#Juneteenth
By Malaika Aaron-Bishop
Two marches. Two rallies. One drum circle.
A Black woman in a white, lace frock with long diaphanous sleeves carries a megaphone. The dress is at once delicate and commanding. Impractical? Maybe. But still deeply appropriate. She paces, making eye contact with each person and bellows with the ease of any general: "We are crying out as mothers and grandmothers saying... we shall not be stopped, Amen!?"
Crowd: "Amen!"
Woman: "Alright! Forward ever! Backward never!"
At Eastern Parkway and Kingston Avenue: A young, white Jewish boy in a yarmulke and a black boy, a few inches shorter than his friend clap us on. They look comfortable in each other's company.
At Eastern Parkway and Brooklyn Avenue: A man with his hazards on, speakers up, and windows down marches from his car. In the passenger seat was an elder. His grandmother? She was smiling and pumping her fists along to our demands. She has marched before. I'm sure. He had Biggie playing and was honking in time to Juicy.
"Called the police on me when I was just tryin' to make some money to feed my daughter (it's all good) SAY HIS NAME!"
"And all the niggas in the struggle. GEORGE FLOYD"
"You know what I'm sayin'? SAY HIS NAME!"
"It's all good, GEORGE FLOYD baby baby"
"SAY HER NAME Way back, when I had the BREONNA TAYLOR red and black lumberjack SAY HER NAME!"
"With the hat to match."
Biggie, Granny, the driver, and us. It was the Brooklynest Mashup ever. My ears and my soul were pleased.
At Eastern Parkway and Bedford Avenue:
"WHAT DO WE WANT?!"
"ABOLITION"
"WHEN DO WE WANT IT?!"
"NOW!!!!!"
"WHAT DO WE WANT?!"
"ABOLITION"
"WHEN DO WE WANT IT?!"
"NOW!!!!!"
A lone NYPD van tails us. An officer yells into his radio. His ears are red. His windows are rolled up but even if they weren't, our voice--collective, global--is enough to overwhelm him.
For now.
He follows us all the way down Eastern Parkway.
"HOW DO YOU SPELL RACIST!?"
I wonder if he knows.
"ALL I WANNA SAY IS THAT THEY DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT US"
"ALL I WANNA SAY IS THAT THEY DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT US"
We chant. MJ is forever relevant.
At Grand Army Plaza a crowd hears us coming and cheers us forward. As we pull up, we Red Sea around a Black woman posing for a photo in her graduation cap and gown. A Kente cloth stole ornaments her shoulders. Black Student Union? Africanna Studies Major? We don't know. But we abandon our cries and replace them with "CONGRATULATIONS!" She blushes. Most Militant. Photobomb. Ever.
We circle up for the rally.
A long black sign with gold lettering calls, "JEWS FOR BLACK LIVES"
Another sign responds, "BLACK TRANS LIVES MATTER"
The bluesiest unhoused man I have ever met asks for some water. "I can't pay," he says, "I'm broke. I'm so broke, I can't pay attention. I glance back at him before moving in closer to hear the speaker. Even as he drinks, his feet tap a syncopated rhythm.
"WE KEEP US SAFE. SOLIDARITY KEEPS US SAFE. VULNERABILITY KEEPS US SAFE"
In the future, there are black people. In the future, there are black trans people.
I know because a trans woman, takes the megaphone and thunders:
"SAY IT LOUD! I'M BLACK AND I'M PROUD!
"SAY IT LOUD! I'M BLACK AND I'M PROUD"
A Black woman with the 2nd most lit afro I have ever seen (Forever, Michael and 1975 Angela Davis are tied at #1) approaches me as I sit on a bench. I am sitting some distance from the drum circle eating my first meal of the day: escovitch fish, with rice and cabbage (#buyblack #🇯🇲). In a voice that is part drawl, part Brooklyn she says to me, "would you like some water, Sis?" It is the perfect kind of cold, glacial. It almost tastes like freedom. Almost.
My heart rejoices to its own syncopated rhythm.
"Are you all registered to vote? Sir, can I help you register to vote today?"
At Barclay's Center, the crowd is somber. Still traumatized, I imagine, from scenes in the days and weeks prior. The NYPD seemed on their best behaviour. Is it because of the six freshly signed police reform bills?
"Ain't you tired?"
The speaker is a black man. Slender. He could be my brother. He says he's addressing the white folks in the crowd. "Ain't you tired of watching your black neighbors getting stopped and harassed by the police?"
In the future, there are black people. In the future there are no police.
They might not be tired, but me? I am. Tired and traumatized before I was even born, exhaustion printed on my DNA. I am tired but today I am also full. Full of hope despite my skepticism. Full of resilience. Because, where there is life, there is resilience. And we, Black people, are alive.
As I turn to leave, I walk by a Black mother applauding the speaker. "Yessssss!! YESSSS!!!"
The crowd chants: "BLACK LIVES MATTER."
The mother chants: "MY SON'S LIFE MATTERS"
#Juneteenth
Banner photo by Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash. Also published on LinkedIn.