. Some of the classroom windows have been beaten in as well.

I watch someone light a trash can on fire and throw it across the way toward the police cars, and suddenly it bursts into flames, creating a line of fire. Someone even tries setting a parked school bus on fire as a small crowd of people cheers, but they can’t get it to work right. Instead, they just kick it, throw rocks at the windows, and destroy the seats on the inside.

I see a flash of Mama’s face and run into the crowd to grab her arm. She’s with Ivy and G-mo. I see dark purple lumps on her arm. She’s been shot with rubber bullets.

I pull her over to the side where Faith is standing.

I collapse on the ground beside her. “Ma, Ma, Ma. You okay?” My heart is beating so fast inside my chest right now.

She nods and flinches when I try pulling her up, holding her arm.

“You sure?”

She lifts herself off the ground, moving her arm around. “I’m good.” I brush her back and shoulders to remove all the dirt and rubble. She tries to get back out to the protest with everyone else.

I grab her arm again. “Where’re you going? We should head home before this gets worse.”

“Hell no,” she snaps. “Tyler got a shot to the chest and two in the stomach and died. I’m gonna stay here and make my voice heard.”

And that’s exactly what she does.

The entire street becomes a panorama of oranges and reds and yellows. Fire everywhere. Rocks and bottles and cans fly through the air, and I can’t keep up. We all try to stick together in a small group to protect one another from harm, but we’re also shouting, “No justice, no peace!” and “We’re so tired of this shit, man!” The muscles in my neck are starting to get sore from screaming. I can’t believe we even have to do this.

People are suddenly wearing gas masks now. Others are using their shirts to cover their noses and mouths. I look behind me, and police are rushing toward us with firework cannons.

Boom! They fire into the crowd.

Boom! They fire again.

Smoke funnels everywhere on impact. I choke, and my eyes burn and water. And this anger inside my chest wants to come out. It’s choking me and I can’t breathe between these tears.

Fire trucks arrive, and the cops start spraying people with water. The ground becomes slick, and people slip and slide in the street.

Protestors are getting in their cars and moving to different areas, escaping the riot before the police start shooting real bullets.