As mentioned in the last post, I went to Ferguson, Missouri directly following Darren Wilson's verdict.
Why do I think this has a place in a blog about Female Genital Mutilation and violent crimes against women?
Because human injustice anywhere is a problem everywhere.
Below I will put the observations of the night that I arrived in Ferguson and the day that I spent in Missouri cleaning up the city after the riots devastated many businesses.
The night of the riots at about 11:00PM:
From the moment I drove into the town, it felt eerie.
The first thing you notice is the smoke.
Not just the smell of it, seeping through your vents and filling your nostrils in moments, but also the look of it, creating a fog-like filter on the entire town.
Then come the sounds of sirens, they're in the distance, but seemingly from every direction.
The stop light coming off the ramp didn't work and there was not a single vehicle the main roads.
Until you came across Chambers St... There was virtually no way to drive down Chambers, although many curious drivers were attempting to do so but where thwarted off by police on loud speakers constantly repeating, "Turn back the way you came, you cannot continue... I repeat, turn your vehicle around."
If one were to take one of the many side streets that lead to the center of Chambers St, around Florissant St, they would generally be deterred by one of the police helicopters beaming the blinding light into their windshield (as happened to me many times).
This is where I found the few signs of distressed city dwellers as a black man in an SUV leaned out his window, hollering incoherently as they roared past.
Although the town seemed abandoned upon entry, exiting was a different story all together.
Every stop light and sign was met with eager on-lookers in vehicles and police blockades shining their flash lights into each car.
After my heart rate decelerated and I had regained my sense of direction, I headed toward the high way and came to the realization that there was absolutely nothing I could contribute or detract from Ferguson at this time of night.
As I began my journey to find the nearest rest stop, I glanced to my left to see, off in the distance, an entire building engulfed in flames.
I fought the urge to turn the vehicle around.
I'm thinking that maybe tomorrow the shock will have passed and people may be able to relay their reflections of the event to me.
I haven't a clue what I was expecting on my journey here tonight... But I'm pretty sure this wasn't it.
The day after the riots at 7:00AM:
I wrote this entry as if I was making a documentary or news package about the day, all of my writing is based on honest observation and actual quotes, with no exaggerations, but admittedly, some bias and opinion.
It would start with the sound of a police car, then a slow zoom out to reveal the hair supply store, with the windows shattered and the contents destroyed by fire, smoke and sprinkler damage.
The next shot would be of the white, older eye glass business owner.
She is in tears telling me that they've been in business for years, it didn't have to come to this, and she doesn't understand.
I would then step back to reveal the 40-something-year-old black gentleman that walked in, needing to pick up his glasses.
I would keep the camera rolling as the owner put down her broom that she was sweeping glass with to go find this gentleman's glasses, with a weak and apologetic smile on her face and tears still in her eyes.
I would carry the camera down the street, recording the damage and stopping at the Walgreens that had been torched, focusing my attention on the eventual main character of my story, Terrence Williams.
Terrence is a black gentleman in his mid-20s, currently talking to a young white male.
As I approach, Terrence is telling the white male why he has a full trash bag in his hands, "We need to make sure that people see the positive, too. We need to construct something positive from the destruction that occurred here last night," he is saying.
I make sure the mic picks up his profound words and instead of asking him for an interview, I decide to follow him around and see what else he has to say.
As we make our way down the block, picking up discarded and unpaid for wine bottles, beer cans, SIM card packages, socks, wigs, candy, and jewelry, a young black boy in the sixth grade walks up to Terrence asking if he can help.
He introduces himself as Josh and begins picking up items around the shattered glass by the nail salon.
Terrence says, "See? Positivity breeds positivity."
We make our way further down the block, picking up litter and loitered items.
"I want to make this place look even better than before," says Terrence.
Josh heads home after filling two garbage bags and we continue past the local bank.
I make a comment about how the broken windows of the bank are a federal offense as we put our bags into a kind white lady's trash can.
But I get the feeling that it's all the same to Terrence, destroyed property in his community.
A community that he is proud to call his, even amongst all the destruction.
We come across a Chinese restaurant with the owners family standing outside, talking to a few men that look to be in the construction business.
They turn out to be owners of a business down the street that was not hit by the rioters (I refuse to call them protesters, which yes, is my own personal slant).
Terrence asks if he can help and before they can even give him direction, he grabs a broom and starts sweeping the glass.
I feel out of place and useless until someone asks for the tables to be wiped down, I grab a rag and follow suit.
The broken windows have to be removed and boarded up, this is a sight you see at nearly every business on the block: plywood replacing glass, as if that's just the way windows were meant to be.
There are now about 15 people at the restaurant, removing glass, putting up plywood, sweeping glass, emptying trash... Helping one another along the way.
There are two black males, one black female, two Asian males, two Asian females, four white males, and three white females, all working together to put this one shop back together.
An older white business owner of a supply shop that hadn't been hit tells me that if he wasn't here, he would be deer hunting.
It's the last day of the season, "But there will be other seasons. I need to be here, helping my community," he tells me.
One of the dozens of journalists walks up and starts taking pictures.
"I hope your telling this part of the story, too," I say.
He tells me that he'll try. He is an older white male. He asks me if I'm from around here, then tells me that he's from Ferguson. He is an overseas freelance journalist who just returned from reporting in Afghanistan.
"Who knew that you would be coming home to a war scene?" I half heartedly joke.
"No kidding," he says.
We talk about how sad the whole situation is and then subtly shift the conversation to a less heavy topic.
No one wants to talk about it. But it has to be addressed.
As we're standing among the ruins of a beautiful community, there is no way to escape the reality.
There is a problem in Ferguson, but it's not just here and it's not so much about the community itself.
When the Chinese restaurant no longer needs our assistance, Terrence and I decide to walk back to our cars.
We think that the businesses have all been assisted, but on our way, we run into a group of people. Terrence asks if we can help.
Every group of people we run into are friendly, introducing themselves, shaking hands, giving hugs, and always thanking each other profusely.
No one really talks about what happened, just what needs to be done.
At this point I meet Sam Flynn, a young, white, male student at the St. Luis hospital who made a trip down after working a night shift, listening to news reports and talking to patients about the riots. Sam was eager to see the town first hand and ready to offer his services.
Terrence, toting a garbage bag, Sam, dragging a massive trash can, and I, carrying a large push broom chimney sweep style, formed a trio of helpers, staking out our next clean up mission.
We swept the glass by the roadside, remanence of two torched police cars, then walked past the fire station.
Terrence asked if he could clean up beyond the blocked off area, and began engaging in friendly conversation with a middle age, white police officer.
The camera operators for nation and international TV, radio and newspaper outlets went wild, catching an ideal interaction between a young black male and a white police officer.
I wish this was all that was needed to make everything better. But it's not.
While I was standing there, pondering this, a young Hispanic woman carrying a tray full of cookies briskly walked up to a black police officer behind the blockade and handed him the tray.
This reminded me to shake the hand of the officer near me and Sam and I thanked him for his service.
By this time, we had made our way up and down the block on either side and Sam and I were satisfied that we had done our part.
We said thank you and goodbye to Terrence, who was still engaged in friendly conversation, and set off to return the trash can and broom to the business at the end of the block.
I said my goodbyes to Sam, who I now considered a friend and got lunch at the Chinese restaurant that I had helped clean up and was already open for business.
Apparently Terrence was not satisfied, as the last time I spotted him was a couple miles away from blocks we had spent the entire morning cleaning and was now in the worst hit area, where the roads were completely blocked off and the businesses were still smoldering, going above and beyond to restore the image of the community he cared so deeply about.
