"DEAR PROTESTER" by Elizabeth Vondrak
Elizabeth Vondrak’s “Dear Protester” is a story of true depth and relevancy. As our nonfiction editor, Tolu Daniel describes, it “reminds us of what it means to be human. Her essay carries us from whatever comfortable place we are in and dumps us in front of history. A very timely essay in a time like this.”
Dear Protester,
I’m sure you don’t remember me—one of many middle-aged white women wearing a facemask to prevent contagion. Or how I slowly walked by as you stood next to your car with out-of-town plates, the door still open from your exiting the vehicle. Or how I pretended not to take in the scene in which you starred. I may have been as forgettable as any face in an audience, but you, like an expert performer, I’ll never forget.
You might remember: the day was sunny, barely humid—a perfect June late afternoon in Boston. Earlier, I’d been on my patio doing a makeshift yoga practice, listening to the rosary on my iPhone, searching in the stretching of my muscles and in the repetitive prayers a release from the tension that had been squeezing my joints and mind since the start of the pandemic’s stay-at-home order and that had intensified since the civil unrest erupted in Minneapolis and spread across the country. I wanted a moment of escape from fear—to be in my backyard yet somehow away from the world of sickness and upheaval. But then the sound of circling helicopters started. And didn’t stop.
After checking a neighborhood Facebook group, I learned that a rally to support the police was scheduled in front of the precinct station on a large traffic circle three blocks from my home. A counter-protest was also set for those wanting to express their discontent with police brutality and racial injustice. According to one member of the Facebook group, the police rally was a cover for Trump supporters. “Totally,” said the first reply. All subsequent comments agreed. I wondered if these people posting had forgotten where we lived, a liberal northeastern city where Republicans are about as common as coconut trees. It’s also a city that requires its police officers to live within its limits, and so the Roslindale/West Roxbury neighborhood, somewhat suburban and affordable by Boston standards, finds itself populated by several officers and their families, including the police commissioner. In the twelve years that I’ve lived in the neighborhood, I have come to know several police officers through my children’s schooling and activities and our church. As tone-deaf and insensitive as the pro-police demonstration might have been (and just three weeks after George Floyd’s death), I strongly doubted this was a pro-Trump rally. Instead, I assumed it was the impulsive reaction to the outrage and fear that officers and their families felt upon the police being referred to as “racists” and “murderers” and being spat on and targeted with bottles and rocks. (I would later read a local online newspaper article that explained that the assembly was officially entitled “The Law Enforcement and First Responders Appreciation Rally” and was hosted by local “residents.”)
Despite my desire for a moment’s escape from the world, I followed the helicopter’s noise and walked to the protests.
Despite my desire for a moment’s escape from the world, I followed the helicopter’s noise and walked to the protests. Perhaps the curious writer in me compelled me to witness this face-off. Or maybe this mother of three biracial children and wife of a black man wanted to see just what this pro-police crowd was going to say and do at this moment. A moment when so many in the community were reeling from the horror of a black man’s minutes-long suffocation by a policeman. A moment when so many were trying to process a piteously long list of victims at the hands of those who were to protect and uphold the law.
As I neared the precinct station, I could see the group of police supporters, all white, no Trump signs or hats, many holding black and white American flags bisected by a lone blue stripe. I was struck by the presence of so many children. They held handmade posters proclaiming “Back the Blue” and “Support the Police” with royal blue hearts framing the words. I assumed many of these little ones were children of police officers. My heart ached for them. They, like my own kids, were surely confused and afraid by what they had seen on their screens—a policeman killing a defenseless man; rioters breaking windows, setting fires, and tangling with law enforcement. Of course, they support their moms and dads. But what do these children know of timing? Of reading the nation’s pulse? Of recognizing this moment doesn’t belong to the police, who have always held power, but to those who have carried the scars of slavery? Of failed reconstruction? Of unfulfilled promises? And to those who are finally seeing the dark truths that have always existed? (Later I would see in the article about the dueling protests, a photo of a white man wearing a Trump 2020 t-shirt and a black man with a bullhorn who, according to the writer, antagonized a group kneeling in honor of George Floyd, declaring they should bow before Trump instead).
So, Dear Protester, I agree this is not the time for pro-police rallies. And I share your horror and disgust toward the murder of George Floyd and all the others. Shortly after the release of that horrible video, I took my children to a demonstration at the same rotary; we stood not far from where I saw you about to join the counter-protest. My thirteen-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, and my nine-year-old son were buoyed to see so many of their white and black friends and neighbors sharing in their outrage, their sadness, their instance that everyone be treated the same. In that moment, my children, so frightened and unsettled by the images they had seen—the murder of a black man begging for his life, the destruction and burning of parts of their city—found comfort in the peaceful, yet instant, response of their community.
Long before Minneapolis, my husband and I had “the talk” with our children. I’m sure you can relate to being told, while still a kid, that you need to be mindful that some people will perceive you as a threat, assume you are up to no good, and presume you are guilty until proven innocent. Our older son, who is 5’8”, loves to take pictures of flowers and birds and videos of frolicking squirrels. That’s fine when roaming in the local arboretum, we have told him, but he is not to capture images of anything in other people’s yards. We couldn’t stomach the thought of homeowners demanding our son, who stutters when nervous, to explain why he was taking pictures or videos of their property.
Sadly, my husband and I are justified in our belief that some in our neighborhood will expect the worst of our children. I was reminded of this on my way to the protests as I passed a shuttered car lot and repair shop where, for years, a charter high school, attended mostly by black and brown teenagers from lower-income neighborhoods, has been trying to get city permission to build a new state-of-the-art campus. When word got out about the school’s intention, several local residents created a neighborhood organization, and up sprang yard signs demanding the project be stopped. “Save our Neighborhood” proclaimed one of the biggest signs. The organizers insisted that a school on the site would create a nightmare of traffic, despite the fact that students would commute via city busses and trains. And although their earliest leaflets declared that the school would lower property values, they later tried to disassociate themselves from any argument that smacked of racism, such as the one made at community meetings that “those kids” would roam the neighborhood and cause mischief. Some resisters claimed their opposition arose from a general disapproval of charter schools. Never mind the school already existed and that the new campus wouldn’t increase the student body. Never mind the school’s outstanding track record in graduation and college attendance rates. Never mind that this was the school many black and brown families had chosen after traditional public schools had failed them.
Two police cruisers showed up outside, and my husband begged me to answer the door and explain what had happened. “Look at me!” he said, meaning “Will the officers, including the black ones, believe a black man in worn-out running clothes is the owner of a three-story colonial with a BMW parked in the drive?”
So, yes, even though I live in a diverse neighborhood in a liberal city, I can’t believe all my neighbors will look at my children without suspicion. And my husband and I have told our kids, just as I’m sure your parents told you, if they are approached by the police, they are to be extremely polite and do exactly as told. Sometime before “the talk,” they were nonplussed to see their dad panic one Saturday morning when he accidentally set off our house security system. Two police cruisers showed up outside, and my husband begged me to answer the door and explain what had happened. “Look at me!” he said, meaning “Will the officers, including the black ones, believe a black man in worn-out running clothes is the owner of a three-story colonial house with a BMW parked in the drive?” Since arriving in America from Nigeria thirty years ago he has had his share of racial affronts. Of being pulled over by police for driving while black. Of being followed by department store employees for shopping while black. Of being begged by a white woman not to come any closer when he was asking for directions. Of being told by his white college friend that he couldn’t attend her family party because her dad wouldn’t welcome him. Of being called the n-word by a white man because he was walking with a white woman—me, on one of our first dates.
I continued around the rotary, past a group of counter-protesters, a collection of white and black, young and old, many on one knee, fists in the air. They carried signs with the familiar mantras—“Black Lives Matter,” “ No Justice No Peace”—as well as posters listing the names of victims of racially-motivated violence. The whole gathering assembled around the circle, granted it was still early, seemed rather civilized, almost polite. I heard some chanting and honking, but nothing overly confrontational or provocative. (I would later read about a few skirmishes between the two sides, including one in which a black man had been spat at by a police supporter, but that they’d quickly subsided.) One pickup truck drove around and around. A large wooden sign standing up in the truck bed proclaimed, “shame on spineless politicians” and “don’t believe the media.” It was a yawning attempt at defiance. Surely no one these days would accuse politicians of bravery and the media of impartiality; nonetheless, that didn’t change the experience of many black Americans for whom racism was neither a relic of the past nor a stranger to policing.
The day I attended the protest with my children, I’d left the rotary feeling the tightness gone from my chest, as if, despite my face mask, I’d breathed in hope like oxygen. I could sense a tempered excitement in my children as we discussed how so many people were paying attention to this moment. Maybe eyes would open to not just the inequities in policing but also in the entire justice system and in access to capital, housing, and quality healthcare and education. Maybe eyes would open to the not-so-slight slights such as those experienced by my husband and all too familiar to black Americans. Yes, maybe all those protesters would see that racism hadn’t disappeared with the 1964 Civil Rights Act. Even though legal segregation might have disappeared, many minds in our country still segregate citizens into categories colored with prejudice and limned in stereotypes.
But the hope that had filled the air that day dissipated as I looked at the two sides facing each other and heard a lot of talk but no dialogue. The defensive response of those associated with the local precinct rendered the metal barriers separating the groups metaphorical significance. The automatic assumptions by community members that a pro-police rally was the plotting of Trump operatives betrayed a collective failure to reflect. The day I’d been there with my children, everyone in that circle had been united in our calls for justice, our testifying that we wouldn’t be content with the usual anymore. I looked across the street at the towering Romanesque church and felt we were answering God’s call to stand up for truth and love. Though many may not have used the same words, I felt that what we all wanted was so basic, yet for so much of America’s history elusive—for everyone to love their neighbors as they love themselves—as people, who simply by their humanity, merit dignity and respect.
So, when I stepped onto a block leading away from the dueling protests and saw you and your companion at your car, that sensation of hope faded even more. You stood tall, broad-shouldered, your long, slender locs tied back from the masculine contours of your face. It wasn’t your handsome looks that had caught my attention. It was the policeman’s hat on your head and the rubber pig’s nose dangling from a black elastic around your neck which you wore with your t-shirt and jeans that did. I noticed your companion standing a few feet from you—a short, dark-haired white man, overweight, struggling with some cotton candy-pink material in his hands. As I neared, I wondered if his unsteady movements and childlike facial expressions were indicative of cognitive impairment. You encouraged him with jovial laughs and smiles as he clumsily stepped into what was now an apparent pig costume. As I passed the two of you, I could see the front of the large black poster in your hand, the words written in thick angry strokes, red as blood: “Fuck the Police.”
A few yards later, I came to the commuter rail tracks and stopped as if waiting for a train. Hope now felt tiny, fragile, like the last fuzzy seed on a dandelion stem. As I stared at the tracks, I began to cry silent tears and was grateful for the mask and eyeglasses that obscured my face though no one was across the tracks to see me. I scolded myself for being hysterical. I assured myself that, after so many months of uncertainty and now unrest, I had simply reached my limit.
Despite my self-admonishments, I couldn’t chase away my despondent thoughts, especially those of my children. Of my son with special needs, how he could easily be manipulated, especially by someone he trusted. I took off my glasses and dried them on my t-shirt. I put them back on and turned around, my back no longer to you. Your companion looked at you again and again for approval. He responded to your urgings and fought harder to get into the costume. But could he have understood the message a pig suit communicated? As my outrage grew, I imagined asking if you understood the optics of manipulating a disabled person for a laugh, for a tasteless political statement. I wanted you to consider the black performers of the past, forced by poverty to be ridiculous, to humiliate themselves for their white audiences.
“That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day!” said one. “Can I get a picture?” said the other. They took photos while you smiled like the barker at a carnival.
And then came the two white women. Do you remember them? They walked down the street from the rotary, carrying homemade signs, and upon seeing your companion, now fully suited in his pink outfit that was inflated head to hooves, his face peeking out of the pig’s mouth, erupted in peals of laughter. “That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day!” said one. “Can I get a picture?” said the other. They took photos while you smiled like the barker at a carnival. (The next day I would see a photo of your companion walking around the rotary and read how pro-police demonstrators had yelled “asshole” at him.) I must admit that my thoughts of the women were as ungracious as my thoughts of you. I imagined them using their photos to create self-satisfied social media posts that demonstrated their woke rage as well as their complicity in the rendering of a movement with life-or-death demands into an adolescent joke. (Only later when I was calm and reflecting on this scene, would I question my interpretation of you and your companion’s performances: Had I, in my emotional state and with my senses influenced by my own experiences and therefore potentially unreliable, seen autism and manipulation where they weren’t? Had I mistaken typical twenty-something drunkenness for a disability? Had I, in fact, been even more hysterical than I’d accused myself of being?)
As I crossed the train tracks and continued my walk home, I imagined you, Dear Protester, at the rotary, on your side of the metal barricade, holding up that sign with its bold colors and its exhortation that would certainly drown out the other signs. To the little kids with the hand-drawn blue hearts, your poster wouldn’t read “Fuck the Police,” but “Fuck Your Mom and Dad.” To everyone else, it would say, “All Police Are Bad,” a hopeless cause only worthy of rage and ridicule. Thus, your demand was also like a “fuck you” hurled right as the door slams, a giant exclamation point indicating the discussion’s end.
I’ll give you credit for not obfuscating your feelings, for not pretending to some way of thinking. You’re unlike my white neighbors with their yard signs. Their seemingly unoffensive placards simply demand “Stop 361 Belgrade Ave.” In an Orwellian manner, they’re careful not to mention the word “school,” only the address of the proposed site and claim to be “For Smart Planning.” Yet just as your words of opposition can be read another way so can theirs. I see their signs and read: “Black and Brown Teenagers Are Bad” and “Not in My Backyard.” Hiding behind language, they intimidate politicians with their proliferation of signs. They are the homeowners after all, the ones who show up at the ballot boxes, not the black, brown, and immigrant renters stacked into triple-deckers. So far, their engagement with our city leaders has worked—the school has waited over 400 days (the average is 83) to get a hearing in front of the Boston Planning and Development Agency.
Also, unlike my neighbors, you have a right to your fear and the outrage it engenders. I’m sure that you, a young black man in America, has experienced more than your share of prejudice and bigotry, and at the hands of the police. I don’t question your anger, but do you know the difference between puerile insult and mature demands? I wanted to ask you if you thought Martin Luther King, Jr. or Malcolm X would’ve put on a pig costume. Would they have carried a sign such as yours? They, like Richard Wright’s Bigger Thomas, knew the rage that felt like a “red-hot iron” poked down their throats, but I’d ask you to consider what they did with it. I hear that many of your generation find King, as James Baldwin did, too conciliatory and that for today’s atheists and religious “nones,” he relies too much on the Bible. I wonder if they know enough history to know, as Baldwin admitted, that it was King’s words and actions that most effectively changed our country’s hearts and minds. What did you hope to accomplish with your costumes and sign? If your goal was to incite a few fawning laughs and prod those pro-police supporters fortressing the precinct to dig in deeper, then you were probably successful. (In the article, I would see two photos of you, one in which you were face-to-face with an older white man and another in which you were face-to-face with a young black woman. I would read how you incensed police supporters by trampling on a black-and-blue flag, how a Black Lives Matter organizer tried to persuade you to leave but others came to your defense. What followed, according to the paper, was a “loud but civil discussion” on “the nature of protest.” How I wish I knew what you said.)
I know, Dear Protester, that you, most likely, will never read my letter. That I had my chance to ask you my questions that day but didn’t. Most importantly, I realize that, despite my matronly scolding, I’m no better than you. My exhaustion after days of anxiety and sadness had quashed my strength to confront you, to demand a discussion, to see if my snap judgements held merit. But that is pathetic when your exhaustion, I’d contend, arises from years, generations, of injustices. Perhaps you have no energy for conversation, only anger. Perhaps you’ve been taught nothing different. Perhaps donning a pig suit and saying, “Fuck the Police,” is all you can muster. I can’t blame you. I can’t assume to know you or your life.
So, Dear Protester, I hope you will take off the costume and let you be seen. I hope you will put down the sign and let you be heard.
I can only say I want a better world for my children and for you and your companion. I want a world that grants all people, regardless of race or ability or any other qualifier, dignity and respect; for that is what the source of outrage—humanity’s innate, though often ignored, sense of right and wrong—demands. I think we are capable of much more than just outrage and the outrageous. I think we are capable of learning from history, of telling our stories, of articulating well-reasoned demands. So, Dear Protester, I hope you will take off the costume and let you be seen. I hope you will put down the sign and let you be heard. We stand at a moment when so many are thinking about our nation’s past and present, each other and ourselves, our beliefs and our actions, a moment that calls for a collective deep breath and even deeper reflection. A moment I hope won’t be wasted.
Sincerely,
Liz
Elizabeth Vondrak holds an MA in English Literature from Boston College and an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida International University. Her work has appeared in The Antietam Review, Transitions Abroad, Tigertail: A South Florida Poetry Annual, The Sandy River Review, Watershed Review and untethered magazine. In her past life, she was a teacher to English-language learners, high school literature students, and university writing students. Originally from Iowa, she resides in Boston with her husband and three children. Find her at elizabethvondrak.com.