Protesters
of the police shooting of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, join
with participants in a Martin Luther King Jr. Day march in St. Louis,
January 19, 2015. (Photo: Whitney Curtis / The New York Times)
Saturday, 24 January 2015 --Forty years ago, in the days of "white flight" from American cities
to the suburbs, Ferguson, Missouri was a "sundowner town" - black people
did not drive through it at night because they knew they would be
harassed by the white police force. Ferguson is now 65 percent black and
low-income, but its police force is still predominantly white and
working-class, approximately 53 white officers and three black officers.
Although black people no longer sneak through town, the police treat
young black men as either trespassers or ex- and future prisoners. The
hip-hop artist T-Dubb-O said that black males throughout the St. Louis
area know how old they are from the tone of the police. "When you're 8
or 9, it's, 'yo, where are you going?' and when it's 'get down on the
ground,' you know you've turned 15."
The St. Louis city limits encompass a small area, and Ferguson is one
of 90 incorporated municipalities that immediately surround the
"Gateway to the West," each with its own mayor or manager. These local
authorities raise money in significant part from fines levied against
motorists. A police officer citing someone for a petty infraction is in
reality a municipal worker trying to get paid. In addition to the
municipalities, suburban St. Louis has a county government, with a
council and a county executive. The outgoing county executive, Charlie
A. Dooley, is black and a Democrat.
Voter turnout in Ferguson itself is low, but the remainder of North
County (one of the four sections of St. Louis County) outvotes St. Louis
city. (The city has a population of around 300,000; the county nearly 1
million.) Hazel Erby, the only black member of the seven-member county
council, said that the city manager of Ferguson and its city council
appoint the chief of police, and therefore voting is critical, but the
complicated structure of municipal government is one reason many people
have been uninterested in local politics.
A North County resident of middle-class University City for almost 50
years, Erby said that she hadn't discussed what Ferguson was like with
her children when they were teenagers 20 years ago. Her son and two
daughters told her not long ago, "We did, Mom." Her district, which she
has represented for 10 years, is made up of 38 municipalities, including
Ferguson. She said that she never had "that conversation" with her son
about how to compose himself when confronted by the police, but her
husband recently told her, "I did."
For the first time in U.S. history, more poor people live in the
suburbs than in the cities. In St. Louis County, the "Delmar Divide" (at
Delmar Boulevard) separates the mostly white South County from North
County, where the black towns are. The Ferguson police do not live in
Ferguson, and some even live outside the county, in rural areas.
A county council member's stipend of $11,500 is not enough to live
on, but because of her husband's support Erby has been able to be active
in her hometown's politics. She founded the Fannie Lou Hamer Democratic
Coalition, a group of 34 black elected officials who endorsed the
Republican candidate for county executive in the last election. She was
feeling betrayed by the state Democratic leadership over issues such as
their failure to help a black high school in her district keep its
accreditation or support a bill she sponsored that would give minority
contractors in St. Louis County a share of construction business.

Fannie Lou Hamer was a civil rights organizer who caught the nation's
attention when her Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party attempted to
unseat the all-white regular delegation at the Democratic National
Convention in 1964. The daughter of sharecroppers, Hamer brought a folk
eloquence to her testimony before the party's credentials committee
about the campaign of intimidation and violence that was daily life for
black people in the South. Erby said the trouble she has had in politics
has come more from her being a woman than from her being black, serving
alongside white businessmen and attorneys who mistake her good manners
for weakness.
In the run-up to the Aug. 5 primary in St. Louis, the white
Democratic candidate for county executive, Steve Stenger, joined with
the prosecutor of 23 years, Bob McCulloch, who was up for re-election,
in saying that they would clean up North County and they did not need
the black vote. They won, if not by much. Erby speculates that the
arrogance of their position created a sense of "empowerment" among the
police that may have contributed to the tragic events of Aug. 9, when a
white police officer shot an unarmed black teenager, whose body was then
left untended for 4 1/2 hours in the street.
People engaged in the movement that has grown in protest against
Darren Wilson's killing of Michael Brown on Aug. 9 often invoke Martin
Luther King Jr.'s name.
 |
Cornel West & Rev. Osagyefo Sekou |
Through Cornel West, I met Rev. Osagyefo Sekou,
the pastor "for formation and justice" at the First Baptist Church in
Jamaica Plain, Boston. A native of St. Louis, Sekou is currently a
fellow at the Martin Luther King Papers Project at Stanford and was in
residence there when the Brown killing happened. Six days later, Sekou
was in St. Louis to support the young who are, as he sees them, the
leaders in the Ferguson protest. Also associated with the Fellowship of
Reconciliation, a group that has done peace work in Israel, Sekou told
me that the movement that has coalesced around Ferguson looks especially
to Bayard Rustin and Ella Baker, a gay guy and a woman, because as
civil rights figures of the 1960s they "incarnate a theology of
resistance of the historically othered."
Rustin, who was a liability in the eyes of traditional black leaders,
put emphasis on building coalitions among black groups, white liberals,
labor unions and religious progressives. Ella Baker's long career as an
organizer took her from tenants' rights in the 1930s and voter
registration for the NAACP in the 1940s to setting up the offices of the
Southern Christian Leadership Conference in the late 1950s and then to
urging the youth of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee in the
early 1960s to broaden their goals beyond lunch-counter integration.
She warned them not to let themselves be controlled by established civil
rights organizations, arguing that strong people didn't need strong
leaders. She was also ambivalent about nonviolence.
The story of the Aug. 9 police killing of Michael Brown had stayed in
the news because people had refused to leave the streets. Sekou
stressed that although the protest was one of the broadest coalitions in
ages, the protesters themselves were largely young, black, queer, poor,
working-class, "unchurched" or secular and women. We were about 10
miles from Ferguson on the largely white South Side, in MoKaBe's
Coffeehouse, an informal meeting place for organizers, journalists and
protesters owned by a courageous white woman. It was Monday morning,
Nov. 24, and the St. Louis police were no doubt preparing for the
announcement of the grand jury's decision. Since the summer the police
had been raiding safe houses and churches where organizers were known to
work from. Sekou had already been arrested three times. The Ferguson
movement gathers mostly under an umbrella group, the Don't Shoot
Coalition. It includes tested groups, such as the Organization for Black
Struggle, founded in 1980. Four years ago, Montague Simmons left an
investment brokerage firm to become OBS head. Two very beautiful young
black women, one with a crown of braids, stopped at Sekou's table for
hugs.
 |
Brittany Ferrell & Alexis Templeton of Millennial Activists United
|
"Young people will not bow down," he said of them, and introduced
Brittany Ferrell and Alexis Templeton. They started Millennial Activists
United in the days after Michael Brown's death. In a British
documentary about the Ferguson protest, Ferrell and Templeton can be
heard discussing how they were going to "change the narrative" of one
evening's action, reminding their peers not to drink, not to play music
and to stay focused. In photographs and news footage, Templeton is the
young black woman with a bullhorn, emblematic of protest at the Ferguson
Police Department.
Sekou - everyone was calling him simply "Sekou" - observed that as of
the 107th day of protests in Ferguson, these young people had sustained
the second-longest civil rights campaign in postwar U.S. history.
"Ferguson has worn out my shoes." They were a third of their way to
equaling the Montgomery Bus Boycott in its duration. The young knew the
history, he went on, and to know your history is to become politicized.
But in Sekou's view, too much black political capital has been spent in
electoral politics. Elections are thermometers, social movements the
thermostats, he said, echoing King. They set the agenda, whereas
elections merely monitor them.
To Sekou, it matters how we define political participation. "If it's
only the ballot box, then we're finished." He sees voting as "an insider
strategy," one without much relevance to a town like Ferguson, where
two-thirds of the adult population have arrest warrants out against
them. Things don't come down to the vote, they come down to the level of
harassment as people get ready to vote, he added. Sekou ventured that
given the little black people have got for it, voting fits the
definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and each time
expecting a different result.
Then, too, the young are distant from "the prosperity theology" of an
already beleaguered black church, Sekou continued. Its social safety
net - by which it offers a place to go, food, education, adult guidance
and prayer - is not something they have grown up with; it's another
pillar many young black people have had to do without, like having
fathers in jail. Black churches "have become hostile to youth." But this
also means that the young are remote from the politics of
respectability and black piety. At previous meetings about Ferguson, the
young booed, for different reasons, Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson and
NAACP President Cornell William Brooks. But perhaps the most crucial
factor in what Sekou called the "holy trinity of disfranchisement and
dispossession" is the economic catastrophe of the past decade and the
ongoing deindustrialization of urban centers.

For Sekou, Obama traffics in the language of the movement while
betraying it. "Shame on him." I wanted to say that Clarence Thomas is
the race traitor, not Obama. Sekou is 43 years old, a short, dark,
charismatic man with thick, long dreadlocks like those of early reggae
stars. He rejected what he called the Beltway strategy of appeasing
forces on the right of center in favor of what he sees as the political
possibility that has come from the street. He, like the young he
counsels, feels that the system hasn't worked and now needs to be born
again. The young demonstrating in Ferguson had faced tear gas and
assault rifles. "There isn't any political terrain for them to engage in
other than putting their bodies on the line."
Older people were going out of their way to defer to the young in the
Ferguson movement, just as I would hear the sort of white people who
had no reason to chastise themselves confess to being beneficiaries of
"white privilege." But while Sekou pointed to the young adults who have,
he said, discovered something extraordinary in themselves, it was clear
what he himself stood for in their eyes. They trusted him and he showed
them the affection and approval they needed.
"We are," he said, "at a critical moment in American democracy whereby the blood of
Michael Brown has wiped away the veneer and at the same time seeded a
great revolution. In a situation like St. Louis, where there has been a
cowardly elite, an ineffectual black church and a dominant liberal class
afraid of black rage and public discourse about white anxiety, we have
to repent for not being here."
Sekou sees the Ferguson movement and the Don't Shoot Coalition as an
answer to the call made at the National Hip-Hop Political Convention of
2004 against police brutality. But this was not the hip-hop culture that
celebrated Malcolm X as the black man who refused to turn the other
cheek. If anything, Sekou was talking more like the radicalized, antiwar
Martin Luther King Jr., whom people tend to forget. The important
differences were "attitudinal," not generational, Sekou said. He
identified what he thought was the real issue at stake in Brown's
murder: "What do you fundamentally believe about black people?"
Hey hey ho ho
These killer cops have got to go.

Few in the chanting, placard-carrying crowd across from the police
department on South Florissant Road in Ferguson that evening of Nov. 24
expected the grand jury to hand down an indictment. Many expressed the
feeling that whereas a grand jury usually takes from five to 10 days in
its deliberations, this one used up three months so that everyone could
say they'd been thorough before arriving at the decision that they had
been going to make in the first place: to protect the police. The
uncertainty all day long about the time when the announcement would be
made was taken as further indication of Bob McCulloch's manipulation of
the whole process. Local news stations were reporting that the
prosecutor wanted to wait to make the grand jury's findings public until
after schoolchildren were home.
But the darkness played into McCulloch's hands as well. The upscale,
white shopping centers like Frontenac Plaza were guarded by police
before McCulloch addressed the press. There was no police protection in
the strip malls where blacks shopped along West Florissant Avenue, which
had been a main trouble spot over the summer. These facts suggest that
the authorities wanted the nation and the world - the international
press waited in parking lots behind the protesters - to see what a
lawless community young black Ferguson would be without a firm hand.
The police came out of their Ferguson station gradually, a few at a
time, in blue riot helmets and wielding transparent shields. I heard
people say that even after a sensational case like Brown's, the police
killing of black youth was going on as if unchecked, in the murder of
12-year-old Tamir Rice in Cleveland, who had an air gun on a playground,
in the murder of 28-year-old Akai Gurley in a darkened stairway of a
Brooklyn housing project. I heard someone say that we should not forget
Eric Garner, killed by Staten Island police last July. (In early
December, a grand jury declined to indict the officer who choked Garner
to death though the choking had been caught on video.)
I saw Templeton leading the chant-dancing in the crowd, the young
black woman with the bullhorn, and a blond youth chant-danced back at
her in response.
But it was not a party. Solemn young faces peered out from hoodies
and more and more handkerchiefs over mouths and noses. I saw masks. The
glow of phones was everywhere. The revolution will not be televised, but
it will be tweeted, Keiller MacDuff, Sekou's tireless volunteer
communications director, told me people were saying. The night of the
grand jury's announcement, the Ferguson movement did seem to move with
the speed of Twitter, but I pressed with others around a car radio in
front of the police station. Templeton shifted her bullhorn and helped
Leslie McSpadden, Brown's mother, up onto the car where we were
listening. The group on top of the car held on to her. She had been told
the outcome already. As she broke down, it was clear to the crowd what
the decision was. I stopped trying to hear what McCulloch was saying as
McSpadden said to the line of policemen in front of the station, "It's
not right."
"We're going to barbecue tonight," I heard from somewhere behind me.
While Sekou was giving a television interview in the parking lot
across from the police station, where the crowd had begun to press
angrily against the police line, we heard gunfire. Sekou swept me along
with Keiller MacDuff - she's from New Zealand - and three young white
volunteers from Faith and Reconciliation. More gunfire sounded behind us
as we reached the Wellspring Church, where Sekou had been a guest
before, and we were buzzed in. Sekou and one of the volunteers decided
they'd no choice but to get his car parked on the other side of the
police station.
From the steps of the church, I heard glass breaking and saw hundreds
of people fleeing down South Florissant. The women in charge of the
church in the Wellspring pastor's absence had instructions to lock the
doors, turn off the lights and not admit anyone else. MacDuff was
offended that no more protesters would be let in, because there were
young people falling in the street, cowering under the church wall.
In the church sanctuary, we watched on a laptop the violence a few
hundred yards away. Citizen journalists who streamed what they saw live
from their smartphones and iPads had stayed on the street. They have a
mixed reputation. Some can say inflammatory things and put protesters in
danger or become aggressive, while others understand what it means to
have such power in your pocket. People around the world have been glued
to live streams from Ferguson ever since the killing. The police have
targeted live streamers, who can save lives by keeping the spotlight on
police activity when traditional media have pulled back from hot spots. A
white girl appeared at my shoulder to watch also. I didn't realize at
first that she'd pulled off a gas mask.
As we left the church, once again, Sekou included me in his group,
though there was really no room for me in the car. Out on West
Florissant, I saw black youths running out of Walgreens, their legs
pumping like marionettes'. I didn't see them carrying anything, but that
does not mean they hadn't entered the drugstore with the intention of
grabbing stuff. A young white volunteer was at the wheel and black
youths shouted from the meridian at the driver's window at every
stoplight.
Sekou refused to go inside the MSNBC compound on West Florissant to
do an interview if we, his people, couldn't come in, too. At the sound
of gunfire, the MSNBC guards dropped to the pavement with us. Sekou
didn't wait to be turned down by MSNBC again, and walked us to a parking
lot in the rear where we remained for two hours, hiding in the dark
behind a brick shed. I recall a fire truck coming at one point, but it
went away, maybe driven off by gunfire. Buildings burned on either side
of us, huge boxes of acrid flame, and what really confused me was the
honking. It sounded like a football victory at times. Except for the
gunfire.
I was afraid of what the police helicopters with searchlights might
mistake us for. And then I was wary of two black youths who seemed to be
loping in our direction. They weren't loping, they were making their
way along the sides of the parking lot, looking for shelter from the
smoke and overhead buzzing. The one with dreadlocks turned out to be a
grandson of a pastor whom Sekou knew. I had to ask myself, When did I
become afraid of black youth? How had I, a black man, internalized white
fear?
Eventually, a loudspeaker voice told people they had to move onto the
sidewalk or else they would be subject to arrest. They had to disperse;
they needed to get out of the street. They had to get back into their
cars. It had taken the police a while to take back territory. "Riots are
the voice of the unheard," Sekou said, quoting King. I heard many
deplore the attacks on black businesses, but those felt random. Glass
smashed along a route of panic and retreat. The feeling was that young
rioters weren't after mobile phones; they wanted to burn police cars.
In the days since, people have been blocking highways, shutting down
shopping malls, lying in the streets and walking out of classrooms
around the world. Hands up; don't shoot. The Missouri National Guard
stood behind the line of Ferguson police at the station on Florissant
the next night and the night after that, the temperature dropping and
the crowd thinning. But nonviolent direct action has won out as the
defining tactic of the Ferguson movement.

I felt a bond with everyone in St. Louis I talked to about what was
happening, and that in itself seemed odd. I met people who had been
moved somehow to come and bear witness: the young rabbi from Newton,
Mass.; the black single mother who works downtown as a food scientist;
the white women of a certain age up from their lesbian commune in
Arkansas; the black taxi driver who got from his dispatcher, before it
was on Twitter, which highways had been blocked; the white middle-aged
clergyman from Illinois who normally worked in hospital trauma units;
the Japanese-born campaign director of the Right to Vote Initiative who
was beaten up a lot as a kid in New Jersey in the 1970s because white
neighbors thought his family was Vietnamese; the owner of MoKaBe's
Coffeehouse who opened for business Tuesday morning after having been
tear gassed twice Monday night.
"Just for the record, I am so over being tear gassed," Sekou said.
"That's what tear gas is, it's just tacky." This from the man who when
the police returned Tuesday night got everyone in the coffeehouse to
lock arms and told the police that he knew they weren't getting
everything they wanted either. He'd read their contract. "This is about a
heartbeat," he told them. He got the people inside MoKaBe's to strike
their breasts.
The police went away.
Back up back up
We want freedom freedom
All these racist ass cops
We don't need 'em need 'em.
Following the release of the grand jury testimony, many have argued
that McCulloch acted more like a defense attorney than a prosecutor.
There have been mutterings about his own history, and a possible
connection between the Michael Brown case and McCulloch's personal
tragedy of his police officer father having been killed by a black
suspect back in 1964. But what in some ways was even more troubling was
Wilson's ABC interview on the evening after the verdict, for which he
seemed to have been well-coached, including the galling statement that
his conscience was clear. An attorney for Brown's family observed that
this was a poor response to his having taken the life of a young man. In
his testimony, Wilson "deployed," as Sekou called it, every racist
trope in order to assert that he was in fear of his life. Brown, Wilson
said, looked "like a demon."
After the Civil War, thousands of black men were on the roads,
looking for new starts, but mostly looking for loved ones sold away.
Vagrancy laws were passed that said if you couldn't say where you lived
or worked you could be picked up and put on the chain gang. America has
always felt the necessity of keeping its black male population under
control. Behind every failure to make the police accountable in such
killings is an almost gloating confidence that the majority of white
Americans support the idea that the police are the thin blue line
between them and social chaos. Indeed, part of the problem in several
such cases has been the alarmist phone calls from third parties to
police dispatchers, reporting any situation involving a black male in a
stereotypical and therefore usually false fashion - the police aren't
the only ones to engage in racial profiling. If you are a black man, be
careful what you shop for in Walmart.
There is a chance that the federal government may vigorously
investigate the Michael Brown case. "Please help us fight these
monsters," the hip-hop artist Tef Poe asked the president in a recent
open letter. But for decades Congress resisted passing any legislation
making lynching illegal. The Congress we have now is not going to
convene hearings on our police culture or pass a comprehensive public
works bill.
Yet the Ferguson movement has promised that the situation cannot go
back to normal, to the way things have been. Everybody knows what racism
is. The problems needn't be explained over and over. They can't be
deflected by saying that Michael Brown took some cigars from a store,
that he broke the law and therefore it was proper to kill him with six
bullets, although he had no weapon. This is the kind of thinking that
racism hides behind. Ferguson feels like a turning point. For so many,
Brown's death was the last straw. Black youth are fed up with being
branded criminals at birth.
Ferguson was the country stepping back in
time or exposing the fact that change hasn't happened where most needed,
that most of us don't live in the age of Obama.
"It's a myth that we're
a fair society," Sekou said. "We have to take that needle out of our
arms."