by Ron Johnson
[11] Ibid.
MAN, BLACK MAN, TROOPER
* * *
The destroyers will rarely be held accountable.
TA-NEHISI COATES
BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME
AFTER THE MONDAY NIGHT press conference, I manage to get three hours of sleep.
All fitful and not in a row.
Late Tuesday morning, I stop at the desk in the kitchen on my way out, remove the rosary beads from the bulletin board, and thread them through my fingers. I hold them up to the light, nestled in a small mound in my hand, and a sense of calm comes over me. Other than my time on SWAT, I have always worked alone, patrolled alone, walked alone. Since taking over the responsibility for security in Ferguson, I’ve felt even more alone than ever. But as I look at these beads in my hand, I know that I’m not alone. I have a partner.
Two pieces of wisdom live within me, embrace me, blanket me like a shadow, keep me focused, keep me strong.
Faith is not what you feel. It’s what you do.
I read that somewhere once.
Trouble doesn’t last always.
I’ve heard that often.
It’s my mother’s favorite expression.
I know I’m on a journey. I know also that every journey comes to an end.
Again, I walk. The crowd today fills in quicker and seems larger than any I remember. Different groups, different affiliations—church groups, citizens’ groups, people from Amnesty International, LGBT groups, pockets of paid protesters.
Reporters walk with us. Camera crews track us, tail us. News helicopters hover, and the whack-whack-whack of their blades supply the backbeat to sporadic chanting: “Hands up; don’t shoot!” and “I am Michael Brown!” People use their cell phones to broadcast up-to-the-minute news reports, with only a momentary delay before they’re posted to YouTube or Facebook. I can watch myself live, walking on West Florissant.
“Look at this,” a female news anchor says from within a small rectangle in the corner of the screen. “These are protesters walking in the middle of the street. They are with a police escort after so many nights of violence. The Missouri State Highway Patrol is handling the policing of these protesters. KMBC’s Eli Rosenberg is live from the streets of Ferguson. Eli, are you seeing anything different from police?”
An excitable young man in a rumpled blue shirt stands to the side with a group of people. He holds a microphone and gestures toward the crowd.
“You guys can see where the protesters have gathered,” Eli says. “They have been marching all day. It is such a different feeling here. We just got a briefing from Ron Johnson, the captain from the Missouri State Highway Patrol, who is leading the security here in Ferguson. He told us—”
Eli shakes his head. For a moment he seems struck mute. He swallows, gathers himself, and continues.
“Just a totally different feeling today going into tonight. Officers will be here, but they will not be wearing gas masks like they have in days past.”
The camera pans through the crowd, landing on a group of police officers standing in the center of the road. They are in uniform, some wearing short sleeves because of the heat. They stand in a cluster, surveying the crowd, hands on hips. A few talk with protesters. If you had no idea what had occurred over the past few days—if you had been traveling in space or recently awakened from a coma—you might think you were watching a parade, a rally, or a tailgate party.
“We’ve seen fewer officers than we have before,” Eli says. “The ones we have seen have not been heavily armed. They’ve just been wearing their regular uniforms as if they were on patrol. These people you see have been marching up and down the street all afternoon and are getting an escort from the man himself leading security, Captain Ron Johnson. He was in the front of this line. He says he wouldn’t ask his troopers to do anything he wasn’t willing to do. It is really an impressive display when you see all these people out here. They say they have come from all over. We’ve talked to people who have come from Chicago and Atlanta. They saw what happened last night, but they say they are not deterred by the violence. They want to march peacefully, and Captain Johnson says he will provide that security as long as they are here.”
I walk, but sometimes I feel as if my legs are striding on a mysterious, unseen conveyor belt. I’m unconscious of traveling, of even taking steps. I start off at one point and before I know it, I’ve arrived somewhere else, a half mile away. It’s as if I’ve been caught up in a raging sea, swept up in a ferocious current of humanity. It feels both unsettling and magical.
I don’t fear this current. I welcome walking in these waters.
Moving rapidly forward, I arrive at the far end of West Florissant and prepare to loop back.
“There are hundreds of people here,” Eli Rosenberg reports in the local television coverage. “This is right outside the QuikTrip that was burned out Sunday night. People we’ve talked to say they really want to change the message that has been portrayed in the media of all the violence. All these people gathered here—people as far as the eye can see—and people are still coming in.”
To go home.
That’s every police officer’s goal.
It should be everyone’s goal.
It should be a reasonable expectation.
I speak with a frantic woman, who points at the crowd amassed on the opposite side of the street.
“Last night, I was walking with my son,” she says. “He’s eighteen years old. And we were walking together.”
She wags her finger in frustration.
“We couldn’t get home. I could not get my son home. He is not a looter. We were out here marching—”
She interrupts herself, her eyes wide.
“You ask us to go home at night, but some of us can’t get home.”
“I understand,” I say. “We have to take care of that.”
“I’m not talking about the police,” she says. “People were shooting at the police.”
“Chaos,” I say.
“We’re caught in the middle,” she says.
We look into the crowd, at the cross section of people walking with us—young; old; black; white; clergy; men in work clothes; men in button-down shirts; shirtless young men wearing red bandannas over their faces, revealing only their eyes; young women pushing strollers; people holding signs; families holding hands.
“Maybe my son seems old to some people, but in the world, he’s young. He’s innocent.”
The woman looks into the crowd. “He’s lost his innocence. Some adults have lost their innocence too.”
“Chaos,” I repeat.
“That’s right.”
“You know what comes after chaos?” I say. “Calm.”
The woman’s eyes widen, glisten. I see a glimmer of hope.
I get a phone call telling me that Attorney General Eric Holder has come to Ferguson and wants to see me. We arrange to meet at a small neighborhood restaurant. I arrive a few minutes early. I hear that he’s come to offer his support, to validate the choices I’ve made. But I can’t help feeling nervous, almost as if I’d been called out of class to see the principal or had been told that my father wants to have a talk. This meeting makes these days feel so real—and momentous.
The door to the restaurant opens and a couple of grim-faced, big-shouldered, sunglass-wearing Secret Service guys step inside. They scan the place, and a few seconds later, one of them opens the door. The attorney general walks in and approaches me.
“My man,” he says.
“How you doing, sir?”
“You are the man,” he says, extending his hand.
“We’re trying to make it right,” I say, shaking his hand. “Trying to make it better.”
The attorney general pulls me into an embrace. “This is what policing should be,” he whispers. “You’re making a real difference.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He pulls away and looks me in the eye. “Today seems a little better, huh?”
“Well, yes, the
community has come out. The elders have come out. The clergy has come out. Everyone’s talking, interacting.”
“That’s what makes a difference,” Mr. Holder says. “Allowing people to express themselves. And getting the police involved with the community.”
“That’s what we have to do.”
“Well, you’re doing it.”
“It’s a game of inches,” I say.
“Inches,” he says, nodding, trying out the word.
“Yes,” I say. “Moving forward by inches. Inch by inch.”
“Inches,” Attorney General Holder says.
After the attorney general leaves, I return to the command post. I walk among the officers, some of whom support me and some of whom resent me, and I realize that—no matter what—we have to coexist. We have to share the same space—emotional space as well as physical space. That has to happen in all our communities. We must embrace a simple, basic tenet that every child learns in kindergarten: You have to share.
Out on the streets of Ferguson, I see many people sharing one cause, one hope, one space, but I also see others who have taken spaces for themselves or for self-gain. They want to bring attention to themselves, or they want to riot.
Why?
I struggle to find reasons. Maybe they feel oppressed and simply want to express themselves. Maybe they want to cause trouble because trouble is all they know. Maybe they’re just criminals.
I see all types of people on the street now. I see professional protest leaders—people who actually teach others how to protest, how to march, where to march, what to say, and what not to say. I see police who refuse to engage with protesters, who resent them—and me. With some officers and certain protesters, I see no attempt from either side to connect.
I don’t allow my spirits to sag—there’s nothing to gain in that. If that’s where we are today, then that’s where we are. I hear my mother’s words, “What good would it do?” If a police officer can’t do good for people, then who can? Who will?
I continue to walk, with my head up and my hopes high.
Inch by inch, I told Attorney General Holder. If we advance only an inch today, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever I can get.
I walk down the middle of that road—a road that is both literal and symbolic. Police on one side, protesters on the other. I am embraced by people on both sides. I’m ostracized by others. I belong on both sides, but for now I don’t want to choose either one. So I walk in the middle, and the assurance of my stride rises and falls, ebbs and flows. Some moments feel like a treacherous climb up a steep peak. Other moments feel easy, even joyous—like I’m on a slow, peaceful stroll that dips into a lush, green valley. I try to find something positive in every moment. I focus on that one thing and try to string several of those moments together. Sometimes I can’t find enough positive to fill even a moment. I find only a blip, lasting barely a nanosecond. Still, I have to find something—and so I walk toward what I believe will be the good, the positive. I walk into the unknown.
Inch by inch.
Moment by moment.
That’s how we’ll get there.
I walk, looking on both sides of the street. Across the way, I see police officers who have spoken up against me, expressing strong opposition. They don’t agree with me or with anything about me—my command, my authority, my philosophy, my tactics, the color of my skin. When I first took over as head of security in Ferguson, I ignored them. I pushed their argumentative words or ugly silence out of my mind. I refused to allow their hostility to affect me.
Since I’ve started carrying the rosary beads, things have changed. I feel a sense of warmth flitting through me, almost like a spiritual pulse, lightening my step and illuminating my perspective. I still don’t appreciate these officers’ negativity, but I acknowledge it and accept it. As the saying goes, It takes all kinds. Like me, these officers wear the badge proudly. We may have different, opposing ideas, but I need them on my side. We need each other. We are in this together.
I no longer ignore these officers. I now seek them out. If I’m walking and I see an officer turn his back on me, I’ll break out of the crowd, go over to the officer, and offer my hand. “How you doing?” I’ll say. “You all right?”
Reluctantly—and not always the first time I try—these officers turn and face me and shake my hand.
“Let me know if I can do anything for you,” I say, finding one officer’s eyes. “I want to help you if I can. I also want to tell you that I appreciate what you’re doing. I appreciate your being out here.”
The next time I’m walking, when I see that officer, I tip my cap to him. He glares back for a second, but then he tips his cap to me.
Inch by inch . . .
I talk to the protesters about the police. I explain that most police only want to protect people’s freedom. These officers are good people, I tell them.
“Give them a chance,” I say. “They want the night to end the same way you do. They want to get home safe.”
Keep your head up, I tell myself, my fingers wrapped around my rosary beads. Believe in small victories. You may not see any victories now, but those small victories will come.
At a meeting in a church, I speak to an older gentleman.
“We all have failures,” he says. “Every day. We fail every day.”
I need to understand that. I need to embrace and expect that. I have to recognize these failures, learn from them, and get better.
I am beginning to understand others’ opposition, and even their fear.
We have entered a new moment—all of us. We have never been in this moment before. This is all new territory.
I pray that we will never be here again.
I walk.
I feel so . . . humbled.
I feel so small.
I feel that I have stepped away from being a policeman.
I’m just a man.
The racial slurs fly at me from both sides, from all sides.
Criminals in the crowd call me the word because I’m The Man.
Cops patrolling the crowd call me the word because I’m a black man.
But I’m just a man.
Don Lemon interviews me on CNN. We stand on a street corner.
“Let’s be real,” Don says.
Over these few days, now totaling almost a week, Don and I have spent time together, on camera and off, and have become friends. I trust him to be honest and fair. He trusts me to tell him the truth. Off the air, we talked about the importance of getting this story out to the nation, to the world. I feel that Ferguson will ultimately be an example of something terrible that will evolve into something good. I believe that.
Don, hands on hips, says, “We hear people saying, ‘We’re pissed off’ and ‘F the police.’ People calling you words like coon. People calling you a sellout . . . because you want peace. I’m sure you’ve heard that.”
Hearing Don speak those words makes me bristle. I feel my already-straight back draw up, become even straighter. “I’ve heard it,” I say. “And that is untrue. I wear this uniform, but it defines me at a low level. I’m a man first. I’m a black man second. I’m a husband. I’m a father. I’m a son. A trooper? I am a lot of things before I am a trooper. But one thing I am is an honest man.”
I lean toward Don. I know what I’m saying is being broadcast to the world. I want the world to hear.
“I have my integrity. I will stand up for what is right. And even if this uniform is wrong, I will stand for what’s right. If this uniform is wrong, I’ll tell you we’re wrong.”
Don gestures at the street, at a boarded-up storefront. “Are you embarrassed by any of this?”
I wait for a count of one—two—three . . .
“Yes,” I say. “I think everybody who is a good citizen of this community, this state, and this nation is embarrassed. Yes.”
Sometimes it gets to be too much.
I close myself in my sanctuary, the bathroom. I pray and I cry.
I cr
y and I pray.
I pull myself together and go back out there.
I don’t reveal my emotions to anyone—not to Lori, not to anyone on the force. I keep my feelings locked up. To all observers, I show strength and resolve and humanity. That’s what I try to show most. Humanity. We cannot come to the end of this endless day until we walk together. We may want—and need—different things. But we have to walk together.
Literally.
Spiritually.
Faithfully.
Late in the day, before darkness sets, I sit in the truck with a few of my guys. We lounge, nobody speaking, four guys on a break. Then without warning a wave of exhaustion levels all of us at once. A couple of the guys bob their heads, fighting sleep, then lose the battle and nod off. I tell myself I’ll doze for only a minute. I’ll take a five-minute power nap. I feel my eyes grow heavy as I drift off. After a while, I jerk awake, my back sore, my eyes blinking.
“How long was I out?”
“About forty minutes, Captain.”
“Wow.”
I yawn away the grogginess and step out of the truck. My body feels refreshed. Forty minutes is all I get. Forty minutes is all I need. Crazy.
Groups of attorneys arrive. They instruct protesters on their rights, their actions, how to stand, where to stand, what to say, when to retreat, how to resist arrest. They wear green hats. They scrutinize the police. They tell the protesters, “If something happens, we’re here. We’re watching.”
People hand out fliers and other literature. Some people sell buttons, hats, T-shirts. Politicians arrive with entourages. People from the LGBT community march, sing, chant, and give interviews whenever possible, whenever asked, talking about the hostility and prejudice they face. The streets are now overflowing with people who are hoping the media—especially the national media—will pick them out and shine a light on their cause, give attention to their struggles.
Truckloads of food roll in. Volunteers pass out prepackaged meals, drinks, protein bars, vitamin supplements, heat tablets. People in the crowd grab the food and tear open the packages as if they haven’t eaten in a week. In some cases, that may be the truth. I watch people distributing the food to lines of protesters and I think, Am I really seeing this? Is this real? The protest is being catered?