Kneel

by Candace Buford

  “Don’t mind us,” Brad shouted over the murmur of the crowd. He elbowed one of his teammates, who handed him a crumpled piece of paper. He flattened the sheet on his torso, then held it at eye level—it was a flyer about the protest. “This is a public demonstration, right? After all, you invited us.”

  Marion’s grip on the microphone faltered. Slowly, he lowered it to his side. He bowed his head, and even from my vantage point on the ground, I could see the courage seeping out of his body. His shoulders slumped. Ms. J tapped Gabby on the shoulder and motioned for her to hand over the megaphone. She held it up to her lips.

  “All are welcome here. We’re happy to see more people from Westmond in attendance.”

  “So we can see homeboy over there disrespect the flag again?” Brad pointed to me, his eyes glinting with a challenge. They dared me to react. They dared me to push through the crowd and slam him into the car.

  I couldn’t take the bait.

  “This is a peaceful demonstration,” Gabby said. I felt like I should have been the one to speak up, but I was afraid I’d lose my temper. Gabby was cool and collected, holding her megaphone high with a firm grip. “We have a right to be here.”

  “We just came to return something that belongs to y’all.” Brad reached into the back of the pickup and grabbed two large trash bags. They were filled to bursting, the sun glinting off the black plastic. He threw one into the crowd, hitting a few protesters in the head. “Keep your garbage away from Westmond.”

  Gabby clasped her mouth, watching her flyers scatter on the lawn. She’d worked hard on those with the hope it would broaden her neighbors’ consciousness. Instead, it was being used as a vehicle for vengeance.

  “The way I see it, this is a Monroe issue—not Westmond.” One of the older men stepped forward. He had the same nose and mouth as Brad, and I wondered if he was his dad. “So you need to keep your posters and your accusations on your side of the interstate. Don’t be bringing this to our side.”

  Brad opened another trash bag, and his teammates reached in, each pulling out a wad of flyers. They tossed them into the crowd, pelting protesters indiscriminately.

  Fuck this.

  I lunged onto the stage and took the microphone hanging limply in Marion’s hand. I gestured to the group of angry white men standing in the street.

  “A boy was shot and killed by our shared police department. And you think this isn’t a Westmond problem too?”

  But I didn’t need to hear their answer. I knew Westmond felt no accountability for Dante’s murder or Marion’s arrest.

  “What happened to that poor boy was a tragic accident. And there’s an investigation pending.” Brad’s dad held his hands up. He cocked his head. “That’s justice enough for now.”

  “So, I guess you wouldn’t mind if a tragic accident happened to one of your boys, would you?” Homegrown Gary rounded the side of the crowd, his hand hovering around his waistband. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. We all knew where Gary carried his pistol.

  I studied the Westmond folks, waiting for their hands to reach for their waistbands too. I wouldn’t be surprised if several of them had concealed weapons.

  I searched the crowd until I found Karim. I gave him a panicked look and flicked my head to the side.

  Get him out of here, I mouthed wordlessly, flicking my thumb to the alleyway behind me. I didn’t want this to turn into a gunfight. There was still time to deescalate things.

  Karim quietly moved through the crowd until he reached Gary. He grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, whispering furiously into his ear. I pulled the microphone back to my mouth, waving to the crowd to encourage them to look to me instead of the Westmond agitators.

  “These people are a distraction. I will not allow them to derail this protest. We’re here to talk about the injustices our community has endured at the hands of their police department. And deep down, they know we’re right.”

  Marion stood straighter, spurred on by the truth. Raising his hands above his head, he pumped his arms, encouraging the crowd to rebound. It worked—one by one, people clapped and cheered as they turned their backs to the agitators and gave the stage their attention.

  I held a finger up, a laser beam pointing squarely at Lawrence. “He saw the fight break out on Westmond’s field, and he knows damn well his team co-captain, Bradley Simmons, punched Marion multiple times. Lawrence, you saw his face afterward. It was swollen and beaten. Speak up, dude! Say something to the police.”

  Lawrence blushed and looked away, bared raw for all to see his cowardice. Marion clenched his jaw and paced at the front of the stage. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Speak up!”

  Brad stepped in front of Lawrence, as if shielding him from the glares of the crowd.

  “Your silence protects violence.” I dropped the mic to my side just as Gabby brought her megaphone to her lips. I hopped off the stage to stand next to her.

  “Silence is violence!” Her voice boomed through the speaker as she walked to Marion and stood next to him, spurring him to join her. She raised her right arm, her hand balled into a fist, and repeated the words. “Silence is violence! Say it with us.”

  The chant began in a trickle. Worried gazes darted from the stage to the white men, and back to the stage again. But as the chants grew louder, the crowd continued turning their backs on the Westmond agitators.

  Silence is violence!

  The words reverberated off the walls of the surrounding buildings, breathing life into the tattered Dante Maynard flyers that still hung limply on the side of town hall. The Westmond men seemed all but neutralized. They leaned against their trucks, arms folded, as our chants invaded their ears.

  “Don’t let them silence you!” Gabby beamed, her eyes bright as she caught my gaze. “Because silence is what?”

  “Violence!” The crowd cheered, and I joined them—keeping eye contact with Gabby. Then they started chanting again, louder and more forceful than before.

  My ears perked up as the sounds of sirens mingled with the protesters’ chants. A line of police cruisers sped down Main Street and surrounded the town hall lawn. There must have been six cars, maybe more. I couldn’t think through the thudding in my ears as I saw the one cop I feared the most.

  27

  Officer Reynaud slammed his car door shut. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled, “Everybody go on home.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd as they surveyed the escalation. We were surrounded by Westmond cops at a lawful demonstration in Monroe. We had more of a right to be here than they did.

  “Where did I put that permit?” Ms. J’s voice shook as she fumbled through her folder in search of the document.

  Growing impatient, I grabbed the megaphone from Gabby’s hand.

  “We have a right to be here.” I stood my ground with Gabby at my side. I brought her megaphone back to my lips, but Ms. J clasped my arm firmly. She gestured for me to give her the megaphone. Her eyes tight and her nostrils flaring, she was serious. I immediately released it into her hands.

  “Officer, we have a permit,” Ms. J said in her most dulcet tone. “I have the paperwork with me, if you’d like to come take a look.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He jutted his lip out and shook his head. Reynaud wasn’t interested in the truth. He never was. “We got a call saying this was no longer a peaceful protest. That someone was making threats against Mr. Simmons’s boy.”

  “Sir, as you can see here, this is a peaceful gathering.” Ms. J opened her arms, inviting the police officers’ closer inspection. People were armed with posters and chants—nothing more.

  “We’re just here to affirm that Black lives matter,” Gabby said through cupped hands. It earned her another worried look from Ms. J.

  Someone else in the crowd shouted, “Black lives matter!”

 
Then another and another, until the whole crowd was chanting at full force again. I climbed back onto the stage to see the chant spread like fire, lighting up the scared faces. Even Marion beside me was screaming at the top of his lungs that Black lives mattered—that his life mattered. I joined in, smiling widely. Maybe we could drown out their hate.

  Or...maybe not.

  Reynaud reached for his waistband, and I staggered backward, knocking into Marion. Reynaud’s fingers were dangerous around his gun, and if he reached for his holster, we all needed to run.

  But he didn’t grab his gun. Instead, he unhooked his handcuffs from his belt and advanced on the protesters. With a flick of his wrist, his fellow officers did the same. I didn’t know who they intended to arrest, but I didn’t want to stick around. As part of the organizers, Gabby, Marion, and I were easy targets. I crouched near the edge of the stage and tugged on Gabby’s sleeve.

  “Let’s bounce,” I said through the side of my mouth.

  “We can’t just run.” Gabby pushed away from the platform and made a beeline for Ms. J. I wasn’t sure what our teacher would be able to do—she’d tried and failed to convince the police to recognize our permit to assemble. The farther Gabby moved away from me, the more anxious I got.

  “This is now an unlawful assembly,” a loudspeaker on top of one of the cruisers blared. “Anyone demonstrating in this area is doing so unlawfully. I repeat, this is now an unlawful assembly.”

  Grabbing a woman by the armpit, Reynaud snatched her forward, directing her to put her hands behind her back. He held her arms tight and cuffed her. Handing her off to another officer for processing, he unlatched a bundle of zip ties from the back of his belt.

  Realization spread like wildfire through the crowd. They were going to arrest all of us.

  Panicked people started hopping up, backing away from the advancing officers. A wall of people mashed toward the stage, separating me from Gabby even more.

  Homegrown Gary scampered behind the stage and looked in both directions before fleeing down the alleyway. A hard tug on my sleeve snapped my attention back to the chaos.

  “I can’t get arrested again.” Marion gripped my arm harder. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Then go!” I ripped my arm away from his grasp. I couldn’t just leave Gabby.

  I searched the devolving demonstration and found her face down on the sidewalk, her hands held behind her back by Officer Reynaud. She screamed against the pavement and my breath caught.

  Gabby!

  Her shoulder was at such an odd angle. It didn’t seem natural for her arm to bend that far back. Reynaud was three times her size. He didn’t need to pin her to the ground like that. I lurched forward, my hands balled into fists.

  GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!

  I’d seen a friend brutally pinned to the ground like that. Less than a year ago, Marion was buried under the weight of two Westmond linemen. He’d screamed in agony as his shoulder popped out of place. I’ll never forget the image of him writhing on the ground as tears escaped down his cheeks. Now the same thing was happening to Gabby.

  I’ll kill him. When I reached Reynaud, I’d kill him for sure.

  I was yanked backward by two strong hands gripping my arms. I whipped around to find Marion tugging me in the other direction.

  “Get off! Marion, stop!” I shoved against his grasp, but he didn’t let go. I craned my head around to keep Gabby in sight. Her arm was stretched taut under Officer Reynaud’s viselike grip. He ripped a zip tie from his other hand and pulled her arm farther back. With a final shudder of tension, the shoulder went limp, and I knew it was dislocated. “Let go of me.”

  Ms. J stumbled forward, looking alarmed as I thrashed in Marion’s arms.

  “Stop fighting and get out of here. Now.” She pushed me in the direction Marion was pulling.

  “I’m not leaving Gabby!”

  Gabby shrieked so loudly, it pierced through the crowd, right to my heart.

  Everything inside me told me to run toward Reynaud and rip his hands off her body, even if it meant getting arrested. Even if I got hurt. Even if it meant I couldn’t play. I lunged toward her, but Marion kept hold of my arms.

  “Do as I say, Russell. You know what he’s capable of!”

  Ms. J’s voice jarred me back to reality. If I charged a police officer—especially a trigger-happy officer like Reynaud—I could be killed. That was the reality of being Black in America. If I stepped out of line, I could lose my life. And nobody would give a damn.

  Fuck.

  Marion tugged on my sleeve before jumping off the back of the stage. I hesitated on the ledge, torn between what I wanted to do and what I should do—between rescuing Gabby or getting out of the town square, which was quickly devolving into a mass raid.

  “I’ve got Gabby. Go!” Ms. J bounced on her heels, then ran toward Gabby and Officer Reynaud.

  I stumbled off the platform, my heartbeat thumping through my ears. A tear burned across my cheek. I wiped it hastily away as I headed down the alleyway after Marion and Terrance, in the direction that Homegrown Gary had taken—the sound of Gabby’s scream still ringing in my ears.

  * * *

  The screaming in the background disoriented me as I fled down the street. I wondered if one of those cries for help was Gabby’s, and my mind flooded with the image of her lying facedown on the cement with Officer Reynaud pushing her into the pavement. Then watching the unmistakable pop of her shoulder as it gave way to his forceful grasp...

  I shuddered.

  My foot landed in a dip in the road, and my ankle landed at a weird angle. I hopped on one foot, then hobbled down the alleyway after the guys.

  I’d seen Marion run under pressure on the field, seen him flushed out of the pocket and have to make a quick escape. He’d tuck the ball close to his chest and book it across the field with tight, measured strides.

  This was not that.

  He ran full tilt, his arms flailing like windmills as if he could use the wind to propel him forward—using any advantage to keep him from falling prey to the bevy of cops storming the crowd of protesters. Labored breathing and heavy footsteps sounded behind me. I looked over my shoulder and found Terrance struggling to keep our hurried pace. As a bulky defensive lineman, he wasn’t used to the rigors of sprinting.

  Gary darted to the right down another side street, and Marion, running in jagged lines to avoid potholes, turned to follow. My footsteps were equally as erratic—the frantic pats of our feet against the pavement echoed off the side of town hall.

  For a split second, I forgot where we were going. But I was on autopilot, instinctively following the path away from the mayhem.

  “This way!” Terrance shouted from behind me. He wheezed, pointing toward his house at the end of the block.

  Turning quickly, Marion changed direction so fast that I almost careened into him. We caught up to Terrance, who huffed as he jogged and fished in his pockets for his keys.

  There were more footsteps behind us—some hurried and frantic like ours, some more sure of themselves, steady as they stomped in pursuit. In either case, I wasn’t taking the time to look. I’d made my decision to run.

  Another voice called, “Stop right there!”

  “Who’s that?” I hissed, afraid to look. It was an unfamiliar voice that spoke with authority.

  Please don’t be a cop.

  “I think one’s following us!” Marion craned his neck, looking past me toward the alley. He cussed under his breath, confirming my biggest fear.

  “Run faster,” I said between huffs. “Terrance, where are them keys?”

  “I had ’em a second ago.” He pawed at his pockets. “Hold on!”

  “Terrance!” I yelled. I hoped to God he’d picked them up off the registration table where I’d seen him drop them.

  “Got ’em!” Terrance held th
e keys up. They dangled from his fingers, clinking in the wind.

  He jammed them into the side gate, his fingers shaking as he turned the lock. The wooden door flung open, and we toppled forward. I landed on the stone pathway with a thud, catching myself with my hands before my face hit the ground. Terrance shut the gate, then ducked below the top, out of sight of the watchful eyes of cops.

  My breaths were ragged and loud, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from being noisy. Breathing through my nose pinched my nostrils, making it hard to catch my breath. I scrambled to a shaded corner of the side lawn and crouched against the fence across from Marion.

  Large beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and caught on his eyelashes. For a moment, it looked like he was crying, like he had in the car ride back from New Orleans after that fancy lawyer had delivered the bad news about his case. I wouldn’t blame him for crying. Shoot, I was fighting back tears myself. We had every right to be terrified.

  Still on his haunches, Marion crab-walked to the latched gate, mashing his face flush against the wood so that he could look through the slats.

  “It’s still popping off out there,” he said in a low whisper, hoarse and shaky with fear.

  I scooted forward and squinted through the small opening, watching people scatter and hide. One of the college students I recognized ran through the alley followed closely by a cop with his club raised. A cop was going after a white student like that? What would he do to someone like me?

  An influx of squad cars flooded the streets with sirens, some of them with Westmond PD emblazoned on their sides. I shoved away from the view, unable to look, but Marion kept watching at the other side of the gate. He held his phone up, recording video as the officer tackled the guy to the ground.

  “I know the importance of a video. Maybe this’ll help him out later. You know, when they try to say he resisted.” He kept filming, no doubt thinking about the person who’d filmed the Westmond fight. Even though the video hadn’t freed him from all the charges, it was still helpful. Maybe this video would help the guy getting arrested.