Talia squeezed my arm. “I understand we need both the fighters and the chroniclers.”
I didn’t tell her sometimes the line between those roles was razor thin; my academic distance felt like a betrayal on nights like this.
“Where do you want to set up?” Talia asked as she surveyed the growing crowd.
“I think I’m going to move around and get different voices. You organizing or just attending?”
Talia gestured toward a group of people wearing neon yellow vests near the makeshift stage. “Both. I’m helping with the speakers, coordinating with the marshals. They’re starting the formal program in about twenty minutes. You good on your own?”
“Born that way,” I replied with a smile, and we hugged before Talia walked away.
I moved deeper into the park, holding my recorder slightly above my shoulder to capture the soundscape. A group of young men worked to distribute water bottles. Mothers linked arms, wearing shirts with photos of sons they lost to police violence. There were so many faces, so many names, a litany of death that never seemed to end.
I walked up to a woman holding a sign with Jaylen’s photo bordered by painted sunflowers and decided she would be a good place to start.
“Ma’am, would you mind if I ask you a few questions for my research?”
She eyed my recorder and press badge. “What kind of research?”
“I’m documenting protest movements across the South. Looking at how communities respond to police brutality.”
“You with the newspaper?”
“I’m a professor at Atlanta State, and I’m a visiting lecturer at Birmingham State. Civil rights historian.”
“Okay, ask your question, professor.” She agreed.
“What brought you here tonight?”
“The same thing that brings me every time, another Black child dead who shouldn’t be. Jaylen was my nephew’s friend and an honor student. They pulled him over for a broken taillight, and he ended up with three bullets in him. Police say he reached for something. We haven’t seen the body cam footage, though. How convenient.” Her voice remained steady, though her eyes glistened.
“What would justice look like to you?” I asked.
“Release the footage, fire the officers, and charge them the same way they’d charge one of us. Though justice, real justice, would be Jaylen alive and applying to college like he was supposed to be doing right now!”
I thanked her and moved on, asking similar questions to other people throughout the crowd.
As I finished interviewing a group of college students, I noticed a subtle shift in the crowd’s energy as conversations dropped to murmurs. People in the crowd repeatedly glanced at the edge of the park. I followed their gazes, and my stomach tightened.
Police cruisers lined the perimeter more than usual for a permitted protest. Officers stood with their hands resting on their belts, not actively threatening, but deliberately visible. This wasn’t just BPD beyond them; I spotted the first military vehicles.
“The fuck?” I whispered, raising my camera to zoom in on what clearly was a National Guard deployment; soldiers in full tactical gear unloaded from trucks, arranging themselves in formation at the park’s edge.
I made my way to the outer edge of the crowd, recording as I moved. “It’s approximately six thirty p.m., and the National Guard troops have positioned themselves around theprotest perimeter. This is a significant escalation for a peaceful memorial gathering.”
As I got closer, I spotted a patch on one soldier’s uniform. I zoomed my camera lens, focusing on the insignia, a red clay symbol with ‘Operation Red Clay’ beneath it.
I narrated into my recorder. “The National Guard units have patches identifying them as part of Operation Red Clay. This appears to be a deployment rather than a standard backup.”
Behind me, the program began with the pastor leading the crowd in prayer, but the attention was half on the speakers and half on the growing military presence as whispers spread through the gathering.
“Why’d they bring soldiers? Something’s not right,” I heard someone say.
I caught sight of Talia near the stage, her expression tense as she spoke into a walkie-talkie. The protest marshals moved deliberately now and positioned themselves between the crowd and the authorities, trying to maintain the peaceful atmosphere as anxiety rippled through the gathering.
Three more military trucks arrived. I estimated at least forty soldiers now, arranging themselves in strategic positions anyone would recognize as a containment formation.
“They’re boxing us in,” somebody nearby said, and that was exactly what I was thinking.
