by Ron Johnson
Midnight approaches. The large crowd that had congested the street begins to thin out.
I hear people saying as they leave, “Hey, we’ve got to go home. Mom said we have to go home.”
I watch the streets clear and hear a different tone, something more cooperative and conciliatory, and I think almost in disbelief, The curfew is working.
I’m not only premature; I’m also wrong.
I go back to the command post. I find a desk and start jotting down notes for a late-night news conference. Suddenly I hear shouting from outside—a commotion, building to a melee—and somebody shouts, “They’re coming!”
I step outside and see a massive crowd—at least twice the size of the earlier crowd—gathered on the street. Unlike the evening’s peaceful protesters, this group is on a mission of violence, fueled by rage.
They begin to rush toward the command post, throwing bricks, rocks, bottles. Several people in the crowd light Molotov cocktails. I hear gunshots coming from several different directions.
We take cover.
My heart pounding and a sense of sadness and defeat pulsing through me, I order SWAT to deploy—with tear gas. I feel I have no choice.
Armored vehicles roll out. Officers lob tear gas canisters into the crowd descending on the command post. Within moments, the tide of the battle turns. Make no mistake: That’s what this is. A battle.
The crowd halts and retreats, with SWAT and other officers in pursuit. Shielded by the armored vehicles, they charge down the street—and come to an abrupt stop. The protesters have erected a series of barriers—stacks of bricks that resemble rough, jagged walls—forcing the police to stop and allowing the protesters to escape. The street becomes a deafening, discordant orchestra of screaming, coughing, gagging, gunfire, and the piercing blare of sirens. Gray clouds billow from smoke canisters, blinding and choking the protesters running along the street. People claw at their eyes from the tear gas.
Chaos.
The word lodges itself in my brain.
The images swim in front of my eyes.
I feel as if everything has gotten away from us—from me, from everyone. Two days ago, before I took charge of security in Ferguson, our community seemed stuck. And then a ray of hope, a sliver of light. Our community went from several consecutive nights of hell to one good, peaceful day. I saw promise. We had taken a step forward.
Now I feel staggered, as if we’d been sucker punched, that sliver of light snuffed out.
I hope the people I’ve walked with understand that I had to use tear gas. The rioters attacked us. We were completely vulnerable. I had to protect our police officers. I didn’t make the decision lightly, but it was an easy decision to make.
My sense of time is distorted, as if in a dream, but finally the crowd disperses. The streets become eerily empty. The night shuts down and settles into an uneasy tranquility, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But the shards of glass, mounds of scattered and broken bricks, residue of smoke, and stench of tear gas betray that tranquility. These nights in Ferguson are as fraught, as frustrating, as frightening, as painful as any nights I have experienced—or will experience—in my lifetime.
My boots grinding through puddles of glass, I make my way back to the command post. I know that the media will be converging here shortly. I will speak to them, describe the events of the night, and try to hold back the aching in my heart.
One-forty a.m.
I stifle the pain, to a degree, but I can’t hold back my anger.
The media form a horseshoe around me, and the rage I feel floods out. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to.
I talk first about my disappointment—that we had to use tear gas; that an army of protesters . . . no, rioters . . . no, criminals . . . amassed on the street and charged the command post.
I explain how, for three days, I have walked among the people, telling everybody that we are in this together.
“We are partners in this,” I say, my voice cracking.
“I support your rights,” I say to the media assembled around me, and to everyone who will hear this. “I support your freedoms.”
I pause.
“And I support these police officers.”
I can’t say what I’m feeling the most right now—that we had achieved some calm and taken a step forward, but that calm was destroyed—and now we only have chaos.
My heart sinks. I can’t contain my disappointment.
I lower my head and I think about all the issues I talked about with people as we walked—a stew of concerns and justifiable complaints.
Crushing unemployment.
Low-wage jobs.
Poor schools.
Crippling poverty.
Crime.
Drugs.
Terrible relationships with the police.
All of it.
“Tonight,” I say, my voice drifting off, waving away the impending onslaught of questions, “I feel so, so disappointed.”
When the news conference ends, I go into the bathroom and break down.
Gripping the sink, staring up at the ceiling, tears running down my face, I wail, “Why am I all alone?”
I catch myself. I shake my head. I want to apologize.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for having these doubts—”
I slam my eyes shut. I squeeze hard enough for my eyelids to ache.
“It’s been so tough. So tough. Thank you for giving me the strength to get through a day like today.”
I pause. I can’t explain how I know this, but I know we haven’t come to the worst of it. I sense harder days ahead. Much harder.
I open my eyes and something fills me up. A rush of power. An infusion of energy—and hope—rockets through me like an electric charge. It feels like a spiritual jump start.
“I know you’re not giving me more than I can bear,” I say. “I know that.”
I have to believe that, or else I have nothing.
[5] “FULL Governor Nixon press conference (About Ferguson and Mike Brown),” YouTube video of press conference aired August 16, 2014, posted by Trayvon George, August 16, 2014, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keRCkWdN4Lg.
“I AM YOU”
* * *
Would you rather flood your heart or dare let them see you cry?
BEN HARPER
“HOW DARK IS GONE”
I GET INTO BED around two-thirty in the morning, but sleep escapes me. After a few hours, I roll out of bed, shave, shower, dress, and join my family for breakfast. At the table, we don’t say much, but afterward, as I’m preparing to head back to Ferguson, my daughter, Amanda, comes back into the kitchen. Through these days and long nights, I worry about what she and my son, Brad, must be hearing from friends, acquaintances, mainstream media, and indirectly from social media. I have asked her and Brad to stay off Facebook and Twitter until these days pass.
“How’re you doing?” I ask.
“I’m okay.” Amanda tilts her head. “You?”
“I’m all right.”
She pauses for a second, then asks, “You scared?”
I exhale. “Yes.”
She looks surprised at my answer.
“Not scared for me,” I say. “For all of us. For our community. For our country.”
I stop and think for a moment.
“I don’t mean to sound so dramatic,” I say. “But it’s real. And it’s—hard.”
Amanda takes my hands. “You knew it would be.”
“I did.” I put my arms around her. “It’s harder than I thought.”
On my way to Ferguson, I stop for gas. As I flip open my gas tank, a woman at the next pump nods at me and says shyly, “I just want to tell you that we appreciate what you’re doing.”
“Thank you.”
“We heard you last night on TV,” she says. “We all feel disappointed. Just don’t let it get you down.”
“I won’t.”
My phone buzzes. I fish it out of my pocket and
see a text from Amanda.
“Remember, Daddy, when Peter failed, Jesus picked him back up.”
I sniff and look over at the woman at the next pump.
“Today’s another day,” she says.
“Yes,” I say, glancing back at Amanda’s text. “A better day.”
As scheduled, I meet three other officers at the command post. We plan to attend a combination rally and memorial service for Michael Brown at Greater Grace Church. I hear someone say that hundreds of people—perhaps as many as a thousand—will attend.
Members of Michael Brown’s extended family have asked me to say a few words. I agreed, but to be honest, I haven’t had a moment to think about what I’ll say. What can I possibly say? I know I’ll think of something. Even though I have nothing prepared, I don’t feel pressure. I don’t think about my speech at all. Something tells me not to worry. The words will come.
As we walk out to the car, my cell phone rings. On the display I see the name Bret Johnson—my superior, my boss, my friend.
“How you doing?” Bret says when I answer.
“I’m doing,” I say.
“Well . . . ,” he says. He pauses and sighs, and I can hear the struggle and discomfort in his voice. “You know, you’ve been working pretty hard. We can tell from the news conference last night that you’re tired.”
“We’re all tired,” I say.
“Last night, when you said you were disappointed in the governor’s curfew—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“See, you’re so tired you don’t remember. That’s what we mean. You’re doing so much, you probably don’t even recall what you said.”
“I know what I said. I did say I was disappointed, yeah. I was talking to the citizens. I was disappointed in how last night turned out. I wasn’t talking about anything else.”
Bret starts to respond, but I jump in first.
“In fact, the people out here know what I meant. They said, ‘We could tell we disappointed you last night.’ And then they said, ‘Don’t let it get you down. Keep on going.’ They understood.”
“Well—” Bret sighs. I can picture him furrowing his forehead and rubbing his eyes.
“Well . . . ,” he says for the third time, “from here on out, we’re going to use the public information officers to talk to the media.”
“You mean—”
I know exactly what he means, but I don’t believe it.
“You won’t be doing any more news conferences or press interviews,” Bret says. “The public information people will be taking over.”
I survey the faces of the three officers waiting for me. I need to erase all emotion from my face. I need to show them nothing. I need to bury the anger and disappointment I’m feeling.
“Okay,” I say.
“Good,” Bret says.
I want to argue. I want to defend myself. I want to shout at Bret. I want to scream at the world. I know he doesn’t realize what he has done.
He has taken away my voice.
“Okay.”
In the car on the way over to the church, I say nothing. One of the officers, picking up on how quiet I am, possibly even feeling the anger and hurt I have buried just beneath the surface, says, “You okay? You seem preoccupied.”
“I am. Yes. I’m preoccupied.”
When we arrive at the church, I see that the place is packed—every seat taken, people standing and leaning against the walls. I recognize members of the media, some crouching in front of the stage behind the TV cameras.
I make my way to the stage. Several people are scheduled to speak. I’m told that I will be called first.
As I take my place on the stage, I close my eyes and try to settle myself.
I’ve lost my voice.
The thought will not go away, but as I mull it over in my mind, the anger I’ve been feeling dissolves. It is replaced by a kind of sadness, followed by a sense of resolve.
I’ve lost my voice, I repeat silently to myself. In that regard, I’m like the people I’ve been walking with every day who feel that they have no voice.
But at least for today—at least for this moment—I will not be speechless.
I still have no idea what I’m going to say. I have nothing written down. I have formulated no particular thoughts. But if this is going to be my last public speech, I know that I must open myself up, go as deep as I can, and let the words flow.
God will take care of the rest, I think. God will speak through me.
I feel that.
I will allow God in.
I will speak from my soul.
As I step to the podium, I scan the faces of the people in front of me. Although it’s a massive crowd, I try to look into the eyes of each person. I begin to speak, and it feels as if the words come not from my mind, not from my conscious thoughts, but from a source inside me. I have given myself up to something bigger than myself, as if I’m merely a vessel, a conduit through which these words must be spoken.
“Good evening,” I hear myself say.
“Good evening,” the crowd chants back.
I clasp my hands in front of me. I feel the softness of my own skin. I make eye contact with members of Michael Brown’s family, who are sitting in the front row.
“I want to start off by talking to Mike Brown’s family.”
The room goes silent.
“I want you to know that my heart goes out to you.” I pause and keep my eyes fixed on them. “And I say that I’m sorry.”
I point to my chest.
“I wear this uniform, and I should stand up here and say that I’m sorry.”
I am not prepared for what happens next.
The people in the church begin to applaud. The applause builds—slowly at first, and then with more force. Gradually the applause rises into cheering, and everyone in the church stands, continuing to applaud and cheer. I hear the applause and the cheering, and I lose track of time. It seems to go on forever. Later I hear that the applause lasted for almost a full minute.
I wait for complete silence before I continue, and then I say, “This is my neighborhood. You are my family. You are my friends. And I am you.”
More applause.
“And I will stand and protect you. I will protect your right to protest.”
The crowd roars again. I feel my tears coming.
“I’m telling you right now,” I say, trying not to cry, “I’m full right now—”
I bite my lip to hold back my tears.
“I came in here today, and I saw people cheering and people clapping—and this is what the media needs to put on TV.”
The crowd again leaps up, applauding, cheering, roaring. I lower my head and close my eyes. When I open them again, the bluntness and honesty scorch my throat as I say, “The last twenty-four hours have been tough for me. I did an interview last night, and the reporter said, ‘Something’s wrong. Your tone has changed.’ He said, ‘Are you tired? Or is something bothering you?’ And I said, ‘My heart is heavy,’ because last night I met some members of Michael Brown’s family. . . . They brought tears to my eyes and shame to my heart. But I can tell you, and I’ve said it before, my daughter wrote me a thing in a text, and it talked about Peter and Jesus.”
The crowd reacts, applauds, cheers.
“She said, ‘Daddy, I know you’re going to get scared.’ I said, ‘Yes, I am. Not scared for me, but scared for us.’ And she said, ‘Daddy, when Peter failed, Jesus picked him back up.’”
Over building applause, I say, “I needed today to get back in the water. I’m going to tell you I’m going to be here as long as it takes. My words will be honest. If we talk about it behind closed doors, I’m going to tell you. So if you don’t want me to know, don’t tell me behind closed doors.”
I feel my voice rise.
“Because when this is over”—I unclasp my hands and point off with my left hand—“I’m gonna go in my son’s room—my black son—who wears his pants sagging, wears his hat coc
ked to the side, got tattoos on his arms . . . but that’s my baby.”
The sheer emotion of the crowd lifts everybody to their feet—every single one. They stand in unison, clapping, screaming, and cheering. I wait but they don’t stop applauding or shouting. I have to speak over them.
“And we all ought to be thanking the Browns for Michael. Because Michael’s gonna make it better for our sons, so they can be better black men; so they can be better for our daughters, so they can be better black women; better for me, so I can be a better black father; and we know they’re going to make our mamas even better than they are today.”
I pause and nod.
“Let’s continue to show this nation who we are. . . . But when these days are over and Mike Brown’s family is still weeping, and they’re still on their knees praying, no matter what positive comes in our lives, we still need to get on our knees, and we need to pray. We need to thank Mike for his life. We need to thank him for the change that is going to make us better.”
I shake my head as the crowd roars.
“I love you,” I say. “I stand tall with you.” I point to the door of the church. “And I’ll see you out there.”[6]
I exit the stage, the roar of the crowd booming at my back. A minister I had spoken with earlier begins to hustle me toward the door and outside.
“I’m sorry to rush you,” he says, “but the family doesn’t want any police here.”
“I understand.”
“That was very moving, Captain Johnson,” he says. “Do you think I could get a copy of it?”
“I don’t have any copies,” I say. “I just spoke spontaneously from my heart.”
“Excuse me?”
Anthony Gray, a man I know well and the attorney for Michael Brown’s mom and dad, stops the minister a moment before we reach the door. Anthony looks at me, clasps my hands, and nods. “The parents would like to see you,” he says.
I leave the minister and follow Anthony down a hall and into a small room. Anthony closes the door behind me. Michael’s parents are standing across the room. I slowly walk over to them. When I reach them, I see a blank, vacant look on their faces. Death masks. Looks beyond pain and sorrow. Looks beyond tears, beyond shock, beyond disbelief. Their eyes are filled with nothing but raw and naked sadness. Grief. Pure grief. I have seen grief like this only once before—in my parents’ eyes after my brother died.