I gripped my recorder tighter as I noted the escalation tactics. My phone buzzed, but I looked at the notification on my watch. It was a text from a colleague at Birmingham State:
Heard from a source in the mayor’s office, federal intervention confirmed for tonight’s protest. Be careful.
I swallowed hard, looking at the troops.
I spoke into my recorder. “This is Dr. Nia Price documenting from Linn Park. The memorial for Jaylen Harris is currentlypeaceful, with approximately five hundred attendees. They did not inform protesters why military presence is necessary for a permitted memorial gathering.”
Another larger military vehicle arrived as I spoke. I could tell the people were nervous. I checked my backup device to ensure it was still recording and slipped it into my inner pocket. Whatever was about to happen, I was determined to document it all.
The first canister shot through the air like a shooting star as white smoke hit the darkening sky. For a split second, the crowd was silent before the disaster. Then it hit the ground twenty feet away from me as gas spilled into the evening air. Someone screamed. Then everyone screamed. The memorial for Jaylen Harris disappeared in an instant, replaced by commotion as more canisters rained down from all directions. The switch from peaceful assembly to war zone happened faster than my brain could process.
“Gas! Cover your faces!” someone shouted, which my lungs already understood.
My throat closed up like I’d swallowed fire. My eyes watered so badly I could barely see. I fumbled to pull my collar over my nose and mouth while trying to hold on to my recorder. Though I was stubborn and determined to document, I refused to let go of the recorder, as my body screamed for escape.
I tried to narrate but ended up coughing so hard I doubled over. The air was now poisoned with chemical warfare designed to disperse American citizens exercising their First Amendment rights.
People rushed past me in all directions, away from the gas and away from soldiers now advancing to the park. People collided, and someone fell hard beside me. Someone knocked an older woman’s cane away. I grabbed her cane with my free hand before helping her away from the crowd.
“I got you. Keep moving,” I gushed, the words burning my throat like acid.
Everything blurred, not just from tears, but the disorientation from the tear gas made me dizzy and panicked, like I couldn’t get enough oxygen. It was like drowning on dry land.
I kept the recorder running, refusing to let this moment go undocumented. “Tear gas deployed, no warning given.” I wheezed.
Through tears, I noticed a child separated from their parent, standing frozen in terror as the chaos moved around them. Without thinking, I changed direction, pushing against the crowd to reach the little girl. She couldn’t have been over seven. “Where is your mama?” I asked, kneeling, despite the pain in my lungs. She pointed vaguely toward the stage area, now covered by gas clouds.
“Stay with me. We’ll find her,” I told the little girl, grabbing her small hand.
My eyes burned so badly I could barely keep them open, but I forced myself to scan the crowd, looking for anyone searching for a child. The thick gas spread, making each breath more painful than the last. The little girl’s hand tightened around mine as she coughed violently.
That was when I saw him.
Through the chemical clouds, a tall figure moved with purpose, not away from danger, but into it. Through my blurred vision, the uniform was unmistakable; Chief Ronan Banks himself was not behind police lines, but in the thick of the panic. Unlike what I’d expected, he directed the crowd. He was helping people up.
I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision enough to be sure of what I was seeing. The man whose face decorated billboards throughout the city was helping an older man to his feet,pointing him toward a clear path away from the worst of the gas. Then he moved to a young woman who had fallen, helping her up and checking whether she could walk before moving to the next person.
What the fuck?
Genuinely surprised, I raised my recorder, forcing my burning lungs to cooperate. “Chief of police Ronan Banks is in the crowd assisting injured protesters rather than making arrests. He’s directing people away from gas deployment zones and helping people to safety.”
As I documented, my skepticism kicked in, thinking this was a performance to protect his cultivated image. The cynical part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he positioned himself as the good cop while ordering the attack. Still, something in his movements was urgent, and his anger didn’t fit the narrative.
The little girl beside me tugged my hand, pointing toward a frantic woman pushing through the crowd. “That’s my mom,” she choked out between coughs.
I guided her toward her mother, handing her off with quick words of reassurance before turning back to observe Chief Banks. He was now at the stage where he was helping organizers caught in the heavy cloud of gas. I recognized Talia among them, doubled over and struggling to breathe.
Before I thought better of it, I headed that way as my lungs begged me to run in the opposite direction. I kept the recorder up to capture the unprovoked attack on peaceful protesters, the military presence at a community memorial, and now the city’s top cop, apparently defying the script.
Chief Banks supported Talia’s arm, guiding her toward clearer air. He said something to her, and Talia nodded weakly, still doubled over but moving.
“This is unacceptable. This was not the plan.” He barked as they got closer, his deep voice carrying through the commotion.
Whatever was happening here was more complicated than the simple narrative I’d arrived with, the story of a police chief, a handsome face for an oppressive system. The truth seemed messier, and as a historian, I lived for the messy truth, even when it complicated my own assumptions.
“Move back. Clear the area.” The mechanical voice through the megaphone competed with screams and coughing as more National Guard troops pushed into the park, creating panic.
My eyes burned, and my throat hurt like I swallowed glass, but I couldn’t stop documenting. I held my recorder higher, my raspy voice forcing out commentary. “National Guard troops now detaining peaceful protesters, without warning or event or announced cause.”
