Unseen

by Reggie Yates

  Black celebrities started to arrive bringing their fame to the issue and one of the first to do so was rapper Nelly. During my time presenting weekly live music show Top of the Pops, I’d usually open my script apprehensively during rehearsal. My biggest hope was that we’d finally feature an act I actually listened to. At the time, black music rarely found its way onto the pop charts so when it did it was special.

  Nelly was one of the few rap acts that crossed over internationally and I was probably the only person on the studio floor who knew who he was. As he performed one of his first big hits ‘E.I’, I rapped along like a right fan boy as I’d obsessed over the music video in the weeks leading up to his appearance. Between his first few promos and lyrical content, this was the first time I’d ever have a picture painted of St Louis, Missouri from a black perspective. To see Nelly walking through Ferguson on the news brought my education on the area full circle.

  I’d never heard an African-American with an accent like Nelly’s until I’d heard his music. My impression of his hometown was entirely dictated by his first album until Mike Brown lost his life. Nelly’s corner of St Louis would no longer be as connected to his story of the American dream, it would now be remembered for the loss of a black life in what could only be described as an African-American nightmare. The death of Brown would hit close to home as Nelly also called Cranfield Drive home for two years of his life before making it big in music. His cries for peace as protests shifted in tone only added to the growing swell of interest online.

  As the days went on, the protests grew in size and predictably the police presence reflected this rise in numbers. Clifton described what became a stand-off, as lines from both sides would advance and retreat. As reports of looting began to find their way into the press, it was no longer a local news story. Heavy reinforcements arrived and local police unexpectedly appeared militarised. The streets looked very different as thousands were out in force refusing to go home.

  Flares lit the sky red as the more aggressive contingent began covering their faces with masks. Then some cars were set alight and tear gas fired into crowds became a tactic used by police now fitted with shields and riot masks. Highway Patrol Captain Ron Johnson called for calm and made a point of separating the peaceful protesters and those heavily featured on the news committing crimes and physically challenging the police.

  ‘There is a dangerous dynamic in the night,’ he announced, surrounded by mics during a press briefing. Captain Johnson blamed outsiders for coming into town in an attempt to get what they could through looting. Johnson warned, ‘Violent agitators hide in the crowd and create chaos.’ Unfortunately, his assessment of who the trouble makers actually were wouldn’t be widely reported.

  As police tried to control the crowd, Clifton experienced that chaos first-hand at the butt of a rubber bullet. He explained how difficult it was to keep going with the constant threat of tear gas. Unaware of how to protect himself, Clifton was still confused as to why his peaceful protest was met with such force. ‘Not only am I seventeen, it shouldn’t happen.’

  Two thousand National Guard soldiers flooded the streets of Ferguson in an effort to subdue the protests. ‘Hands Up, Don’t Shoot’ became the rallying cry against the use of excessive force used on African-Americans across the country. Protests were now happening countrywide and the same chant could be heard everywhere.

  Society can only take so much pressure and tension before things unravel

  So much of what I knew about the protests was being challenged as Clifton had made everything feel so real. I’d arrived almost a year to the day after the shooting, but there were still protests happening outside the local police station. To my surprise, the cluster of men and women stood outside the grand building were there waving their signs and flags in support of the police and Officer Darren Wilson.

  Several of the demonstrators waved the same sign announcing ‘We support our LEO’ (law enforcement officers), a shorthand used by their supporters. The crowd was predominantly middle-aged white men and women with a few exceptions.

  A woman in her fifties showed me a ‘We support our LEO’ magnet made for her truck, proudly placed on her driver’s door. She spoke with a husky, cigarette-stained voice and handled a large tray of cupcakes with long pink nails as I tried not to stare at the two-inch wide streaks of blue jumping out from her icy blond hair.

  She saw their presence on the roadside as a show of support for the officers. Thankful for their service, she was adamant their protest had nothing to do with race. She believed the demonstration was about standing up for what they believe. I wanted to believe her but in my short stay I’d already accepted it would be impossible to ignore race in a town like Ferguson. It was a town dominated by its 70 per cent black population, but at the time of Michael Brown’s death was being policed by fifty-three officers, only three of whom were black.

  The cupcakes were decorated with blue icing which also spelt out the words ‘We support our LEO’. Paying for the treats herself, she explained she usually spent between $250 and $300 on signage and goods to give away. ‘It’s worth it – money can’t buy that.’

  I was given a rubber bracelet wrapped with the name Darren Wilson in white ink. A slightly older and much more vocal demonstrator was handing them out and insisted I too wore one. She explained that usually the keepsake would be sold at bigger rallies. She saw them as a small but important part of supporting an officer they believed to be innocent. She’d made close to $7,000 selling the bands alone, and that money was a tiny part of how much had been raised by the unassuming group stood in the street.

  At the demonstrations they’d organised over the last year, the group had sold everything from caps to T-shirts. Every penny was going to Darren Wilson and his family, who they believed had been unfairly forced to retire. They’d raised over a million dollars for Wilson, which sounded to me like one hell of a retirement fund.

  The woman selling the bands wore a blue T-shirt bearing a large printed police badge. A date jumped out as being of some importance. I asked what the story behind the shirt was, only to find out it was a bestseller. As she proudly explained the date, I could see a look of sudden apprehension flash across her face. In fact, she then stopped and took a massive gulp during the explanation, which made the older woman look a little ashamed and very awkward. The date on the badge was that of Michael Brown’s death.

  With an acrimonious debate still raging over the details and motivations behind the shooting, it scared me that so much money was being handed to a man who might have taken a life for reasons outside of his job description. At the time and to this day, it’s impossible to defend the killing of Brown with total confidence as proof and detail is thin on the ground.

  The woman’s logic boiled down to good people helping an ex-officer feed his family, yet I couldn’t help but walk away feeling unsettled. Whichever way you sliced it, Wilson had killed a kid and as a result become a millionaire.

  The people waving flags and placards were clearly trying to protect a way of life and clinging to it with both hands. I spotted one of the younger men talking to his cell phone at the end of a selfie stick. He was live streaming to an audience of eighty viewers from around the globe. I interrupted his broadcast and asked him about the nearby sign announcing the war on police officers must end now.

  He too believed there was a war on the police, citing the radical left as leading the charge to bring down America. He included supporters of Mike Brown in that group and saw himself as a defender of the constitution. The more we spoke, the more he struggled to articulate himself. He feared being branded as a racist because of his views and struggled to open up about race. He awkwardly dodged question after question refusing to answer most, until he finally opened up. ‘Society can only take so much pressure and tension before things unravel.’ Finally, he’d made a point we both agreed on.

  I’d been jumping between protesters at the rally for an hour when I spotted Chris. He seemed to want to talk
to me, and I knew I had to talk to him. Chris really stood out, and not because of his behaviour. Chris really stood out because he was black.

  He explained that ‘Not all of them see the truth that I do,’ which made me immediately both fascinated by and furious at him. My first stop on the ‘what the fuck express’ was what did he mean by THEM? Chris continued, ‘This whole thing ain’t about race, it’s about right and wrong,’ which was a sentiment I’d heard a few times on the news, only this belief was usually spouted by older white people.

  I couldn’t help but get annoyed, as Chris spoke with such passion and believed every word. To hear such a statement from a black man was just weird, as to really believe what he’d said required totally ignoring the racially charged history of America.

  Chris went on to explain that he couldn’t support Michael Brown as he’d robbed a gas station. With a shrug he described Brown’s death as unfortunate, but okayed the shooting as Officer Wilson did what he had to do. He shifted a lump on his hip, forcing my confused stare to fall from his face to his waist. ‘That’s my .45, I take it everywhere I go.’ Chris had a handgun clipped to his belt and wasn’t the only one.

  The lady with the commemoration T-shirt joined and clarified that they’d previously come up against aggressive counter protests. Apparently just about everybody who attended would now turn up with loaded weapons. As Chris and the older lady spoke, an undercurrent of Us versus Them buoyed every statement they’d make as fact.

  She pulled her small, embroidered purse from her bag, popped it open and revealed she too was carrying a loaded gun. Clearly, I’m not a gun person, so the best way to describe her .380 pistol was as the kind of thing beautiful women with accents carry strapped to their thigh in Bond films. She definitely didn’t remind me of a Bond girl, but the weapon did.

  Every conversation allowed a further insight into the minds of the small town’s white residents, but what did the predominantly black local community make of such a demonstration? Two young African-American men crossed the street; one filming everything on two mobile phones with a stoney-faced expression, ignoring my questions until he mumbled a response. Without any interest in speaking to me, he was at least filming someone who seemed much more approachable.

  Smiling and shaking my hand, the man on camera introduced himself as Frankie Edwards. He lived locally and wanted to find out what was going on when he saw the flags. Frankie was being totally ignored by every protester, irrespective of the fact he wore a long white T-shirt bearing the wording ‘In peace and solidarity’ surrounding a clenched fist displaying every skin shade imaginable. He literally wore his beliefs even if no one wanted to have a conversation about them.

  Activist Frankie explained that, so far, he’d given 7,000 of the T-shirts away in an effort to see his community unite. Unsurprisingly, the reception he was receiving didn’t bode well for his efforts. ‘We need to come together as a people, not just this race and this race but as a whole.’ Determined to be heard, Frankie was disappointed that a year had passed yet the community made up of blacks and whites living side by side still didn’t speak. The growing distance between our conversation and the protest exemplified his frustrations.

  As he continued to describe a growing segregation in Ferguson, another older lady wrapped in a flag bearing the stars and stripes approached and listened quietly. Frankie was warm and desperate to engage but the only person willing to do so was me. Clearly feeling a little embarrassed, the lady recognised Frankie’s desire to begin a dialogue and slipped into a long monologue explaining her support of the police. She wanted to see respect shown to residents of all colours including the police. She barked, ‘If you don’t like black people, don’t like white people, move out of Ferguson.’

  For some, the protest might not have been about race, but what was obvious was the expectation to pick a side. There was an annoying repetition in every conversation as everybody said a version of the same thing. Most recognised a desperate need for dialogue, but even with Frankie right there, they didn’t take the opportunity.

  If you do not walk down my streets, then you do not know what happens on my streets

  A fifteen-minute drive from the city centre buzzing with business and the picture of multiculturalism saw me hit the dense suburbs. Filled with all-black neighbourhoods, at the time we were there, one in five households were living below the poverty line. Home ownership was half that of the white community, helping me to understand how the relentless layers of inequality could play a part in what was bubbling beneath the surface. The unavoidable disparity in quality of life I could see played a huge part in what exploded when the riots began.

  Fixing the battered image of Ferguson had become a mission for some; none more so than the group of older white women who ran the ‘I Heart Ferguson’ shop on the main strip. T-shirts and posters bearing the heart branding filled the windows and shelves. Walking into the small store, a smiling white woman in her eighties warmly greeted me from her chair.

  I introduced myself to Dorothy Kaiser, a volunteer with a smile almost as perfect as her impossibly ice white hair. Starting out with a couple of T-shirts, the store opened after the incident and took off. A small pile of yard signs were propped up against the wall, Dorothy explained that was all they had left after already giving out 10,000 to local homeowners.

  As she quietly described how she’d watched the aftermath of the riots, another volunteer joined Dorothy. They both expressed their anger about what had happened in their town, believing Brown’s death and subsequent protests encouraged chancers from over thirty nearby towns to travel in, loot, riot and cause as much chaos as possible.

  The volunteers were still angered by the amount of destruction caused during the riots and rightly so. It was impossible to ignore the visible evidence in building shells still black with ash on the main and most prestigious streets. That being said, their feelings were based entirely on the version of Ferguson they knew. Their take on Brown’s shooting and the resulting protests unknowingly exposed a lack of empathy. A total lack of understanding for the kind of interactions with the police their black equivalents might have spoke volumes.

  When you’re my colour that isn’t a choice. The level of suspicion placed on people of African-American descent by the police is a reality totally foreign to the likes of Dorothy. Both her and her co-workers take on why there was still so much anger in Ferguson reflected that.

  Literally across the road from I Heart Ferguson was Cathy’s Kitchen. A black-owned business, it stayed open during the riots providing refuge for protesters not wanting any part of the increasingly dangerous rioting. As I wolfed down several shrimp-heavy snacks, head chef James and I got talking. He believed that if another innocent black man was to lose his life at the hands of a police officer due to excessive use of force, things could only become worse in the country. ‘If you do not live in my community – if you do not walk down my streets, then you do not know what happens on my streets.’

  A constant stream of assaults and deaths of African-Americans at the hands of the police were being caught on camera. Shared on social media and quickly going viral, each video pushed the country further into tense territory. When Baltimore resident Freddie Grey lost his life while in custody, Baltimore erupted.

  Protests quickly graduated to riots overnight and it didn’t take long before the entire world was watching. The National Guard was once more called in and a six-day curfew was enforced. Riots and violence made the headlines but, frustratingly, I watched as the stats didn’t. At the time of filming and in that year alone, 176 had died at the hands of American police officers. Five of them had been in Missouri alone.

  With so many eyes on the police force, I couldn’t quite believe my luck when the police agreed to have me sit in on a training day. I was driving a stupidly huge American SUV and kept making a dog’s dinner of parking. Definitely not starting the day in the smartest way, I nearly crashed the thing while doing illegal manoeuvres in the police car park but
somehow made it into a bay.

  My biggest ambition for the day was to get some sort of an idea as to what the local police force might be up against. The pack of rookies looked a lot younger than I’d expected, which was probably down to the rabbit-in-the-headlights expression they all seemed to share. This tiny local force was under a national spotlight making the importance of training all the more of a priority.

  The young men and women donned newly starched brown uniforms. They were in their final weeks of training, and the exercise I’d be observing pitted them against their instructors in a simulated scenario. The cops were suiting up with heavy amounts of paint-loaded firepower which felt fitting for a hostage scenario, but that wasn’t the day’s test. The rookies were being tested in a traffic stop simulation.

  My British naivety saw me forget that America has that added danger of civilians with guns. The constitution of course enshrines the right to bear arms, and for a police officer, that right could mean their lives. I sat down to watch beside a lieutenant who talked through what they’d be tested on. The amount of artillery both the rookies and their civilian-playing superiors packed for the simulation felt like a lot, the lieutenant felt otherwise and delivered a jaw-dropping comment about his officers: ‘In the back of their mind, they have a back-up plan to kill everybody in the car if need be. Nobody else has to think that way.’

  The first simulation was a routine stop. Being deliberately difficult, the ‘civilians’ quickly escalate the stop into something else entirely. Guns are fired and officers are hit. Knowing when to use one’s weapon as opposed to allowing intimidation or fear to dictate the pulling of a trigger was the point of the test.

  I watched uncomfortably as the superior officers played average Joes doing exactly what I’ve done in the past when stopped. Questioning authority, answering back and being a smart arse were my go-to reactions.