The Protectors

I drove downtown to chase a storm. Election night and the windows are boarded up in anticipation of sore losers. I am absurdly over-prepared with weapons, batteries, long underwear, winter coat, phone and wallet, and a fake phone and wallet in case of mugging. I swoop in with childish exuberance, hoping to catch democracy’s bad side on camera.

But I found a different story. 

The streets are quiet except for Beethoven playing over the speakers. It is the music of revolution and a handful of black revolutionaries stand guard on the steps of the Civil War monument. Patrol cars are lined up in front and white police officers survey the scene with a wary eye. 

The air is so rife with symbolism, it’s ridiculous.

I gather my courage and approach the police. “My grandfather was a state trooper in Connecticut. First undercover narc and then K-9 unit. I know you guys get a bad wrap in the media, but I appreciate your service.” It’s true, but I’m really saying it because I’m a suck-up and if things get tense, I don’t want them to shoot me in the face. 

I gather more courage and walk up the steps. 

He is nameless and silent, wrapped in a Native American blanket and standing guard like the ghost of a king. Someone distributing gospel tracts prays with him and shakes his hand. Another storm chaser and I take pictures and he allows it, lifting his rifle and bowing his head with infinite sadness. As if the weight of all his ancestors were on his shoulders tonight. 

He is wearing ear plugs; this is not a drill. 

I ask if I can take her picture. “Yes, of course.” She hands a cigarette to a friend, puts down her phone and wallet, fixes her mask, and poses for me. Long, false eyelashes and a 9mm semi-automatic short-barreled rifle. I feel safe with her, and I ask what group she’s a part of. 

“I’m not a part of any group. We all come from different backgrounds. Some are panthers, some are just solo, but we come together as one to stand against all the bullshit that’s going on. It’s a privilege to be able to stand together.”

“I hope you don’t have too much trouble tonight.”

She smiles. “Oh, we won’t.” 

“Thank you so much.”

“Thank you.”

I ask a police officer if I can take his picture. He declines and I understand. He represents something bigger than himself and it can be taken out of context and used against him. But the same is true of the armed citizens, and they had even less reason to trust me. 

I wish I had been more prepared and brought water bottles to distribute. I wish I could buy them coffee, but all the stores are boarded up.

I don’t know who won the election. I don’t know what happened after I left. But I hope the protectors are safe and continue to stand guard over democracy. I hope I do so as well – through music, words, pictures – every weapon I have. 

J.

Nov. 3, 2020