My Facebook News Feed has been rather depressing over the past week. Most of the posts have been about what’s happening in Baltimore—a city forty-five minutes from D.C. and that I visit often.
Friends have been writing long statuses and commentaries about their feelings regarding Freddie Gray’s death, the riots, the media coverage, and the announcement that six cops will be arrested.
So far, I have posted nothing on the topic because I’ve been overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions. However, I will say this:
I think that in the politics and coverage of the situation in Baltimore, the humanity of both the citizens and police officers has been lost.
In light of that, I'm turning today’s writing prompt into an attempt to find that humanity by asking you to write about the photo below.
Photo courtesy of thedenverchannel.com.
PRACTICE
Take fifteen minutes to write the story of the boy or the officer in the above photo taken in Baltimore. Who are they? Why are they there? Where will they be in five years? Share in the comments section below!
I may post the practice later, but I just wanted to thank you for calling attention to this issue! Too often, police brutality, especially concerning PoC, is reduced to victim blaming, and the following protests, peaceful or not, to animalistic rioting.
The boy and officer in this photo make me want to believe in Humanity. I remember back in 1968 when the officers were called in for the Democratic convention. There were riots left and right because of the Vietnam war. I was a child but certain things remain in your memory. The national guard was called in because the Chicago PD couldn’t control the crowd, the looting, etc. A man in the riot crowd put a flower in the gun of the Guard to indicate “Peace”. It was a photo the has been held for humanity in “Life” magazine. A sign for everyone to see that all the hippies wanted was “Peace, no war”.
This photo reminded me of the same thing. This little boy didn’t want the PO to be hot with all his gear on and irritated for just standing there. So he wanted to show a sign of “We don’t all hate you, we just want peace, would you like a bottle of water?” That’s what I believe the little boy wanted to say. That is why I believe the story here can be related to 1968.
The little boy is just a boy among many who live in the Baltimore area, sick of having nothing but young enough not to show such hatred as did the rioters the first night. The PO is one amoung many who was doing his job, by listening to his commander to stand and not do anything, except be a presence in the community. His side as a human being wanted to get to his knees and take that water to show he, probably, is a father, a husband, and has a heart, yet he couldn’t because he was on duty. There you have a conflict, just as the Baltimore riots were, all conflicts between PO and the people who live there. In 1968 there were conflicts between the hippies and their beliefs in the Vietnam wars against the guard and their orders to take control over Chicago.
Why they were there is probably answered in my above comment, but they’re there because they both want peace. As far as where will they be in five years is hard to answer but I think that can only be answered by our society. Will the child be a statistic? Will he be like all the kids in Baltimore who started this riot? Hating PO’s and everyone else who feels they have done him an injustice and continue the hate instead of putting it behind him, getting an education and not being a statistic as many who are in that area. I want him to be an example for others, saying to the world, “remember that photo that was taken of me in 2015? I’m not that child in poverty anymore, I got an education and I believe in myself. I’m not in a category!” That’s what I want to believe in. Yet we won’t know until we see changes in communities and especially in our nation.
As far as the officer in 5 years. I think he will look back on that shot of him, remember how he had to tell that young child, “No I can’t take the water right now”. He will be thinking about how he wanted to tell that child, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry that I couldn’t take the water from you 5 years ago, I really wanted to but I was on duty. I didnt want you to feel like I didn’t care. I have a family, just like you do, I understand your situation here, even though many didnt believe I did. I’m sure your Mom was doing the best she could for you and I know it was just a few bad people who started this riot. I’m so glad you decided to stay in school, because staying on the streets would only make you worse” That’s what I would want him to say to that child in 5 years. I believe in 5 years he probably won’t be in Baltimore, I’m just hoping he is one PO in a few, or many, that really cares, wants to make a difference and does something for the community where he went to. I just want to believe what I wrote, yet we are only the writers, the future is in their hands, as a society we have to stop categorizing both of these people.
Great commentary, DJ. My heart goes out to the city of Baltimore. I have relatives who live nearby. There is that underlying fear that the city could fall apart even more than it already has. Seeing a picture like that warms my heart. It makes me believe there are people who don’t see the world as hostile and heartless; that there is opportunity for peace if only we take the time to open our hearts to those who want to do the right thing.
Thanks George! You’re right I don’t want to see any more hostility. This was an identical picture with different characters from 1968. There was too much anger between generations back then. In 2015 I want to break the generational curse that has happened between this child’s past and give him positive opportunities for the future. Just because this all happened in a poor area doesn’t mean everyone has to remain stuck there. Something good has to happen out of this, and it can’t be like the past. Let’s open ourselves up to peace not anger…
I don’t think young always implies there is no hatred. When I lived in a poor part of New Orleans, I saw hatred in the eyes of very young children. At least, my neighbor’s girl got to know me. She said I was different and she didn’t hate all whites anymore.
Here in San Diego, the police do internships in the neighborhoods. They play ball with the kids and just have fun with them. They are in uniform. It makes a huge difference when kids have the opportunity to know us.
P.S. I don’t mean to imply I am a cop. Could never do that job! Teaching is hard enough for me.
A young American woman goes to war-torn El Salvador: tinyurl.com/klxbt4y
Officer Bates stood stoic, riot shield in hand. Yet, he felt uneasy. Five months in and here he was in the front lines. Keeping rioters under control was not in the job description. Training was one thing; this was real life. He didn’t think that he would have to use the tactics he learned at the academy should the situation call for it.
“Were the rioters headed this way? What would they do? What would he do?”
These thoughts flooded his brain, and yet Officer Bates stood, anticipating what was to come. He heard small steps approach his line. He turned his gaze to the left. A boy approached him. He carried four bottles of water. The boy stopped a few feet from Bates. He didn’t say anything, but extended a bottle to him. Bates looked at the boy in front of him.
“Why is he here? Why would he offer a bottled water to me? Does he know the severity of the situation?”
Yet he could say nothing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t smile. He was nothing more than a body sent to keep the peace if it became necessary. And no bottled water could ease the tenseness.
(I think I didn’t put this in the reply right)
Excellent George! You made a paragraph open to a beginning for a short story/book! Seriously! Mine was more of a hopeful future with a look into the past. I think we both gave different yet similar commentaries. We both, as you said, are looking for less hostility and more peace. I loved it..I so want to be an author. I have a blog and I think this is perfect to put on it. p.s. On the news another shooting of another person in Balitmore…WHEN WILL IT END!!
Excellent George! You made a paragraph open to a beginning for a short story/book! Seriously! Mine was more of a hopeful future with a look into the past. I think we both gave different yet similar commentaries. We both, as you said, are looking for less hostility and more peace. I loved it..I so want to be an author. I have a blog and I think this is perfect to put on it. p.s. On the news another shooting of another person in Balitmore…WHEN WILL IT END!!
I noticed the black kid walking in-between the rows of us cops all dressed in our riot gear. What the hell? Where was this kid’s mother? This is exactly what’s wrong with these people! Kids running around unattended, at all times-of-day, in the middle of a riot even!
“Hey, Sarge! Do you see this?” I pointed to the kid. Sarge was preoccupied, talking on the phone with the Mayor. Does anyone not see this? Does anyone not care that this kid is in the way? If he gets hurt, it’s going to blow this city up beyond the hell we’re already in.
“Would you like a water?” came the young voice.
“Son, you better scram or you’re gonna get hurt,” I warned. “Where’s your mom?”
“She’s over there on the sidewalk,” he said, pointing to the young woman pushing a shopping cart full of water bottles. “We figured you guys were getting thirsty. Do you want a bottle?” He looked up at me and smiled.
Our eyes locked. What a cute kid. What a kind boy. I felt the corner of my parched lips crack as I smiled back.
I really like this post. It’s the most realistic, so far.
Thanks, Lillian. I have talked with several friends who live around Ferguson. I also know several cops. It helped me come up with a more realistic storyline, I think.
also my favorite
Hi Conrad,
I only know what goes on in the U.S.A. through photo reporters’ news on TV, documentary films and some good American friends. (And, books, of course).
I don’t know how much is true or false when we see scenes of cops using violence on citizens. I ask myself what the guy or group did to cause the cop’s reaction.
In the proposed picture, I see a certainy understanding between the young cop and the kid who’s offering him a drink, assuming that the young cop is thirsty from standing in line all day.
I like the gesture.
Sweat rolled down the Officer’s brow, and he stood perfectly still. He was careful to keep his face void of expression, ready to use force to stop the rioters if necessary. The sun seemed like a thousand pounds on his shoulders, especially since he and the other men were in full gear. Full black gear that is.
The riots in Baltimore have been hectic, and he had heard the stories from other officers. This was his first day out, and Dale was ready for anything. Or so he thought. Out from the crowds of rioters came a small figure, a small boy with his arms full of bottles of water.
A small colored boy, Dale’s mind corrected as her glanced along his row to see if any of the other officers noticed. He was worried of what he was supposed to do, as the boy walked directly up to him. The Officer beside Dale pointed to the boy and muttered something, and Dale struggled to hear. He stopped trying when the boy met his eyes, and there seemed to be a moment when the two noticed nothing but each other. The boy reached forward with a water bottle, grinning. Dale’s lips twitched in the corner as he fought a smile.
We never forget the kindness of children.
A few days after the death of Freddie Gray, I stood in line in my riot gear and tried to ignore the sweat dripping into my eyelashes. It wasn’t even that hot, but under the layers and layers of black padding I felt like I was melting. I blinked away the moisture and tried not to fidget. I wasn’t scared. There was no violence, not yet. Maybe wouldn’t be any at all. The streets were full of people, milling around, talking, sometimes hugging. I couldn’t tell if the people hugging were strangers to each other or not. The soft movements of their lips looked like condolences. The hands clasped to shoulders were kind. They didn’t scare me. Didn’t even make me nervous. Uncomfortable, I think, was the best word.
A few kids – teenagers, I guess I should say – were pacing by the police line, eyeing us. Not in a menacing kind of way. Like they were trying to figure us out. Focus in on a face behind a helmet and read it. They paced back and forth, back and forth. I thought of tigers in the zoo – back and forth. Frustrated. Caged. Needing something more than what they had been saddled with: hushed up foreclosures, teachers that didn’t give a damn, smug middle class white people posting half-informed opinions on Facebook. People that I looked, and probably usually acted, a lot like. It was uncomfortable.
The truth was, I felt like a shit police officer. Here I was in my riot gear, protecting what? And from whom? What right did I have to try to protect anybody when a young man was dead? What was my presence, any police officer’s presence, doing to make anyone feel safe? I couldn’t hand out justice with a plastic shield. Even though it really wasn’t my fault, I felt guilty. I didn’t blame anyone who was rioting in the city. Not one little bit. What else did they have left to do? All of that everything – history and silence and pain and turned backs – it all had to go somewhere.
That’s when I felt a tapping on my shield. Looking down, I saw a little boy with an armful of water bottles, and he was holding one out to me. His face was quiet and earnest, watching me with a waiting kind of eyes, like someone playing a chess game: “I’ve done my thing. Now it’s your move.” Everyone under the age of ten has an innate kindness in their facial expressions and the way they move. Something about still being so round and smooth with baby fat. Like the hardness of the world hasn’t touched them. But the hardness of the world had touched this boy. And it would keep doing so. He was a black boy in America, would be a black man. I didn’t delude myself that the outcome of the investigation into Freddie Gray’s death would change anything for the long term in this city or this country. This boy would see so much hardness in his lifetime. So would his children. Maybe even his grandchildren. Yet here he was offering me a water
bottle. Maybe his parent had made him do it, or some other adult authority figure. But he was here. Offering the water bottle. Showing me what I had left to protect. For my sake as much as his.
I took the water bottle and said, “Thank you.” He smiled like a sunbeam and scampered off down the line. I blinked more moisture out of my eyes. This time it wasn’t sweat.
Thanks for sharing these thoughts. Boy, it sure is nice to get some good news for a change. 😉 <3
A young American woman goes to war-torn El Salvador: tinyurl.com/klxbt4y
This is my first time posting anything on here. I admit that I don’t know what I’m talking about. I live very far away from Baltimore. I live in a world where I’ve never witnessed riots or protests or violence. But the boy in the picture started talking to me and I started writing. I wrote a lot. Maybe too much to be putting on here. I apologize for my ignorance of the true situation in Baltimore. I only know what I see in the news. I don’t feel the heart of it here. I wish I could make the world a better place for everyone.
And here we go:
Sometimes the world just gets out of rhythm. Chaos. Humans. Everybody talking, nobody listening. Everybody yelling, nobody listening. Blood. Anger. Sweat. Mess. Nobody can remember where it started and nobody thinks about how it will end. If they would just shut up and look up at the sky and hear the birds and listen to God talking to them through the trees they might figure it out. But I can’t tell them that. Nobody’s going to listen to a boy like me. Nobody’s got time to listen to a 10 year old boy in all of this
crazy. Nobody listens at all.
My mother, aunt and brothers had been standing on this street for hours. Watching,
waiting, wondering. They’d sent me to fetch some water. Waiting is a thirsty
business. Especially when the smell of crazy and chaos tinges the air. We were
like deer at the river. Eyes watchful and glossy with images of danger. A sense
of movement. Knowing that the trigger might be standing close to us but not sure
which one. Is it us or is it them?
So off I went in search of water, fighting my way between legs, arms, angry faces, expectant faces, scared faces, sweaty bodies, loud and chanting movement. Maybe my mother sent me to save me. Ancient instinct telling her spine it was time for fight or
flight. She was always good at knowing and sensing. She never shielded my brothers or me from the reality of our world. She wanted us to understand. To know everything.
Above the crowd, standing beneath a road sign like a desert oasis amongst a sea of
people, the shape of a tall, wide grandma in a fuzzy purple sweater caught my
eye. She had a flat of water at her feet along with some bulging market bags of
food and other such supplies that might be needed for a campout on a corner
beneath a sign. I thought she had probably done this before. I asked her if I
could buy a couple bottles of her water and handed over a wadded bill my mother
had sent with me. I had to yell so she could hear me over the chanting of the
crowd. She smiled and handed me as many bottles as I could hold shaking her
head no to the money. She looked me right in the eye as she did so. Truthful,
warm, intelligent, knowing eyes.
‘Share where it’s needed’, she said close to my ear so I could hear. ‘Don’t be afraid to share.’
I nodded up at her and remembered a thank you.
As I made my way back to my family, handing over water here and there if a hand grabbed for one, I found myself in the front lines. A wall of shields held up to barricade the people. Was this really happening? Curiosity over took me as it usually does. I
wanted a real good close look. Curiosity can be my flaw or my strength. I haven’t decided which yet. Sometimes I get into trouble and sometimes I find things that are good.
The shields didn’t look directly at me but they were definitely aware of my presence. I could feel the vibration of intimidation coming off of them. It almost made me want to
piss my pants. Almost.
Stony, serious faces. Soldier faces. Soldiers on duty. Shields and guns and clubs and sprays. Robotic with fleshy faces. Nobody looked at me except for one. He looked me right in the eye. Truthful, warm, intelligent, watchful, knowing eyes. Thirsty eyes. I reached out with a bottle of water. He stepped out of line and he took it. An awkward
movement with his arms full of armour. I know he probably shouldn’t have done
it but he pulled the shield down, took that bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, took a long drink, and handed the half-drunk bottle back to me, keeping his eyes on mine the entire time.
Just one word from him, ‘Thanks.’
And two words from me, ‘You’re welcome.’
He gave a tiny twitch of a smile then stepped back into line. His face morphed back into stone like a gargoyle as he stared straight ahead to create the image of a united front of protection. The wall. Your side, my side.
Somebody on the edge of the crowd yelled at me. I didn’t understand what they were saying but I knew it wasn’t nice or good. It was something about ‘no black kid should be giving no white officer water’. I guess they thought I was some sort of traitor. But not everybody yelled. Most didn’t.
I let myself be swallowed by the protesting community while strong thoughts swirled about in my head. Thoughts about a book my mother had read just a few nights before.
Often my mother would read novels out loud to me and my older brothers. She did it to
hold us together in a world that tried so hard to pull us apart. At least that’s
what she told us. There was no choice in the matter as far as she was concerned
but to sit and to listen. So we’d sit and we’d listen as she opened new worlds for us.
These are a few of the words I remembered her reading aloud while the crazy outside was scratching at our door. It was a fateful night that would lead to this fateful day and this is what she read:
‘Never have I met a person doing terrible things who would meet my own eyes peacefully. To gaze into another person’s face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity, and to assert your own.’
-Lawrence Hill from the Book of Negroes
With my thoughts chasing these words followed by the gazes of the brown eyed water lady and the blue eyed police officer, I looked up into the eyes of every human in my path, asserting my humanity and searching for theirs. Just like the book said and just like Water Lady and Police Officer showed. Some looked back and held my gaze for a moment but many did not see the 10 year old boy packing water close to his chest through a crowd of chaos. They couldn’t hear and they wouldn’t see. But I could and I did and I do.
Wow, Tanya, what a beautiful job you’ve done on your version of that powerful picture. So many deliciously turned phrases, great story building and congruency. Lovely building of emotions through the little vignettes throughout. I enjoyed it so much!
I have one thought to offer. Some comments seemed to not fit a 10 year old inner city boy, such as “like deer at the river . . .” and “ancient instinct telling her spine . . .” I love both of these phrases but wonder if they ring true for your character.
Thank You so much for sharing!
Thank you so much for your support Kat.
I completely agree with you about some of what I wrote not fitting this 10 year old boy. I have no idea what life in the inner-city or Baltimore is like. I have no idea how the people of that area speak or even what they call their mom. Is it mom, ma, mama? I don’t know. I’m a white woman that lives in the far north. But this boy’s voice was so strong in my mind I had to write it all out. He’s smart, observant, brave. He has a strong, intelligent mama that reads material to him that might be beyond his age but she wants him to know and understand the world. I could only interpret it with what I know. This piece would need a lot of research if anything more was going to be done with it. I just wrote it out from my mind to the screen and then I let it go.
Thank you once again for taking the time to read it over for me.
Breathe- but keep your eyes open. Relax- but never lose focus. Always be vigilant. You never know what they could do. He kept his back straight, his face stoic and his fear in a place in his mind that helped him pretend it was non-existent. This is who we are.. this is what we do, he thought. We keep the peace and we deliver any enemies of the peace to justice…but when did we become so hated? The city is sick. God, why’d Tommy- no, I have to focus…but…
They all look guilty. When we pass them, when they see us, when they think of us. There’s something so potent in their eyes, an emotion so intense, hatred so extreme that sometimes…it scares me. I saw a six year-old laughing and playing with her friends. She made me think of my daughter and I smiled at her but when she saw me she just stopped playing and stood to glare at me. The hatred that shone in her small eyes struck me. Even the children…
There’s no hope for any of them. I’ll ask for a sign I know You won’t give me, hope that doesn’t exist. I won’t ask for a hundred, ten or even five, just- show me one man, one woman, anyone who hasn’t be corrupted by life. He feared his emotions would distract him in this hostile environment, compromise his position so he said to Him, You know what- never mind. I haven’t got time for dreams today anyway. He hardened his heart and was satisfied at the strength of the fortified barrier.
“Richie, Imma tell mama if you even think ’bout goin’ near them.”
“It’s hot and Mimi. I got to.”
“That’s the only water we got today and-”
“I got to.”
So the boy walked on even though his sister was already running home. He knew he would be in a lot if trouble when he got home…if his mama didn’t get to him first.
He saw a man who he had been watching, afraid to step out in front of all the officers. He did funny things with his face, but he had stopped now. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old went up to the stoic man who had made the funny faces and held up a bottle to him. He smiled at the frowning man and kept his hand stretched out and time stood still.The man stood there, confused and defenceless- the walls crumbled and his heart was exposed. He stood, not knowing what to do.
That was a wonderful story! I thoroughly enjoyed reading it! Keep up the good work
Thanks Pedro 🙂
I believe that good stories have a message, hidden or not so hidden, and effective messages are ones that move the reader in one way or another. This story had a message and I felt moved. Good work. You achieved that goal.
This little boy has already learned; by 3rd grade they know. Dragging crayons out of the ‘big’ box one by one he comes across a peachy colored one labeled ‘flesh’. The subtle message is there; this is the ‘right’ color for flesh and, therefore, his color is wrong.
Sometimes a thought comes into my mind that reminds me that I still have a ways to go to be completely free of racial bias. I’m always startled! Where did THAT come from? Society messages are often subtle but also very effective at training life attitudes into us.
It starts with the box of crayons!
NOTE: Maybe we’ve made a tiny step in the right direction. What was labeled ‘flesh’ is now called apricot.
There he was, standing before me. Just a kid. He knew it was hot. He knew we were more than the faceless monsters we were depicted to be. There he was, handing the water bottle to me. Under all the heavy equipment and the spring sun, that water looked delicious. But I couldn’t take it. On duty, we aren’t allowed to accept any gifts. But still, there he was.
I wanted to scoop him up, hug him, tell him how amazing and brave he was. I wanted to tell him how far he would go in life, how an act of kindness never goes unnoticed. But I couldn’t. I had to stand here holding this stupid shield with my a stupid mask on my face, just waiting for the lunatics tearing apart my city to come my way. I wanted to scoop him up and take him far away from this world, from this Hell.
I always wanted to be a cop. I wanted to help people. If I learned anything from my parents, it was that. They gave everything they could to help this city, and I wanted to do the same. But now, I’m the bad guy. I’m the enemy of this city. Why? Because I was betrayed. We all were. First, my fellow cops and I were betrayed by a few of our brothers, who thought themselves better than someone else. Then, everyone was betrayed by crooks taking advantage of the crime. Here I am, fighting my own people to save my own people from the actions of my own brothers. Why did I become a cop?
So now, this is my life. I stand, rejecting water from a boy I want to give everything to. My city burns to the ground. All of my brothers are receiving the scorn brought on them by the actions of a few. Everyone hates us. Except, for some reason. This one little boy, taking the time to give us water.
I want that water more than anything, but I’m not allowed to take it.
Jessie sat in his living room apartment staring out the window again.
For days now, it seemed like years, Jessie had been watching his neighborhood get scarier and scarier.
Gunshots had kept him awake last night so he was getting a little sleepy setting in the sun.
He never got to play outside after school because his mom didn’t usually get home from work until after he had done his homework and had a bath. Sometimes she made it home in time to make him dinner. Or she’d bring home something from the corner store on her way. Some nights when she worked late he his brother a bowl of cereal, Jessie always did his homework. His mom got mad at him when he couldn’t get his brother David to do his, but David was too hard headed to fight with some times and Jessie would just rather take the cussin’ from his mom, than to fight David.
Jessie stared at the row of police officers for hours.
He couldn’t even turn away to play video games with his brother.
Real live super hero’s were standing out side.
He knew every body didn’t like the cops,
But a cop named Mr Keist had come to talk to his class last year, Mr. Keist was nice and funny and told them that if they ever saw the police, to not be scared. Because police officers just want to make sure that everyone is safe.
Jessie thought their uniforms were cool, and these cops had shields and masks.
Jessie remembered the case of water his aunt Deirdra had put in the fridge when she came by to check on him and David earlier.
He knew his mom would be so mad if he gave away any of those waters…
He ran to the firdge, flung open the door, grabbed as many waters as he could hold and ran out the front door.
David yelled.”poohh Momma’s gonna kick yo bootie” without looking up from his video game.
Jessie ran as fast as he could down three flights of stairs. and out onto the street. He dropped one bottle on the stairs and ran back to get it.
He saw a cop that looked like Mr Keist,and ran right up to him.
Mr Keist wouldn’t look at him.
“he must be watchin out for the bad guys” Jessie thought
He grabbed a bottle and reached it out to the familiar looking cop.
The officer continued to stair straight ahead,
Jessie knew when somebody was trying to ignore him.
David did it all the time.
Jessie felt himself get that sassy feeling that he gets with David when his moms not around and hes trying to get him to do the right thing,
“Come on man, you know you want this water” Jessie thought as he stood in the middle of his street and looked at the police officer that suddenly didn’t look so familiar after all…
The alarm startled him out of a very deep sleep. He straightened himself upright on the edge of the bed and allowed awakeness to have him. ‘Begin’, he thought to himself, and instantly his body arose, as it had done countless times before and started into a morning routine. He flipped the wall switch to the bathroom light and stopped, staring blankly at the empty room, his mind running through events that led his current view into what it was, void of fixtures, stripped down to the bare wood floor and unpainted drywall. Just a few pipes sticking up from nowhere. He hesitated between chuckling and weeping.
Where was he? Such a strange place, a dump. Thoughts of a lost marriage relationship seemed to form as a large overwhelming wave, but he ran away from that wave, a quick dodge, ‘Begin’, he told himself again. He brought his hands to his face and drew in a deep breath, taking in whatever fragrance he could pick up; a smell always helped break a current thought. He brushed a hand through the stubble on his head. Turning to a pile of clothes laid with care over a stack of boxes he finished his altered routine with a uniform of blue.
His walk to the precinct was chilly and lonely. The early morning hours were always threadbare of people. The businesses that he did pass were not even opened yet. He looked into darkened windows as he passed, it only made the walk and the drink of water at the end of it even more rewarding. To pass the time he allowed the wave he dodged earlier to overwhelm him.
There was an unordinary level of bustling at the entrance to his building. Men in blue with black and chrome accessories hurried about, very few standing in idle chats. He stepped into a crowded room with too many unfamiliar faces, too many uniforms apart from the usual. ‘Reserve officers,’ he quickly determined. Almost four times many people were packed into the morning brief, and finding the water cooler was more difficult than he had expected. When he did get a clear view of it, he found it was empty. He swallowed a dry mouth.
The morning demanded an urgency, riots during the night had left an unsettled atmosphere over the city. The typical issuance of a sidearm at the armory was changed to a promised arsenal of gear to be distributed on site. He loaded into a waiting bus with a silent army all around him, and sat watching the world come alive outside of the windows.
A tractor trailer was parked where the bus stopped and unloaded, set up be the equipment hub. He showed his id and was handed a assortment of unusual gear. If it wasn’t obvious, he figured it out by watching the next guy, and things were outfitted in a few moments. It didn’t surprise him that no one in the organizing committee thought of having a source of water here, that was typical. His thoughts tried to balance a negligent hierarchy against a waiting populace. He felt like the enemy to both of them.
‘Begin’, he heard his training urge, and once outfitted, stepped into a noticeable formation. He became the group. This is where individual thought and action was harmful to the whole, and he relied upon brute discipline to feel nothing. But, he was still thirsty. He marvelled that even in the midst of a towering civilization, arm to arm with soldiers in blue, with a loudening chorus of voices all around, he could be so alone. His humanity was lost, he thought, a faceless shield in the arm of an unpopular protective force.
The overwhelming flood of a broken relationship that he let wash over him on his earlier walk was very different from where he stood now. Here, the heaviness of his gear seemed to prove that the world was a very dark place. Whereas the feelings earlier were very personal, these were too much for one person to bear. And so he stood firmly in place, with hundreds of other figures bearing it all. He teetered at the precipice of hate and empathy.
A smell broke his focus. In front of him stood a small boy, out of place in a sea of recently issued police equipment. His eyes looked hopeful, not hateful. His arms cradled a thousand bottled waters, and one hand was stretched out. Following it’s length, it held one bottle, just for one person. Being offered just for him.
William had left home that afternoon without the permission of his mother, who was at work and had warned him not to leave the house and certainly not go near the riots. William was a smart kid, made excellent grades in school, which was closed due to rioting and he had dreams of attending medical school and maybe working as a doctor at the same hospital where his mother was a nurse’s assistant. He was popular with his classmates in school as well as church, due to his kindness and willingness to help other people. He thought that this kind faced officer looked thirsty and could use one of the water bottles that he found on the street after the looting of the CVS Pharmacy. He was hoping that none of the rioters were watching.
Roger, a 20 year veteran of the Baltimore Police Department was now in this 23rd hour of working in the police riot line. He had two daughters, one a senior and one a junior in high school, and he just wanted to go home. He had taken a none management path and worked extra time and jobs to supplement his income for his family. His wife had tried to talk him out of volunteering, but the Chief had ordered all hands on deck, so what he wanted and what Jan, his wife, wanted, did not matter. He had ten more years before retirement and then he and Jan would travel and he could concentrate more on his hobby of cycling different trails.
Roger looked down and saw the child offer him water and he wondered if he should accept the kindness against the backdrop of and angry mob milling about the street and waiting for dark. He knew the water was probably stolen and he knew that other officers were watching, which meant more to him than the rioters who were also watching. Peer pressure in the police department was equal to had could have the same consequences as peer pressure here on the streets.
Two humans, with the same blood, muscle, sinew and organs were trapped in an incident not of their own choosing, a incident controlled by unseen people who would never live or work in the same circumstances. William looked behind him at the rioters and back at the officer and slowly raised the bottle. Roger hesitated, looked over at his fellow officer who smiled and then Roger reached out to take the bottle. A connection between two humans; now only 620,000 more people to connect, but it was a beginning.
I enjoyed your story, especially the last paragraph, of connecting two humans.
Congratulations!
Thanks, it is nice to have feedback.
What’s going on in Baltimore at the moment is horrible. You do tend to wonder if humanity, compassion, have left to be replaced with bitterness, violence, discrimination, racism. I wrote this from the little boy’s point of view because he reminds me of my little brother, it’s something he would do.
Baltimore. B-A-L-T-I-M-O-R-E. I trace the letters with my fingers wondering when I’d be able to go back to school and see my friends. I hate school but now I miss it a little bit, too. I’m in the kitchen, looking for food when my brother calls.
“Marcus,” he says, “Get me some water,” Mal is my big brother so I have to do what he says. At least, that’s what Dad says. Mal’s girlfriend has come over while the adults are all outside so now he’s got to ‘impress’ her. Sighing, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I give it to him and then go to see what my sisters are doing.
Mina is ten, so she’s two years older than me. Then there’s Melody, she’s fourteen. Mal is fifteen so he’s the boss. At least, that’s what Dad says.
“Go away Marcus,” Melody says from where she is lying on the floor. Mina is sitting on her bed. She is playing with her Barbie dolls. Their paleness looks weird next to her ebony skin, making her seem darker.
“But Melody,” I whine. I’m bored, I have nothing to do.
“Go away and do somethin’ useful,” she snaps. I look to Mina for support but she doesn’t say anything. She barely speaks after she got caught up in a riot. I leave. Taking more water from the fridge, I run dow the six flights of stairs and into the street. There are lines and lines of police officers looking
So many poignant stories sharing feelings about the crisis in Baltimore. I woke up this morning with thoughts of the ten year old boy in the photo.
Ty’Quan woke up an hour after closing his eyes. The clock said 9:30. What awakened him? Was it a smell of burning and the stinging in his eyes and nose? He went to the window to look out. It should have been pitch dark and quiet outside. Instead he saw people running in the street; he saw light, no it was flames from his CVS where his mom bought his medicine; and he felt his muscles tense.
The fire at the CVS lit up the sky and sirens called out to other sirens. No wonder he had been awakened so suddenly. His neighborhood was a mess and very noisy with the slaps of heavy shoes on the sidewalks and streets. Looking out his own window he saw them. People were carrying food, bottles, video games, boxes of tissues; they had no plastic or paper bags!
He remembered the book his school librarian read called “Smokey Night.” He was witnessing the same scene as that scarey book about what was it called? –now he knew –looting. One memory from that story was seeing men and women carrying plastic -wrapped clothing from a dry cleaners at night! “Why?” the kids had asked. She had no answer.
Now those scenes from that book were playing on his block. What could he do?
The next day there was no school so Ty ‘Quan watched the creepy news with his mom and sister. The Governor said, “The Natiosn Guard
I thought my story was cut off, but you get the idea from the 10 year old ‘s perspective. Ty wants to “fill his bucket” with caring because the crisis in his neighborhood has left him empty! I see the editing caused me to repeat a section. Next time I will write in Word and cut and paste…
Battle In The Streets
By Kiki Stamatiou a. k. a. Joanna Maharis
“Excuse me, officer, can I offer you a bottled water? I know what’s transpired today is sad, but at least drink this so you won’t go thirsty,” said little Jeremy who was caught up
in the middle of the riot incidents occurring in his neighborhood.
“As much as I appreciate this, son. I can’t accept anything at the moment, because I’m on duty. Even if it is bottled water. I need to be ready for any other occurrence that may transpire at any given moment,” said the officer, while holding up his shield.
“Yes sir, but you should always stay hydrated, especially in this hot weather we’ve been having,” the little boy suggested.
All the police officers were lined up from one end of the street corner to the other, at ready stance for any violence occurring in the street.
“Please, officer. Accept this bottle of water as a token of my friendship. I’ll just leave it next to this post right here. When you need it, it will be here for you.”
“Thank you, son. I appreciate it very much,” the officer replied solemnly, with a tear starting to fall from behind his face covering.
“Is everything alright, officer?” the child asked while gazing up at the officer.
“Everything is fine, son. It’s just sweat dripping down from my forehead, because it’s so hot out here right now. Now need for you to be alarmed. You just run along now, and
stay out of harms way,” the officer suggested while maintaining his stance.
“Yes, sir. I’ll go see if any of the other officers are thirsty. How bout
one for you, sir?” Jeremy asked the officer standing to the left of the officer he was just talking to.
“Son, I think you’d better be off. It’s much to dangerous for you to be here. You must leave the premises now,” the officer said sternly.
Little Jeremy walked further down the street, getting further and further away from the crowd when he heard a gun shot fired from a civilian.
Someone else threw grenade.
The police fired back with tear gas and gun shots.
Seven civilians were injured. One got shot in the chest, gasping for air. Another got shot in the head, collapsing to the ground. The teenage boy died in his mother’s arms.
Next to him was a woman who fired at the police with her gun. A young man next to her threw a grenade. The police fired more teargas. More shots were fired from civilians. The police retaliated by firing back.
Little Jeremy ran back to the scene, because he was curious as to who got shot. A gunshot was fired, and then a grenade was thrown. Little Jeremy was now caught in the crossfire. A gun shot his him. He lay dead on the ground.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015
Mark stood at attention,
shield positioned in a defensive stance. The sun baked his shoulders, and he quickly shook off the dizziness that lingered in his eyes. The rioters screamed and shouted, waving arms and signs and pressed up against the wall of police officers. The black-clad soldiers forcefully pushed back against the crowd.
The mob backed off a little, and Mark noticed a little black boy walking along the line of men. The kid reached out a water bottle to the police officer who was just a few feet away, but the man payed the boy no mind. The little boy shrugged and readjusted his small jacket, nearly losing the three bottles resting in his other arm. The boy walked a few more paces. Turning to him, the boy offered a bottle to Mark. The officer didn’t notice his parched throat until then, and unwittingly smiled at the small child standing there. The kid reached his bottle out even further, straining his little arms and nearly losing the other bottles again.
“Sorry, I can’t take it. But I appreciate the offer.”
The black boy smiled and carefully crouched down, setting the bottle in front of him. A warm feeling arose in Mark’s chest, though it could have just been the burning sun above them. The child grabbed another bottle from his other arm and continued walking. He didn’t get very far. Someone fired a gun at the other police officers, who fired back at them. Multiple people fell, severely injured or dead. Time seemed to slow as the little boy’s legs buckled beneath him, blood flying from his chest, and water bottles falling from his arms. A cold thud sounded as the body hit the ground. Mark watched in shock and horror, his warmth replaced by cold emptiness. He quickly looked away, tears streaming behind his fogged up mask. He could barely hear the commotion over his own sobs.