The morning after the non-indictment announcement (Nov. 25)
in Ferguson, Mo., during a run along the ridge above the Vale of Cashmere in
Prospect Park, I heard a staccato burst of machinery noise, immediately
thinking that it must be related to some kind of racially motivated protest response
to the announcement from Missouri that was coiled in rule of law while
attempting to grind into pulp First Amendment expression in the form of press
reports and social media opinion.
Rather, the machinery noise was arising from a squadron of
leaf blowers – predominantly, if not all, blacks and Hispanics – who were
working to clear the exterior grounds of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
It struck me that morning how far we have come from the Sixties.
That protests have swung from the streets to social media platforms. That
whites control the machinery of power; blacks, the machinery of servitude.
But, then, later that night, while dining at a Flatbush
Avenue restaurant, I watched as hundreds of protesters, some carrying placards
that read, Black Lives Matter, marched in the middle of the usually busy motorway at
a fast pace, with some marchers coming to those of us who were cheering them on
to come and join them.
It was before midnight when I started to walk in the direction
of the protesters. Under the arches at Grand Army Plaza stood a small army of
police; I counted a dozen 12-person vans. I came upon a second protest wannabe and
encouraged him to join me in my search for the marchers. We walked a mile or
more in what was ultimately a vain attempt to meet up with the Ferguson protest
rovers. Two others of like mind joined us and I ended my day that started with
a sense that we had come to a time in which street action – outside of Ferguson,
Mo., itself, of course – was over being in a small protest march of my own
making.
Next: Running for Your Life: Simply Write It Down
