#BlackLivesMatter protesters occupying the grounds of the 4th Precinct station on Plymouth Avenue in Minneapolis.
(Author’s note: There’s so much happening here that I wanted to get down all I could. I truly hope I can do this story justice. Please forgive any poor prose or any factual discrepancy.)
Yesterday, November 22nd, I paid a visit to the ongoing occupation of the grounds in front of the 4th Precinct in North Minneapolis, seeking justice for Jamar Clark, fatally shot by police on November 15th. It was the first active #BlackLivesMatter protest event I’d been to since last year’s protest at the Mall of America.
There was a very different “vibe” at this event than there was there — partly, of course, because this is a long-standing occupation rather than one moment of non-violent disruption, but there’s more than that.
This felt like more than the protest action of a political movement. It felt like the building of a community. I stepped in and felt welcome — safe, even. That was a big thing for me because I felt very unsafe at the Mall of America, thanks to the large presence of police in riot gear, against whose shields I eventually found myself being repeatedly slammed.
But here at the 4th Precinct on a chilly Sunday afternoon the police were absent, and the community was very, very present.
When I arrived, I ran into local personality Fancy Ray McCloney, and I stopped to ask him how things were going. I was going to get some coffee or snacks for them, but he assured me that they had food and drink in abundance. I continued on my way into the encampment, where a block of Plymouth Avenue was cut off.
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“This Could Be YOUR City Next.” The precinct house in the background.
The chill air was being fought with a number of portable fire pits and hot food and drink. People were milling about, talking, smiling, hugging.
I immediately saw a face I recognized, NAACP Minneapolis President Nekima Levy-Pounds. To my delight she remembered me from our first meeting at the Mall of America. So she indulged me with a little Q&A, as we walked farther into the camp.
I asked her about how the occupation was going after a week had gone by and the weather had turned colder.
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The man on the left, wish I had gotten his name, had deep roots in the community.
Ms. Levy-Pounds was surprisingly upbeat and hopeful. “I feel like everybody is together, they’re fighting for something, and it’s just beautiful, the love, you know, the food, everybody, the love and concern…” We talked a bit about that, and others joined in.
One man, the guy on the left in this picture, had much to say about what used to be: “I was raised up right here, 50 years ago. Right here used to be the Old Way,” he said, referring to the community center that once stood there. “And they tore it down just to put this up.”
“We used to have races, talent shows, people pop-locking, breakdancing...” he continued.
Ms. Levy-Pounds remarked on what kind of a message it sends to a community when you get rid of a community center and replace it with a police station. I couldn’t help but agree, particularly when the police are rife with widespread abuse of minorities in particular. The message is unmistakable: You are not a community to support: You are a rabble to control.
This is why members of the community now want the station to be transformed back into a community center. Police out, community in.
“In the wake of a tragedy, the people demand ousting the precinct, transforming it into a community center,” Levy-Pounds said. “I think that’s a great angle, and it will give us some leverage and momentum.” She also wants to get a petition going to that effect.
I asked her about the community being built around this movement on the North Side.
“People are dropping off donations, many of whom never even regularly come to the North Side, they are venturing over here and realizing they don’t have to be afraid; that there’s love here, there’s peace here, there’s hurting here and they can help heal by bringing items in and being a source of support.
Nekima Levy-Pounds, NAACP Minneapolis President
“Whenever a tragedy hits, people feel, they try to find out, ‘Well how can I help out,’ but there’s usually not a good vehicle. But this tent city situation has created a good vehicle for the average person can become a participant for change.
“That to me is powerful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
We talked a bit more about the recordings presumably in police possession of the fatal shooting of Jamar Clark, and why they haven’t been released. Ms. Levy-Pounds is an attorney, and certainly can conceive of no reason why releasing the videos would in any way impede or compromise the investigation into what happened, whether Clark was handcuffed, or whether he was reaching for anyone’s weapon.
She said, flatly, “A court should order the tapes to be released,” as happened in Chicago.
I asked if they were petitioning for that. “We’ll see.”
Another woman stopped by, embracing Ms. Levy-Pounds, who noted the two had been arrested together blocking traffic on I-94 last Monday, not long after charges against her and more than a dozen others had been dropped for organizing last December’s Mall of America protest. She said that Clark’s murder was something she was willing to be arrested for: “I was: ‘Uh-uh.’ If I was to be arrested for anything, it’s this. This is sick. Sick. Sick. There’s no other word for it but ‘sick’.”
Another protester noted the incongruity between the horrible act that triggered the movement and the community coming together in response, hearkening to Dickens: It’s the best of times, and the worst of times.” Noting the obvious frustration and pain, he added: “The American dream can be an American nightmare.”
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The community comes together in solidarity.
But there is something beyond the nightmare of one more black body destroyed by a police. There is a community being healed and rebuilt out of this tragedy, a community that had been beaten down and fractured by the same police that took Jamar Clark’s life. As Ms. Levy-Pounds said:
“I think this is a beautiful show of community, love, support and generosity in the face of a tragedy that could have been prevented. Many of us went to government officials years ago and then in recent months in the wake of civil uprisings, Ferguson, Baltimore, and warned them that we could be next. And they didn’t listen, they didn’t believe it, and I specifically asked them, to relieve the pressure on the community, and a lot of people are fed up because there’s a lack of economic justice and economic opportunity, coupled with chronic police abuse. And nobody’s addressing it. And those are the ingredients that can get you a Ferguson situation and they didn’t listen. And now they’re coming to me, ‘Will you help?’ And I’m ‘No! I’m worried about my community, not your government interests.’ Because they weren’t concerned when we tried to tell them the risks of leaving a community in peril.
John Martin, #BLM Minneapolis organizer, by one of the various food and drink tables.
“I haven’t seen anything like this before. People are coming here in the spirit of love, and bringing these items, taking the time to make them. That is just, ‘I can help heal the community. I am a part of the community. Jamar Clark is a part of me.’ Every person can say that. And there’s rarely any opportunity to express that in the wake of that type of tragedy. So I think this is a model for the nation.”
Around this time a woman named Donna brought some baked goods she made. “Bars,” as we call them in Minnesota. This particular one Donna called “The Food of the Goddess,” but said we could just call them “Special K bars, even though they’re made with Rice Krispies.” (This was a very, very Minnesota moment.) She offered me one, and well, it was very tasty.
Ms. Levy Pounds remarked on the bars as an example of how this is distinct from being given assistance and handouts: “This is not charity; this is community.”
“Usually we have white people standing here handing out stuff to our community. That’s usually what happens. You have white people working, handing out stuff and we’re the recipients. Here you have the black men of the community working alongside white people and other volunteers, and they’re empowered to give out things to their community. They’re showing up early. They’re working. They’re being security for the community. They’re helping light these fires, they’re making donations. Some of them don’t even leave; they stay here 24 hours, helping prepare the meals, making sure people have something.
“Normally we don’t give African-American men a vehicle to engage in this type of community building. If they don’t work for a non-profit or something, which the jobs are scarce, there’s no place for them to use their gifts and talents in a productive way. This is providing that vehicle for them. And there is something that’s healing about that, and restorative about that. And that makes this whole dynamic very unique. And they don’t have to ask permission to be contributors to the community. They just show up and figure out where to fit in. And they do.“
Having taken up far too much of her time, I thanked her, and milled about the rest of the tent city surrounding the precinct. People were handing out food, drink, firewood. People were showing up regularly with more supplies, from all over the Twin Cities. There was an amazing sense of solidarity.
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Activism has deep roots in North Minneapolis. This poster, according to the woman holding it, goes back decades.
I talked to one woman about my own age about what was being built here, and the man I spoke with earlier. I asked them if they had ever seen the community coming together like this in North Minneapolis.
“No. No. No,” the man said emphatically. The woman agreed, saying the closest she’d ever seen was in the late ‘80s when there was racial unrest. (I confess I cannot find any details about that time, and I was just a teenager back then, and not politically aware of such things.) They were both very encouraged about the community, even though it was borne of tragedy.
As it turns out, the woman’s 10-year-old nephew was a witness to the shooting. According to her, as with every witness to whom Nekima Levy-Pounds and other organizers had spoken, he insisted Clark was handcuffed and face down when he was shot. For his part, the poor young fellow is traumatized by what he saw and now needs therapy — another example of how communities of color are hurt and damaged by every one of these acts of police violence. In fact, I heard about how some of the children of men and women in attendance wanted to be police officers themselves when they grew up — some dissuaded when they learned what police are actually like in Minneapolis, and some being shielded from the knowledge of what’s going on by their parents so they don’t turn away from their dreams.
It was difficult to hear some of these stories, to hear about how events like the police shooting of Jamar Clark have effects that are farther-reaching than anyone might realize, certainly farther-reaching than anyone who doesn’t live in the impacted community can truly understand.
I took a few more pictures, thanked some of the people for talking to me, and left.
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The makeshift memorial for Jamar Clark.
On my way back, I stopped at the spot, perhaps two blocks away on Plymouth Avenue, where Jamar Clark was gunned down. There was a memorial there, balloons and flowers, stuffed animals and posters, tied to a tree.
I really don’t know what will come of this event, but I really do hope that, whatever happens to the police officers who shot Jamar Clark, that the people of North Minneapolis can build on what they’ve started in their tent city, and continue to heal and build a stronger community in what has long been a neglected, and often oppressed, part of Minneapolis.
And I really like the idea of not just kicking the police out of the 4th Precinct, but to restore the building as a community center, like it once was when it was known as the Old Way.
And for anyone who lives in the area, I’m told that more food, drink, firewood and warm clothes are needed today, so if you want to help, please stop by and see what they need, or just bring something to show your support and solidarity for a very important cause.
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