America on fire, yet again

Photography

America on fire, yet again

the historic second March on Washington and bits from the chaos of August

Ainhoa Woodley writes about her experience last week at the March on Washington:

Matt Brown / USA Today

A fervent perseverance permeated the humid air of Washington, D.C’s Union Station upon my arrival the night before the March on Washington. People communicated with solemn nods while “Black” by Buddy played from a Bluetooth speaker. We moved from the platform into the tense D.C. darkness. It was an introduction to the Capitol that set the scene for the coming morning – enraged yet determined, broken yet united. 

Friday morning brought the promise of good trouble and healing anger when we left. It grew stronger as we approached Black Lives Matter plaza, newly painted in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, commissioned by the D.C mayor. The hot and damp sunlight did not deter the procession of protestors migrating to the Lincoln Memorial, nor the myriad of vendors selling shirts and face masks, nor the groups handing out free water and goldfish. 

In this way, even before our official arrival, the journey to the nation’s reflecting pool made it clear that the community was collaborating with one another for the procurement of justice.

Matt Brown / USA Today

The urgency to be among like-minded citizens, sharing a moment of livid harmony as our ancestors did exactly fifty-seven years ago, was extraordinary enough to dissolve the chaotic lines. We were led in all together, taken past the pool to the front of the memorial by the call-and-response: “What do we want? Justice.When do we want it? Now.”

For the next hours, the thousands that journeyed by bus, by train and by foot and who came from Illinois to Alabama to New York, gathered beneath the towering elms to revel and remember. I sat on the grass with my legs criss-crossed, leaning forward eagerly, star-struck by the presence of activists and speakers I had only seen in videos. 

I kept mental notes of their revolutionary words: 

  • Ayanna Pressley stating that it is possible to legislate justice, and that if it feels unfamiliar, it is because it has never been done in our nation. 

  • Yolanda King declaring that this will be the generation that moves from me to we. 

  • Al Sharpton proclaiming that they may have killed the dreamer, but they cannot kill the Dream. 

We moved from Lincoln’s feet to Martin Luther King’s memorial before the march began, as having never seen it before I wanted to have a moment to myself before the crowds descended. In the calm before the storm of inspired marchers, I gazed up at King’s omnipresent resolute gaze, preserved in marble that glistened under the midday sun. I felt impassioned by the kinship I felt with his presence – his vision for our shared humanity. 

Matt Brown / USA Today

Then there came the collective sense of power from marching with thousands of people that believe in a communal tomorrow and that justice has yet to be served but can still be delivered: a national community, representing and advocating for each other, sharing sentiments and ambitions, walking together, singing together, chanting together and resting together. 

Matt Brown / USA Today

We are an unhealthy people, coexisting in a system that has permitted some to be alive and condemned others to survive. Yet the movement towards justice is something others have learned to recognize, to listen to and to fight alongside. The communal determination of the day had shown that community is how we will transform our nation, and that the original Dream we came for is still attainable.

Ainhoa Woodley (she/her) is an aspiring social justice advocate working in equitable and accessible education with public school students in Philadelphia.

Possibly one of the most memorable photos came from the Thursday night during Trump’s Republican National Convention speech where protesters held signs representing the death count from COVID-19 in America:

Matt Brown / USA Today

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To be shot at

Azria stands protesting on May 30 in Denver, Colorado

To be shot at

The violence of the justice system spills into the streets – a young protester writes on facing the police brutality

Azria
Azria

Azria, is 19-years-old and works full time in the Denver area. Growing up in the “Sunnyside” neighborhood of Denver, Arroyo now lives in Wheat Ridge Colorado. Read Azria’s account below.

Thursday May 28, was the first day of the protests in Denver. It was a peaceful, calm and organized gathering. Once law enforcement showed up, chaos began to erupt almost immediately. Police arrived in full riot gear forming a line in front of the protesters. The standoff began.

"Unprovoked, officers began to shove us"

Unprovoked, officers began to shove us. We kept our hands up as a display of non-violence while officers became increasingly aggressive. They charged people from behind, throwing them onto the ground, and attempted to run their police truck into the crowd. Tensions grew when four officers attacked an elderly black man in a wheelchair as he tried to cross the street.

Saturday, May 30, was my second day at the protest, I went knowing there was a very real possibility of getting hurt. It felt necessary to go not only to stand in solidarity with the BLM movement, but to stand against our Police departments history of misconduct, discrimination, abuse of power, and their militarized response to what began as a peaceful gathering against police brutality. The first time we were tear gassed was at 4 p.m., four hours before the newly ordered 8 p.m. curfew. The energy was positive as we marched through the streets. We approached the police station. There was a line of officers in full riot gear, and armed officers on rooftops surrounding the area. Officers covered their badge numbers as we tried to note them. Another protester yelled, “That’s  illegal!”

Some officers were smirking at us, as if they were enjoying themselves. Suddenly, everyone was frantically running as officers shot into the crowd and deployed tear gas canisters. While running, I tripped over several people. I panicked as three canisters of tear gas landed at my feet, releasing thick smoke burning my eyes and skin. When I tried to breathe the pressure in my chest and lungs felt as though I was drowning.

Many vomited in the streets. A volunteer medic rinsed my eyes out. The effects subsided over the next hour, but lingered days after. We re-gathered and marched towards the Capitol building. We arrived at a swarm of police, Denver SWAT, and Colorado National Guard armed with “less than lethal” weapons. Standing head to head with officers, we chanted “We don’t see no riot here, why are you in riot gear?”.

Officers who lay near bushes with weapons aimed at us looked like a scene out of a war zone. The standoff continued, until officers started indiscriminately firing “less than lethal” ammunition into the crowd. We ran into the park. Tear gas canisters and rubber bullets flew into the street. Some protesters picked them up and threw them back. Cops started charging into the park. I saw 40 millimeter baton rounds cut through the crowd. Protesters near me were hit in the eyes and head and fell down.

"We see no riot here, why are you in riot gear?"

Volunteer medics came to their aid, making an improvised stretcher from fencing. I saw something flying toward me. I quickly ran backwards, but my leg was hit with a 40mm baton round, that knocked me off of my feet. It was surreal.

There was a girl crying next to me and someone yelled, “She was hit with a rubber bullet.”

The remainder of the day was chaos. I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I found out later, about someone who had been at the protest that day having eye removal surgery, as a result of less than lethal ammunition fired by police. I wasn’t surprised by his story. I felt lucky to only have a bruise and a swollen leg, while others left with permanent reminders of what they’d endured that day. 

Azria said that she had trouble breathing days after being tear-gassed and had nose bleeds. She is biracial, with parents from Senegal and Mexico, and has faced discrimination growing up.

Denver protests on May 30, 2020
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IN DEPTH

A new investigation reveals gun seizures under Bowser’s police department broke the law

Journalists Alex Coma and Mitch Ryals published an investigative story uncovering a criminal investigation of 19 D.C. police officers for misconduct while serving in a crime suppression unit. Originally an internal MPD inquiry, the investigation has since been upgraded to a criminal inquiry, with allegations including taking firearms without making arrests and filing false reports.

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The fight to be heard not stereotyped

The fight to be heard not stereotyped

The fight to be heard not stereotyped, and launching paid subscriptions

Delonte Wilkins writes about his experience with the journalist Aaron Wiener who reported on gentrification:

“During the interviews, I shared so much detail with Wiener on my life experiences with the violence of gentrification, and even my experiences with the legal system and family struggles. I eloquently broke down the system and explained how gentrification developed.

I broke [gentrification] down to Wiener, and also explained to him my experiences with the criminal justice system and being arrested for marijuana multiple times. I found it funny that in his article he failed to mention that though marijuana was illegal at the time, it is now legal. […] He decides to leave the reader guessing by only saying “drug possession”.

I could go on and on about how Wiener, in this article, erased all the violence that my community faced for the new white colonizers. Or about how he erased my strength and courage in fighting back and reduced me to some sort of criminal beggar whose only saving grace was a nonprofit. He fails to mention my accomplishments.

Articles like the one Wiener wrote can be described as slightly informative and vaguely thought-provoking. Yet, the Washington Post and all major media. even while having opportunities to tell unique and accurate stories, choose to perpetuate the same narrative over and over: poor, drugs, criminal, social services, Section 8 housing, etc.

So while I’m fine with Wiener and the Washington post pointing out my struggle, prison sentence, drab housing, bedbugs, stress and anxiety. When it comes to the fight against mass incarceration, displacement, and gentrification, all I ask is this, Storytellers: Don’t forget to mention. I gave it all I had to give.

LinkUp Magazine is a prisoner-centered platform to elevate the voices and political agenda of the most oppressed. Our aim is to build and maintain a community focused dialogue, and provide accurate news and information to our subscribers.” (Thank you to the team for letting us repost this story.)

Tae (Delonte) is writing about this story which published in 2018. To see his full article from the Winter 2020 edition visit LinkUp to get the magazine.

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House of pain

House of Pain: an introduction

My name is Bernard Jemison and I will briefly explain my story. I’ve been incarcerated since May 13, 1998, over 25 years now for felony murder that should have been self-defense. I was sentenced to serve life with the possibility of parole in the Alabama department of corrections.

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Still locked out of the ballot box

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Trauma’s role in justice

Rabb graduates from the Pivot program after his release from prison. He stands between Alyssa Lovegrove, academic director of the Pivot Program and the managing director Josh Miller. Photo: Georgetown University's McDonough School of Business

Trauma’s role in justice

Released, one man reflects on trauma’s role in his criminal justice journey

By Yusef Rabb
By Yusef Rabb

Rabb is from Washington, D.C. where he works as a consultant and educator with multiple re-entry programs.

On May 9, 1991, I entered the judicial system as an 18-year-old man-child from South East Washington, D.C . 1991 was one of the more volatile years in what was called the crack-era. As a young man, I was trapped in an environment where, before my young mind could recover from one traumatic experience, I was faced with another. I began losing playmates at 15-years-old. My homie Boo got shot by an adult in the backs of his legs, his back, and then point blank in the back of his head. The head shot left his mouth twisted. Forget about broken homes, this intergenerational drama broke a community. To survive I had to become hyper-vigilant towards anyone or anything that could prevent me from making it home each night so that my family could still their worries.

They treated me as my prison jacket instead of me.

On that day in 1991, I was falsely accused of murder. Despite my plea of innocence, at 18-years-old, I was ushered into the adult system and sentenced to 26 years to life. To my amazement, I encountered waves of people who had obviously shared most of my traumatic life experiences in prison. This helped me to conceptualize my initial overwhelming feeling of woe. Therapy came by way of my shared experiences in prison with other vetted prisoners. Each of my experiences with prison psychologists was very distrustful. 

 

They treated me as my prison jacket instead of me. I also found myself associating their help with the unnecessary administration of compliance inducing drugs. It was always traumatic to have to see them, which was usually during intake. On the intake form there is an emphasis on suicide. Being trapped within a system that seemed so expectant of trauma is still traumatic for me. The safe spaces for me were through the mutual discovery and support that many were experiencing much worse than me which helped strengthen my resolve. In a concentrated sea of despair, I no longer felt hopelessness approaching it – it lived with us. I found a way to dilute my trauma through sharing in others’ stories. After discovering rather quickly that many people were illiterate, I found an opportunity to connect. I read motions, legal mail, and letters from loved ones with my guys. This mutual sharing bonded us. Writing and reading is still the way I deal with my trauma

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left to die

new report finds ten of thousands of people over fifty who are sentenced to life without parole face increasingly grim conditions

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