A WeHo Resident Who Immersed Himself in the Fairfax Protest Shares His Story

When I left for the BLM’s protest on Saturday, May 30, at Pan Pacific Park, I wasn’t quite sure of what to expect. I just knew that I needed to go and be a part of the voices, to record the event, and share in the experience with my 21-year- old nephew from Michigan. I knew that there was going to be high emotions, that the anger over police brutality had reached a boiling point, that despair might spill out onto the streets in waves of unruly fires and gaudy paints. I was there to record, with camera in hand, and to absorb an experience that I hadn’t really been a part of in my lifetime. I was there to show my side of the story, which is one of a gay white man, raised outside of Atlanta, who had lost friendships, lovers, jobs, and all the shared experiences that those might have represented to a change that never came, a change that had been promised in my childhood. My conviction was real and my desire to show a kinder side, which I felt existed within me, to those who could not see first-hand propelled me forward. Sharing it with my nephew only added to the responsibility of the day and my actions in it.

I have to say, that I was immediately overwhelmed by the incredible diversity of the event. There was a certain fear in me, unfounded or of my own design, that the BLM movement might be hostile in its justified anger. That my nephew and I would not be welcome on account of our own whiteness. It was the specter of old rejections, imagined or real, that stemmed from the root of my experiences with the black community in childhood and young adulthood. Racism, entitlement and misunderstandings had made my personal life messy with unforeseen outcomes that never got talked about and fortunately, did not stop me from attending to offer my own support.

There were peoples of ALL walks of life. Young to old, the spectrum encompassed the great variety and flavors that the senses can absorb. The air was keen with the energetic waves of something that mattered, of a stance taken and call received and responded to. It felt exhilarating and humbling, and I felt in awe at having found a place to be safe with my well-intentioned camera.

Even before reaching the main parade, I could hear the din of voices raised in unison as I walked with quick steps through the park and up a flight of steps flanking a hill turning flaxen with the dryness of Summer’s arrival. Blue skies and green grass were still fresh, and we emerged like late blooming spring flowers onto Beverly Boulevard, a little late to the party, but ready to take our part.

The long, seemingly endless flow of peaceful protestors walked and wrested from some seemingly distant future a manifested now that encompassed their desires for real change. It was incredibly beautiful, and it felt of something tender, yet strong, like the muscled arms of a father holding you in childhood after a long day at school. I felt the future that I had been promised in childhood and that I had experienced in varying degrees throughout my life within that crowd. This movement represented the reality of my life, which was a place where I didn’t feel threatened by the differences, but excited by the discovery of them.

I marched alongside Native Americans who danced for us all in solemn, yet profoundly beautiful movements and drank free water that organizers had been gracious to gift me with. The kindness, the love, the respect, and the unity was there and in abundance, and my heart, even now, feels soooo full from it all. 

The march continued to the intersection of 3^rd and Fairfax and along the way I did see signs of destruction. The tagging was abundant along the way, but I had anticipated that. Further along a city bus had been stopped on its route and commandeered by protestors, whom stood proudly for their historic photos. A speech was given at Fairfax and Beverly, but one that could barely be heard over the hum of others. These were the signs of disorganization and the fine line between peaceful protests and destructive anarchy. I knew that they would be there, that all of it was part and parcel of a movement born out of outrage; but things come and go, and can be rebuilt, and this was not the time to worry about replaceable, material goods, because people’s futures and lives were at stake.

After the march tried to continue, it did not get very far, because the police had strategically placed themselves within its path to protect a square area of street that held nothing. Poetically filled with the same emptiness that they offered as excuses for their violent war against the people they had sworn to protect.

To their credit though, those officers did not move or budge, and withstood the yelling and cussing and gnashing of teeth that the protestors presented them with. They stood like sentinels over an area of about 20×30 feet, and there they waited.

The movement’s leadership, or what I assumed was, walked by protestors urging them to not disrespect the police, that they were not the enemy, that it was a peaceful protest, and that they didn’t have anything to fear. Words that, if followed, might have succeeded in their aim at peace, but might not also.

In hindsight, the police’s response feels very premeditated, from the strategically placed, old police cruiser, to the square of empty, protected street, and then to the abandoned police vehicles that they retreated back behind and left, knowing full well that the violent members of the crowd would turn to them for violent folly’s sake.

The march was halted ahead, and protestors ahead of the square of sentinel police but behind the cop barricade took out their mounting frustrations on the vehicles that had been left. Spraying, kicking, smashing, and destroying the cop cars there. People were crammed into one another, and the police ahead would not budge and let the crowds by. I feel as though if they had, the energy for damage would have been expelled through the march itself, but I will never know.

After the cars and cruisers were destroyed by many people, of all colors, my nephew and I sought higher ground and found our way to the rooftop of an adjacent building just as the cop car caught on fire. We watched and filmed as the crowds were corralled into the parking lot behind Trader Joe’s as we felt the heat of the fire and felt the burn of tiny shrapnel from its exploding lights.

It felt surreal to go from such a peaceful and empowering dynamic to one of destruction and chaos.

We continued to watch and record until we felt our time to move on had arrived. Instead of having to climb down with the hazard of gear, there were other people there, offering their kindness and help all along the way. A ladder had been erected and was held by hands of many colors, and after the briefest of concerns, I passed parts of my livelihood down to strangers, who held onto them and watched over them for me while I climbed down that ladder. All was returned with a “thank you” from me and a smiled “of course!” from them.

When my nephew asked for hand sanitizer, five people offered theirs in response.

I suggested we go down the empty alleyway to the police there and get their side of the story. Covered in photography gear and approaching without provocation, we were immediately rejected and turned away. There was no talking to the police. The feeling was that they were at war with us. That we were the enemy, and fraternizing would not be tolerated. So we turned around and immediately obeyed, not wanting to escalate the situation in any way.

People had already started creating barricades on the protesters side, which felt like an unnecessarily defensive action given that the police had not moved at all. There were more such inconsistencies after that, where I began to really see the opportunistic groups and individuals that were co-opting the movement for their destructive ends.

We left the alley and went back to 3^rd and Fairfax around 4:30 or 5 p.m., and that is when the police began really escalating their actions within the parking lot. It’s when I started seeing panicked people running and tripping and could hear their aggressive smoke bombs and shouts from afar.

The sun was also setting, and I could feel the energy shift around me. The peaceful march was turning into an opportunity for looters, and I wasn’t there for that. My nephew and I had gotten to experience the best parts of the event and staying longer risked his and my safety.

A very nice car drove up to the crowds, clearly unaware of the march, and I watched that slickness of fire-engine-red shake in hesitation as the owner’s realization and fear turned into murderous tendency. How appropriate was it that someone so unaware would prioritize their $100,000 vehicle over the lives of the protestors whom he nearly murdered when he drove into them at full speed, stopped, and then continued barreling on ahead, right into that police line on Beverly, where he stopped, of course. Who knows how many people he ran into or the damage that he caused to save a car? He could have backed up… but who knows, the violent arms of the protestors were coming out of the woodworks as the sun fell. He was probably f-cked as soon as he arrogantly decided that everyone should move for him and his shiny car.

As we walked back towards my apartment, heading north on Fairfax, I could still hear one of the organizers on his microphone, letting cars know that if they wanted to get through, that he would direct and help that and that is the final memory that I left with. The victory of the kindnesses and togetherness that outshone all else.