*Update: since this article was published, the Brooklyn Park police chief, Tim Gannon, also resigned.
At last night’s protest in Brooklyn Center, outside of Minneapolis, the day after Daunte Wright was shot and killed by police officer Kim Potter, one speaker said “It’s the same story, different day.” I couldn’t agree more.
I’ve attended many protests in response to police killings and shootings of Black people. Jamar Clark. Philando Castile. Ahmaud Arbery. George Floyd. Breonna Taylor. Dolal Idd. Jacob Blake. And now, Daunte Wright.
“We need you to get home safely tonight because we need you tomorrow. We need you the next day. And the next week.”
It’s always “say his name,” “say her name,” “say their name,” “justice for . . .,” followed by day after day of gatherings of communities that are mourning and hurting, retreating when tear gassed, and bravely returning once the smoke clears.
At the protests I’ve been to, I have never once felt threatened by a protester. As I stand arm-to-arm with a group of strangers sharing tears and anger, I am in a crowd of folks armed with nothing more than cardboard signs, snacks, and first-aid supplies.
At every protest I have been to, I have felt threatened by the police; the protest for Daunte Wright was no different. As we raised our signs, chanted Wright’s name, and passed around boxes of fruit snacks, rows and rows of Brooklyn Center police, Minneapolis police, Brooklyn Park police, Anoka County police, Hennepin County police, state troopers, and National Guard troops stood in full riot gear, with four or five snipers aiming weapons at us from the police department rooftop nearby.
On Monday night in Brooklyn Park, Black women took to a makeshift stage upon a grassy hill, exclaiming how tired Black mothers are of burying their sons. Black men cried out in agony that “I have kids, too! My kids need me, man! Daunte’s kid needed him!”
Speakers shared words they wrote in the hours following the murder of Daunte Wright. They made calls demanding that the officer Kim Potter—who resigned today—and the Brooklyn Center Police Chief Tim Gannon be fired, and that the community take control of the police department. Organizers from a local Nigerian organization pointed out that much of the population of the community of Brooklyn Center is Nigerian, but not one member of the police department is.
It was a space of mourning, sharing stories, coming together, and reclaiming power. The only thing protesters aimed at the police were bundles of burning sage, carried around the crowd by healers.
As the 7 p.m. curfew drew near, organizers asked protesters to leave and go home. “We need you to get home safely tonight because we need you tomorrow. We need you the next day. And the next week,” one organizer said into their bullhorn.
My friends and I are white, and we agreed that we were in this space to do whatever was asked of us, so we left when the organizers told us to. Before walking back to our car, we dropped off some water bottles, granola bars, and other first-aid supplies at a medic tent.
Many others made their way out, too. But a large crowd remained at the fences surrounding the police station. A Black man stopped us as we were crossing the street and asked, “Is the protest still going on?” We told him that many people were going to stay past curfew, but the event had ended. “Nah, we’re never done,” he said as he skateboarded toward the crowd.
I dropped my friends off at their apartment in Minneapolis. As I drove back to my own apartment in St. Paul, I noticed a cop car following me for several miles. Eventually it took a different turn, and I arrived safely home.
For the rest of the night, I tuned into Unicorn Riot’s livestream of the ongoing protests in Brooklyn Center. I saw folks as young as teenagers pulled by swarms of officers and pummeled to the ground. One teenage girl screamed as two cops pinned her to the ground, smashing her face into the pavement.
Though members of the press were exempt from the 7 p.m. curfew, an officer pulled Louie Tran, a reporter with Move for Justice News, behind the line of cops and began arresting him, despite the fact that Tran had a camera and vest clearly labeled “press.” He was eventually released and made his way back to the other reporters.
Throughout the night, I saw protesters yell at police, back up when police pressed forward, and throw nothing more than an empty water bottle. But the next morning, I saw that Chief Gannon had made claims that protesters threw frozen soda cans and cinder blocks at the officers’ bodies. As far as I could tell from the footage I watched, this was false.
I don’t know how much longer the cities of Brooklyn Center, Minneapolis, and St. Paul will be enforcing this new 7 p.m. curfew—or any curfew, for that matter—but I do know that we will be in the streets for as long as it takes to get justice for Daunte Wright, and for all of those murdered by police each year.
“We’re in the middle of a two-month trial for the killing of George Floyd, and you murder another Black man?” one of the speakers asked. “Y’all can’t even go two months—TWO MONTHS—without killing us?”
Apparently not.