The authorities and the media grunt about “violence.” They get outraged about broken windows, but not the broken neck of Freddie Gray. They get mad about the destruction of property, but not the destruction of Black and Brown children. Violence? What about the unending violence carried out against the masses of Black and Latino people all over America by the police? … This is America, and this whole system was built on vicious, unjust, endless violence here and around the world and it continues to carry this out. These world-class criminals, and apologists for criminals, have absolutely no right to say anything about what the masses of pIMG_0950eople do when they are fed up, when they can’t take it anymore, and when they must express this. In the face of murder and terror, is not resistance justified?
–Statement of Carl Dix
8 pm April 27, 2015
On the Uprising in Baltimore
At 6:00pm on Wednesday, April 29, hundreds gathered in Union Square in solidarity with Baltimore, Maryland, where protestors rose up against the authorities and spoke out against the death of 25-year-old Freddie Gray. A variety of races, ages, and genders were represented, divided into different groups and filling the Square with a cacophony of speaking into megaphones, roaring with applause, and chanting in unison. Overhead, news helicopters circled, with a white van emblazoned with NBC’s rainbow insignia parked on the outskirts of the action. NYPD officers stood guard around the perimeter of the Square, too numerous to count, as the crowd grew in size. As they prepared to march, protesters passed out flyers, sold whistles and buttons, and held up signs with messages like “Black lives matter!”, “NO JUSTICE NO PEACE”, and many, many more.
As the sun sank lower in the sky–it was a beautiful day, hot for late April and clear–one could pick up on the sounds of different chants from all around. “No Goddamn more,” was shouted, loud and impassioned. One chant repeated by several groups was “Freddie Gray, Michael Brown, shut the whole system down!” Finally, a little after 7:00pm, the march itself began. Almost instantly, it was thwarted by NYPD officers, who forced the protesters to separate into groups in order to bypass police barricades. Arrests were made swiftly; by the end of the night, the demonstrators would total over a thousand, and the arrested 143.
The group that I joined was one of the smaller ones, with perhaps a hundred or so protesters marching initially before the NYPD thinned out the crowd. As we marched through the residential streets of the East Village, we were largely met with support from those whom we passed by. However, there was one encounter that I doubt I will forget anytime soon, and the man who incited it did not even leave his brownstone. From overhead, he saw us, or perhaps heard our outcries, and opened his window to shout, “Get a job!” (regardless of the fact that it was well past seven at night) at the protestors below. He was a middle-aged white man, a perfect stereotype, still dressed from work in a crisp, light blue button-down shirt. When he was met with infuriated shouts of “Fuck you!” and raised middle fingers, he waved the response away as though swatting away flies, yelling something unintelligible in the noise before retreating back into his home.
After marching for some time, closely monitored by NYPD officers as our group alternated between streets and sidewalks, my companion and I found that our group had grown too small, and it was time for us to leave and hope that other groups had fared better. However, even though I left early, certain images and sounds still stick with me: a man in his vehicle as protestors wove through traffic, smirking and attempting to drown out our shouts with the radio, which blared some form of rap or hip-hop (aka black music). A young black woman, probably only a few years older than me at most, retreating from the edge of the sidewalk where the NYPD had just arrested her friend, tears streaming down her face as a hush fell over our small group. And this above all: marching through the streets of Chelsea in the dying light of day, chanting, “Baltimore,” and stopping for just a moment to hear the city’s name echoing, insistent, in one unified roar.
