13 Days in Ferguson

by Ron Johnson

  “You have a nice family,” I said.

  The mom and dad just stared at me.

  “Looks like you’re having a tough time. If I give you a ticket, it will only make things worse.” I paused. “You do need to slow down.”

  “Yes, officer,” the man said. “I will.”

  “Wait,” the wife said. “You’re not giving us a ticket?”

  “Not today,” I said. “Have a good rest of your day. And remember: Slow down.”

  The dad knew he was in the wrong, and he knew he’d been caught. But giving this family a ticket would only have made their lives harder. They definitely would have struggled to pay the two-hundred-dollar fine, and they may not have been able to afford it at all without sacrificing something else, something they needed for their family. Plus, a moving violation may have required a court appearance, which could’ve cost the dad a day of work. By being treated with compassion—by having a positive interaction with a police officer—these people might start to formulate a different opinion about police in general.

  I knew I had pledged to enforce the laws. That’s what “the book” says. But the book didn’t see those three little kids without shoes in the middle of winter and the panic on their parents’ faces. I believe the book needs a revision, a second draft. It should be rewritten with a greater emphasis on empathy.

  Law enforcement and civilians—we’re in this together. We have to abide by the law, but we also have to look out for each other.

  Our truck arrives in Ferguson. As we head toward the beginning of the protest march, I scan the streets. We drive past small crowds of people, and then gradually the crowds grow larger. I hear jeering, taunting, shouts of “Don’t shoot!”—and I feel a crackle and hum in the air. I picture a lit fuse. It’s daylight now, but already I’m thinking, I dread the night.

  I look at the troopers riding in the back. They have been quiet since we left the press conference, and their faces are blank, impassive. I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I can’t focus my energy there. I can’t think of anything to say to erase any doubts or concerns they have. I know that troopers respond to confidence, to certainty. I am certain of only one thing: I am going to walk down that street.

  I close my eyes as we ride. I breathe slowly. I open my eyes as the truck pulls over near a line of damaged and looted stores on West Florissant. As the troopers climb out of the truck, I hesitate a moment to gather myself . . . and another flash of memory hits me.

  I am twenty-five years old, patrolling Jefferson County, a rural—and mostly white—area of St. Louis with a reputation for being less than friendly to black people.

  One day I work a car accident involving a young woman. She doesn’t appear seriously hurt, but she seems shaken and possibly in shock. I calm her as best I can. I summon an ambulance, but I’m told it may take some time for the paramedics to arrive. I offer the young woman some water and promise to stay with her. After a few minutes, a late-model car pulls up and an older white man gets out. He walks quickly to the young woman—his daughter. A little while later, a tow truck arrives, followed by the ambulance. As the paramedics examine the young woman, the father comes over to me.

  “You never left,” he says.

  “I wanted to make sure the ambulance got here all right and that your daughter was okay.”

  “I’m very grateful,” the man says. He dips his head and goes back to tend to his daughter.

  The next day, the young woman’s father phones me at work, asking if I can meet him at a specific spot on the highway.

  I drive to the designated place and find the man waiting for me. As I pull over, the man waves to me and returns to his car. He comes back with a plate covered in aluminum foil. He lifts the foil and I see that the plate is packed with barbecue—ribs, corn, potato salad, the whole works.

  “I got up early this morning and barbecued just for you,” he says, beaming. “I hope you like it.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  I take the plate from him, and we shake hands. I look at the food he cooked especially for me. His gift. His thank-you. He didn’t give me money or something he bought at a store. He gave me a part of himself, something he made. This isn’t just food; it is him. I feel incredibly moved.

  The memory dissolves and I suddenly see an image of Michael Brown, his soft, round face lit up in a smile. And then I see his mother’s stricken face, his father’s tortured eyes, and I think, No matter what color we are, our children are precious to us.

  Our children are so precious.

  I am in charge now, I repeat to myself. This is on me now. This is on me.

  Reality slaps me. I feel as if a large, impossibly heavy weight has begun pressing down on my chest. Emotionally, I feel like I’m flailing.

  I have nowhere to turn.

  My lips tremble and I start to pray.

  “Please, God, let there be no blood on my hands. Let everyone—every police officer, every person on the street—be safe.”

  Please don’t let there be blood on my hands.

  [1] “Gov. [Jay] Nixon’s News Conference on Ferguson,” CNN, transcript of press conference at University of Missouri–St. Louis, August 14, 2014, www.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/1408/14/cg.01.html; “Missouri Governor Jay Nixon Ferguson Press Conference (C-SPAN),” YouTube video, 1:35, from press conference aired August 14, 2014, posted by C-SPAN, August 14, 2014, www.youtube.com/watch?v=dTIeRVIWIyk.

  [2] “Gov. Nixon: Highway Patrol to Take Over Protest Response,” CNN, transcript of press conference at University of Missouri–St. Louis, August 14, 2014; http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/1408/14/cg.02.html. Italics added for inflection.

  “I NEED ANSWERS”

  * * *

  To enter the fire is to be burned.

  PHILIP LEVINE

  “BURNED”

  “LET’S GO TO THE MARCH.”

  I speak softly to the eight or nine troopers encircling me on the sidewalk. A few shift their weight uncomfortably. One clears his throat. Another coughs. For five nights, we’ve seen the police line up wearing riot gear—shields, camouflage, gas masks, bulletproof vests—with military-style weapons at the ready and dogs restrained on leashes. Until now, no one has proposed that the police come out on the street, wearing just their blue uniforms. No one has suggested that we perform our security duties with no face guards, no gas masks, no vests, no riot gear at all.

  But that’s exactly what I’m proposing now.

  Since leaving the press conference, I haven’t stopped at the command post. I haven’t even called the command post to ask for backup or to announce that I’ll be marching with the protesters. I need to be on the street.

  Speaking louder and with more purpose, I again say to the troopers standing around me, “Let’s go to that march.”

  We hear that the protesters will gather at Chambers Road, then march down West Florissant past the remains of the QuikTrip, ending on Canfield Drive at the site of the Michael Brown shooting. I watch as the crowd forms and builds, their voices lifted and arms raised. People approach me. Some police officers shake my hand and congratulate me. People I’ve never met point at me and say, “Hey, there he is.” Jake Tapper from CNN asks if he can interview me for a minute or so. He asks a couple of questions, including, inevitably, “Why did the governor choose you?”

  “We all knew that we needed to try something different,” I say. “I’ve also lived in this area for more than forty years. I know the people.”

  I tell him it’s time for all of us across America to listen to what these protesters have to say. It’s time to really listen.

  Several days ago, after the second day of protests, I had asked my family to stay off social media because of all the inaccuracies reported there and the hatred I had seen posted, some of which was directed at me. Still, I absolutely understand the value of social media, and I accept its place in our world. People writing about and posting photos of the Michael Brown shooting are inflaming passions an
d bringing attention to Ferguson.

  I also embrace the mainstream media. CNN and MSNBC, the New York Times, the Washington Post, and other news outlets have sent people to report and broadcast the protests, the violence, the looting, the rioting, and the police response to it all. I understand that. I want that. But now I want the mainstream media to show a different response, a different type of police activity. I want people to see a police officer walking down this street.

  In the mass of protesters, I find Pastor Traci Blackmon, a well-known figure in our community and one of the leaders of the upcoming march. I know Pastor Blackmon well enough to call her by her first name. We met through our kids and have become friends.

  “Hey, Traci, how are you?”

  We hug, and then we stand looking at each other for an uncomfortable moment.

  “What can I do for you?” she asks.

  “I’m here to march with you guys.”

  She nods. “I’d rather you not.”

  “Okay,” I say, laughing. I assume she’s joking, but then I realize she’s dead serious. “Well, the governor has put me in charge of the security detail here in Ferguson.”

  “No,” she says.

  Again, it feels like she’s joking, but I know she has just smacked me with a sharp dose of humility. Her no says, Don’t puff out your chest. Don’t think you’re somebody special.

  Then she says, “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and an enormous feeling of inadequacy overcomes me. I step outside myself, and suddenly I feel so . . . small. I feel overwhelmed by the moment, lost in this new responsibility. I have never felt so confused, so unsure.

  “Pastor Blackmon,” I say, no longer speaking to her as my friend, but as a person of God, “I need to march for me.”

  My eyes fill up.

  “I have nothing else,” I say.

  I look directly at her, but I can’t see her clearly. My tears shroud her in a haze. Her features shimmer.

  “I’ll march in the back,” I say. “When we get close to the crowds, I’ll step out and no one has to know I’m marching.”

  “No.” She shakes her head gravely. “You can march, but I want you to march in front.”

  I feel it then.

  A shift.

  Like a jolt of electricity surging through me.

  The moment rattles me. Stuns me. In this moment, it starts.

  God has humbled me. I feel it. I know it. I know that from this moment on, I will be marching—tonight and for as long as it takes—as an instrument of God’s grace, God’s mercy, and God’s power. I will be walking—and working—for him.

  I’m no one special. I have no unique talent, no special gift. I’m just a man. But tonight God has a hold on my life.

  I walk.

  At first the crowd numbers a hundred people or so, but then the numbers swell—two hundred, three hundred, and then hundreds more. The energy around me changes from a negative, dangerous vibe to something pulsing, positive, even celebratory. I hear a local news reporter—standing on a street corner, holding a microphone—broadcasting to greater St. Louis that tonight the police are walking with the protesters—no riot gear, no gas masks. Tonight, the reporter says, Ferguson feels . . . different.

  Like a scene out of the Bible, the sea of people in front of me separates as we make our way down West Florissant. I walk slowly, taking it all in, not quite believing what I’m seeing. Gradually, people close in to greet me, to encourage me, to walk with me. Not knowing what to expect, I swivel my head from side to side, cautious and vigilant at first. Car horns blare. People shout. Voices holler randomly, a mix tape of indistinguishable phrases. At some point the voices come together, shouting the same phrases, chanting a call and response, and then singing—in harmony. The protest becomes music.

  Hands reach toward me. I touch them, grasp them, shake them, fist-bump them, slap five with them, touch them. Hands rub my arms, clasp my shoulders, pat my back. I walk into a tunnel of sound—shouting, music, street noise, bullhorns squawking—a deafening chorus echoing all around me. Something about this walk feels like a rally, like—dare I say the word—a party.

  I don’t know when I veer off from the march, but at some point I realize that I’m marching alone, except for three officers I’ve assigned to watch my back, who trail me, on the lookout for anyone who might toss a bottle or a rock, or do worse. Protesters fill the gaps between us and on all sides, reaching out, screaming my name.

  “Captain Johnson!”

  Even though the very air around me seems electric, slivers of doubt still swim in my mind.

  I know I’m doing the right thing.

  I know I am.

  I am—right?

  Sometimes when we most need an answer, when we need for God to show us if we’re on track, he sends us a sign.

  Just then a woman rushes out of the crowd and charges toward me. Before I can react—before anyone can stop her—she throws her arms around me and clings to me, holding me tight in her embrace. As she holds me, I hear her sobbing.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Thank God for you.”

  Then as quickly as she charged out of the crowd to hug me, she disappears into a mass of people who swallow her up. For a moment I wonder, Did that just happen? Was she real?

  As I continue to walk, I can’t get that woman off my mind.

  Whatever her intention, she has shown me that I’m doing the right thing.

  She has delivered the message.

  I feel as if a weight has lifted off me. My steps feel lighter; my purpose feels more certain.

  To me, that woman was like an angel.

  Months later, after life returns to a semblance of calm, I’m sitting in a sports bar with some friends after work, and a woman is suddenly standing at our table. I don’t see her approach. It’s as if she had materialized out of thin air.

  She smiles and says, “Do you remember me?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “You hugged me during Ferguson.”

  “I did? Well, you know, I’m sorry, but I hugged a lot of people—”

  “I was the first person you hugged. You were walking down the street. I ran out to you and embraced you. I was crying and I hugged you.”

  I remember her now. I remember that night—the first night I walked down West Florissant. In my mind’s eye, I see her run out of the crowd and throw her arms around me.

  “Yes,” I say. “I recognize you now. Of course.”

  She lowers her head shyly. “I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but at the St. Louis Art Museum there is a photograph of me hugging you.”

  “I haven’t seen it. But I will.”

  “I’m very grateful for you, Captain Johnson.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “I have to tell you: I wasn’t sure about my decision to walk down that street. But then you appeared and hugged me and thanked me, and I knew I was doing the right thing. I thought of you as an angel.”

  “Well,” she says, her smile returning, “I just wanted to come over and say hello.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  She turns to go.

  “Wait,” I say. “What’s your name? I have to know my angel’s name.”

  “Angela,” she says. “My name is Angela.”

  I walk for more than two hours. I walk up and down West Florissant, my blue uniform shirt soaked through with sweat. When I reach the site of the former QuikTrip, I turn back up the street and keep walking, and the crowd comes with me. I don’t see any looting. I don’t hear of any violence.

  At one point as I walk, I hear a lone male voice shouting. At first I can’t make out what he’s saying—I can’t hear his words—but I hear his pain.

  “There’s no one,” he shouts. “No one at all.”

  I follow the sound of his voice. I track it. His voice comes louder, clearer, closer. He speaks in an almost hip-hop rhythm.

  “I’m not scared of your gas. I’m not scared of your badge. I’m not scared of
your stick. That means nothing to me. I need answers—tonight.”

  I find him then—a young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt, with a bandanna covering his face, revealing only his eyes. An outlaw. At least that’s the image he seems to want to project. But when I focus on his eyes, I see fear and pain and rage and youth. I see innocence destroyed.

  “Where is he?” he shouts to the crowd, not seeing me. “Why has this happened? Why are we out here?”

  He sees me now.

  “Answer me this,” he says, his stance confrontational, his body thrust forward in defiance. “Why are we out here?”

  “If I answer your question,” I say calmly, “I want you to listen to me, and I will listen to you. But let’s not scream at each other.”

  “You first.”

  “We’re out here to get answers. If I had answers to give you, young man, I would.”

  I let this sink in.

  “If I could give you those answers, I would, trust me, because then all of us would go home tonight. But I guarantee you that every night when I go home and then when I wake up, I’m looking for some of the same answers you’ve been looking for. I will continue to do that.”

  I pause for a moment and then speak to him quietly, as if we were the only two people on the street.

  “I want you to continue to voice your opinion,” I say. “But I want you to do it in a way that’s peaceful. I don’t want you to get into any confrontations with anybody out here. Because when I come out here tomorrow”—I lean in toward him—“I want to see you tomorrow.”

  The young man’s eyes widen—in surprise, in shock, perhaps in connection.

  “I also want you to go home tonight. I know that your mother wants you to come home; your father wants you to come home—or if you don’t live at home . . . wherever you live . . . I want you to be safe . . . and I want you to have some answers.”

  He nods almost imperceptibly.