as part of a list of names in the reporting of the latest tragedy. She knew that at any moment, an innocent, unarmed black man on his way to the convenience store might be gunned down by police convinced he posed some sort of threat, and that some other city would become the de facto protest leader, with Richmond merely a follower, a supporter, a sympathizer.
But for tonight, right now, the world’s eyes were on Richmond. Melissa saw a surprising mix of people protesting: parents with small children, the predominantly black members of the BLM movement, but also many white people and Asian people marching with their black brothers and sisters. She saw old people, one guy in a wheelchair, and so many young people, people her own age who held up makeshift signs, Howie’s vinyl album covers, or simply marched with fists in the air. These were not just lefty students who always tried to get in on a good old civil rights march. Many of these young adults were fans in mourning, people with no idea how to express their grief over the loss of such a promising and talented artist taken from them so cruelly. They would never again get to hear new work from Howie Do, and it had galvanized them to get involved—to not just voice their pain, but also to shout out against injustice and police brutality.
It was life affirming. Melissa did not smile, she did not whoop; this was not a moment of celebration. The pain of Howie’s loss and the agony of a community under siege all across the most powerful nation on Earth – it could not fail to move her. As a black woman, even in Canada, being in public and feeling in a position of strength, unity and acceptance was something she was not overly familiar with. Here she felt like she marched with her people, regardless of their nationality, age, race or gender.
Wilson had told her when they reached Monument Avenue, the protestors would gather to hear from various speakers. He asked her if she would like to speak.
To her surprise, she had said yes.
She hadn’t even hesitated. And now, despite the adrenalin and the tidal wave of support behind her, at the back of her mind she wondered what she would say. Her YouTube channel was one thing: she was used to talking without a script about being Canadian, about being a woman, about being black, about being a young adult, about politics, about fashion, about whatever came to her that day that she felt opinionated about. But public speaking? The last time she’d spoken in front of people was at a school presentation a year ago. It had gone okay, but she’d spoken to a quiet room of three hundred people. This was significantly more, and they would be loud and vocal, and the media would be watching. What if she said something to upset them? What if she accidentally said something un-American without even realizing it? What if they turned on her?
She forced herself to relax, to experience the moment as it happened rather than dwell on mistakes she had not even made yet. The chanting of, “Justice For Howie!” and “Black Lives Matter” rang in her ears. She would speak from her heart, she would not try to plan what she would say. She did not have to speak for long. She would tell them about Howie, who he was in private, and what he meant to her, and maybe about a Canadian’s observation of America’s struggle, and how she too faced a similar – but usually less brutal – struggle in her own country. And that would be enough.
The police presence was surprisingly low key. She had seen a few officers, likely those already on patrol of the city when the marching began. This struck her as odd, given that this was not the first night of protests. She had not heard of significant violence from the previous night’s demonstration, so perhaps the police did not feel a large presence was necessary.
And then she saw them.
At the front of the march, Melissa could see what many behind her could not. They were still a couple of intersections away, but even at this distant the sight of them made her nervous. Instinctively she stopped, but Howie took her arm and gently moved her forward, not wanting her to be trampled by the mass of people walking behind her. The BLM members, a hundred strong at the front of the march, did not falter. Melissa admired their courage.
They weren’t close yet, but the unmistakable bulk of something like a tank but with no gun turret blocked the road ahead. Row upon row of armed police stood in ranks ahead of it. They carried batons, shields and guns slung over their shoulders. They stood silently, waiting for the marchers to approach. Police cars and vans lined the street beyond them, their lights flashing, illuminating the silent army in blue and red.
Someone had decided that this protest wasn’t going to continue along Franklin Street.
Wilson was consulting with other leaders of the march now, still heading towards the wall of armed resistance. For a moment, he and the others dropped back a little so Melissa was alone, at the head of the march, stuck out on her own like the figurehead of a massive ship. The tide of support and security melted instantly. The atmosphere had shifted and, for a moment, she walked alone towards the horde of oppressors, marching to her certain doom in the name of justice and civil disobedience.
Wilson was back at her side in a moment and the isolation evaporated. Still it left Melissa rattled. She was sweating and her breathing had quickened. Her pulse was racing and she was light-headed. She allowed Wilson to steer her to the right, heading north onto a side street, away from the police lines.
They followed a wide arc, and without question the masses behind them followed. As the protest turned, people on the western edge of the march started to see Franklin Street ahead and the imposing sight of the police lines. There were gasps and cries from marchers on the left behind Melissa. She glanced back and saw some people break off from the main group, running south to get away from the police and the protestors. Some of them carried small children, and Melissa could hardly blame them. She resisted the urge to run after them. Suppressing her instincts, she knew that if she ran too it would incite chaos. The front of the march breaking off in different directions would cause a stampede, and panicked people would get hurt.
So she stayed the course, lockstep with Wilson and his allies. The leaders of the march had now fully turned the corner, and the police lines slipped out of Melissa’s view. Not before she saw them mobilize, however. If they were on the move, that meant they might engage the protestors in the middle of the pack as the march slowly turned the corner. She glanced at Wilson who had clearly seen the same thing, because he was furiously discussing options with the other march leaders as they continued to walk. She had noticed a distinct quickening of their pace, and a drop off in the number of protestors around her still chanting slogans. Everyone around her had sensed that the mood had changed and the situation was now potentially dangerous. It terrified her; she wanted to be anywhere but here. What had been life affirming now had become life threatening. She wondered how long it would take for the survival instincts of the protest leaders to filter back through the throng behind them. She saw Wilson and others on their phones, texting messages presumably to other BLM members escorting protestors further back, the majority of them still marching on Franklin Street in the direction of the police lines now closing in.
Melissa turned her attention to the road ahead. This street was narrower than Franklin but there was still plenty of space for the protestors. They were heading north to the next major east-west street – Melissa didn’t know Richmond well enough to identify the street names – presumably to lead the protestors to a wide open space, perhaps a park, where they could amass and organize a peaceful dispersal. Melissa was just guessing, but that’s what she would do.
To her horror, from around the next corner, at least a hundred police officers in full riot gear appeared. They ran in coordinated fashion, quickly forming a blockade across the exit from this street they were marching on. More officers moved in behind them to reinforce the line. The sound of something large rumbling into position signaled yet more heavy-police presence on the way.
Now it was Wilson’s turn to halt. Other leaders raised their bullhorns and commanded the people behind to stop. They had no place to go.
Suddenly
