by Ron Johnson
“Do you remember me?” she asks again, unconvinced. “Really?”
“I really do,” I say as I take her hand. “I’ve seen you out here. You’ve been here from the beginning. Now I’m here today, I was here yesterday, and I’ll be here tomorrow.”
“You do remember me,” she says.
The voices change. The sounds change. The tone changes. The thickness in the air lifts. The ache I hear softens. The throbbing pain I’ve felt thrumming through the community eases. Days ago, when I first walked down the street, people shouted, “We didn’t ask you to walk down here! What do you want?”
Now I hear, “Where have you been?”
I talk and I listen. I listen more than I talk. I try to hear more than listen. When I do speak, I speak from my heart, from my soul. Words are important, words are real, but our words matter less than we think. Actions matter more.
Interacting on the street with the protesters.
Listening.
Walking.
Being seen.
Being here.
At first I didn’t know what I should do. I didn’t know how to make that connection. But I had faith. I held on to that. Gradually I learned that faith is not a feeling. Faith is not what you say. Faith is not even what you believe. Faith is what you do.
I walk all day until it starts to get dark. Dusk eases in with a sense of foreboding, bringing on the night. As we’ve seen, day after day, night seems to bring out the rioters, the violence. I fear the night.
Every night before our briefings, I pray. Tonight, like this morning, I don’t ask God for anything. I simply thank him for the change I feel, for the change that’s coming. I thank him that the storm finally seems to be breaking. And then I take a deep breath, walk out of my sanctuary, and take on the night.
The change I felt this morning carried throughout the day. But now comes the true test. I gear up for what might happen tonight. I keep my vest close by. But the night surprises me. This night is different. We experience a few unruly moments, some disruption, a little bit of chaos. But we have noticeably less violence, the unrest is not as loud, and there’s less rage in the air. I feel it: the shift, the break in the storm. In the words of Sam Cooke’s classic song “A Change Is Gonna Come,” “It’s been a long—a long time comin’, but I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will.”
The media gather at two in the morning. I’ve jotted a few notes, and my eyes are burning and blurry from strain. I wear my glasses. I begin to speak, and I only occasionally glance at the paper in my hand. I wait for a moment to allow the members of the media to settle. I speak evenly, my voice level, sounding more controlled than I feel.
“Twenty-four hours ago, I told you how organized and increasingly violent instigators were inserting themselves into law-abiding protesters. I asked that the forces for peace come out and protest before the sun went down so that they would not serve as shields for the lawbreakers in the night.”
My voice begins to rise, but I want to tamp down the excitement I’m starting to feel, so I swallow before I continue.
“Tonight we saw a different dynamic. Protest crowds were a bit smaller and they came out earlier. We had to respond to fewer incidents than the night before. There were no Molotov cocktails tonight. There were no shootings.”
I look at the notes I’ve scribbled and start to read. I hear myself speak, almost as if I’m in the crowd, my voice suddenly solemn, weighty.
“A vehicle did approach the command center, and threats were made to kill a police officer. We identified the vehicle, located it, and made arrests. We seized two loaded handguns. In another incident, a third loaded handgun was also seized. At about midnight, bottles were thrown at police officers near a public storage business located on West Florissant. This forced police to deploy their helmet shields for protection and then break into the crowd and search for the agitators, who hid behind the media for safety.”
I look up, search the faces of the press corps in front of me, and catch the eye of one of the reporters. He seems to see the relief I feel. I force back a tiny smile.
One night, I think. It was one night and it wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot; but it felt different . . .
I fold up my notes and speak quietly.
“All night and early this morning, no smoke bombs and no tear gas were used by police. We did deploy very limited pepper spray. And tonight, once again, no police officer fired a single bullet.”
I nod, finished with the briefing.
One night, I think.
That’s how this will end.
With one good night.
“TROUBLE DOESN’T LAST ALWAYS”
* * *
Faith is taking the first step, even when you don’t see the whole staircase.
MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.
I STAND IN MY BATHROOM at home and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes look sunken and red. As I study my reflection and let my mind run free, my face dissolves into another—a much younger face of forty years ago. I am nine years old. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and I have just come home after a miserable day at my new school. A kid bashed into me in the hall, knocking my books out of my hand. As I knelt to pick them up, I heard him snarl the word as he walked away. Later, sitting with my mother in our kitchen, fighting tears, I tell her what happened. She holds me tight to her, rubs my back, and whispers, “Trouble doesn’t last always.”
The face in the mirror returns to my face of today. I’m no longer nine years old, but my mother’s words remain, echoing inside my head. A brief smile appears below my weary eyes.
No, trouble doesn’t last always.
It’s still early in the day when I pull out my phone to call my mom. I had thought to call her hours ago, but I didn’t want to alarm her. We all know what a late-night call can mean. In any culture, but especially in the African American culture, when you get a call late at night, you know something terrible has happened. I know that my mother has been watching the events in Ferguson on TV and worrying about me, and yet she has given me the time and space I need without getting on my case to call her more often. I have called her a couple of times in the past week, just to check in, but now I have something I need to tell her.
“Hey,” I say when she answers the phone.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I hear her breath come softly. I realize that from the second she picked up the phone and heard my voice, she has been holding her breath, anticipating bad news.
“I just want to reassure you,” I say. “Things have changed. They’re happening for the better now. The storm has started to pass. I can feel it.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, quietly encouraging me, knowing I have more to say.
“I have been out there, walking, and you know—” I feel myself smile. “And, well, people have been asking me why I am the way I am. They want to know where I got this training from.”
“Training? What did you say?”
“I said ‘I don’t know’ . . . but I do know. And I just want to thank you for raising me the way you did—to be the man that I’ve become. If Dad were here, I would tell him too. So . . . thank you.”
My mother sniffs back a tear and says, “I didn’t know of any other way.”
“Well, I just hope I’ve done as well with my kids.”
“Oh, you have,” my mother says.
Please, God—please don’t let there be blood on my hands.
A criminal in the crowd threatened to kill a police officer.
A civilian was shot on the street by an unknown gunman.
But no one has died.
“My fear . . . ?” I say to Lori over breakfast. “I didn’t want anyone to die. For all the reasons. For every reason. I did not want to be responsible for anyone losing his or her life. I know that if a police officer should die, I’d lose my command. But what would be even worse . . . ?”
Lori waits for me to finish. She knows I’m getting in touch with something I haven’t
wanted to face.
“I wouldn’t be welcome at the funeral,” I say.
As I stand at the desk in the kitchen, bunching up the rosary beads before putting them in my pocket, I feel Lori standing behind me.
“It wouldn’t be your fault,” she says.
I turn to her. “It would be my responsibility.”
“But—”
“I’m the guy in charge. It would always come back to me.”
Lori starts to speak, then stops and lowers her head.
“I can’t help it,” I say. “That’s how I feel. I am responsible for every person in my command, for every person out there.”
She nods and bites her lip. You can’t argue with how someone feels. We both know that. I slip the rosary beads into my pocket, walk over to her, and wrap my arms around her. We hold each other for a long time, and then I head out the door.
It’s a tough job being a police officer.
It’s also tough being someone who loves a police officer.
The extreme violence, the looting, and the streets filled with protesters in Ferguson after the shooting of Michael Brown comes to an end. There’s no dramatic final act. No curtain falls. It simply stops. The mood on the street shifts. The change I felt twenty-four hours ago continues and builds. The tension that enveloped all of us on the street like a dark menacing fog lifts.
I know it may be temporary—future events may cause emotions to boil over again, and new violence may erupt—but I have to live now, in this moment. So many times, especially at news conferences, people have asked me, “What is your plan for tomorrow?”
I always answer the same way: “Tomorrow isn’t here.”
Today is all we have for sure. Now is all we know. And for now, the events of the past two weeks are coming to a stop.
I get an early morning phone call from the governor’s office. Based on last night’s events, during which we made only six arrests, the governor has decided to withdraw the National Guard. He will not make a big announcement or shine a spotlight on the decision. The Guard troops and armored vehicles will simply depart without fanfare. They will evacuate Ferguson and return West Florissant to what I hope will no longer look even remotely like a street under military occupation.
We all crave a return to something resembling calm. We want the businesses in Ferguson to remain open or to reopen; or if they have been burned out or looted, we want them to rebuild. We want our citizens to go back to work. We want our kids to go back to school. We have spent the past thirteen days living in the clutches of negativity. The world now associates Ferguson—a typical, all-American town—with only negative images: Michael Brown’s body lying in the street for hours; the looting and burning of buildings and businesses; throngs of people pouring onto the streets, engulfed by smoke bombs and tear gas; people screaming and cursing at the police; the landscape of a battle zone. It’s time to replace those images with positive ones—kids walking to school; people shopping; the police interacting peacefully and meaningfully with people in the community. We’ve seen firsthand that every picture is worth a thousand words. We need to start broadcasting and posting positive pictures. We need to show the world that we have survived, that we will be coming back, and that we have learned from this tragedy.
At least, I hope we have learned. I pray to God we have learned. We have to. We have no other choice.
On my way to the command post, I take a detour and drive slowly down West Florissant. Something catches my eye and I pull over. Two policemen walking patrol stop—on their own—to talk to a couple of residents. That’s all it is: two officers and two other people, talking. That’s what the world needs to see. That picture.
I don’t know if I inspired these officers by walking every day, twice a day. It doesn’t matter. But I do know that a week ago, I would not have seen that image. They say that actions speak louder than words—and here’s some concrete evidence. Actions—even a simple conversation on the street between two police officers and two residents—have power.
When I walk into the command post, I sense another change. The energy in the room feels palpably different. I feel a ray of warmth. It pulses through the room, bringing with it a sense of group accomplishment. For the first time in more than a week, I don’t feel under attack. I don’t feel judged or scrutinized from anyone out on the street or from anyone inside these walls. The feeling is accompanied by a nod, a tip of a cap, a handshake. It means so much. No, it means everything.
Riding this wave of good feelings, I want to get out into the community. I’m planning to walk on West Florissant later today, but I sense that I can send an even bigger message if I appear in the daily lives of everyday Ferguson residents. I arrange to visit a local public library where an art teacher, Carrie Pace, has been meeting with students for the past three days—ever since Walnut Grove, the elementary school where she teaches, closed because of the protests.
I heard that Carrie has been walking on the street, holding a handmade sign over her head that reads, “School Closed? Bring Your Students Here.” Underneath are the words “Ferguson Public Library.” I’m very moved by this young teacher’s dedication to teaching and her commitment to her kids. I want to meet her and express my support.
I round up a couple of officers, and the three of us drive to the library. I walk toward the library’s front doors and then hold back for a moment.
Every day as I’ve walked up and down West Florissant, I’ve asked myself, Do I have a destination? Or is this an aimless walk? Where am I going? And every day I’ve told myself emphatically, over and over, that I am not just walking in circles. I’m not walking in purposeless loops. I am walking toward something, toward an end point. I just don’t know what it is yet. It has not yet been revealed. But I have faith that it will be.
Now as I approach the front door of the library, I have a strange intuition that my destination may be discovered inside these doors.
The two officers and I walk into the library and are directed to a large meeting room. I’m stunned by what I see. I was told that when Carrie started her makeshift school program on Monday, only about a dozen kids showed up. Now as we walk into the room, we see upward of 160 schoolchildren sitting at tables around the perimeter, or sprawled on the floor. Carrie moves easily from age group to age group—ranging from kindergarten to sixth grade—overseeing the kids making art projects, filling out math worksheets, and reading books. I can’t explain it yet, but I know this is it. I’ve found my destination.
I can never get over the resilience of kids. They inspire me with their ability to live in the moment, to take life as it comes and make the best of it. The kids seem excited to see us: three police officers in uniform—larger than life to some, perhaps; maybe even heroes to a few. The youngest ones may not even know what’s been going on, having been shielded from the news and the negativity.
Carrie says they’ve been expecting us and that the kindergartners have made gifts for us. I walk over to a cluster of kids on the floor. Their exuberance is contagious. One girl shows me a sock puppet she made. Others show me drawings they’ve made and coloring books they’ve been working on. I praise their work and continue moving with Carrie from group to group. This is what it’s about—these kids. They are so pure, so innocent, so eager to engage, to learn, to be. Seeing how Carrie engages with these kids fills my heart and soul with emotion and hope.
Start here, I think. Start with these kids. Here lies our future.
I leave the meeting room with gifts—a sock puppet, a coloring book, and a box of crayons. Just before I exit the library, I tell Carrie, “I know these are not ideal conditions. I can see you’re pretty much stretched to your limit.”
“We adjust,” she says. “We’ll go back to Walnut Grove when you think it’s time.”
“We’re getting there,” I say.
When I ask police officers to walk the streets of Ferguson, I don’t want them to stand in lines, creating a kind of wall between themselves and the people. I a
sk them to walk, to engage, to connect, to talk. I park my car and walk down West Florissant for a little while, talk to a few people, and then check my watch. I have another meeting in the community. I am going to my old high school, Riverview Gardens High, to sit down with members of the student government, other leaders of the school, and the superintendent. I go alone to give them an opportunity to ask me any questions they have and voice any concerns.
I take my seat in a classroom, and as I settle in, I feel a much different vibe than the one I felt earlier in the library. The students welcome me, but they’re wary at the same time. I haven’t come to lecture them or state my case—or any case. I’ve come to ask these young people questions and to listen carefully to their answers. I have no agenda. I’ve just come to hear them.
I begin with a simple question: “So, how do you feel right now?”
“About the police?” a young woman asks. A hair-trigger response.
“Yes.”
She hesitates, squirms in her seat, and shares a look with a couple of the other members of the student council. “Honestly? We don’t trust the police.”
The other students murmur agreement.
“Why don’t you trust us?” I ask.
“We’re afraid of you,” a young man says.
“Why?” I ask the room.
“We feel that you think you’re above the law,” the first young woman says, to more encouragement, more agreement.
“You act like you can do basically anything you want—anything—and get away with it, because you wear that uniform,” another young woman says, folding her arms.
The discussion heats up from there. The young people talk over each other, often finishing each other’s sentences. I don’t judge anything they say. I don’t defend myself or the police in general. These students deserve to have this forum to speak their minds freely. I sit among them, allowing them to spew out their anger, confusion, and concerns. It’s okay that they become upset. They need a constructive outlet for that anger. I hear their pain and obvious frustration. I take in every word. Then a young woman who hasn’t spoken yet starts to say something. The room goes quiet. Her voice raw with anguish, she speaks in a tiny, quivering voice.