Out now: Review of Martin Jon Porter’s collection No Home Like A Raft

A reminder:

NEVER, EVER POST PICTURES WITH THE FACES OF PROTESTERS. EVER. 

Don’t put the people you are trying to protect in further danger. 

A cropped out sign, a crowd with blurred out faces, recorded audio of an inspiring chant–go ahead. But don’t share faces. You don’t know who may follow you, you don’t know who could see your photos, you don’t know what could happen to someone because you posted their face. 

“Appears to Be a Woman”

I set my alarm for 7am. My husband and I had the brooms out and ready. We figured, if we could wake up early on a Sunday to clean up Center City, we should do the same for Kensington. Plus, we’re homeowners in Fishtown and it feels like the neighborly thing to do. We walked under the El, sweeping up glass into piles, and at 9am I popped a headphone in my ear and joined my high school’s Monday morning meeting on Zoom. Since COVID closed down our schools, we’ve been meeting virtually. My colleagues shared their thoughts and feelings as we reflected on recent events. We’re all devastated by how especially scared and traumatized our Black and Brown students and their families must be. The general tone is of bewilderment. One colleague commented on the fact that her husband is a retired police officer and her family members are cops. She expressed her confusion and confoundment- police are trained to handle protesters so why are they doing this? 

We headed back home so I could join my students for virtual office hours. As a special education teacher who’s worked in Philadelphia for ten years, I’ve never struggled this much to entertain my students. By nature, I’m silly and a goofball. I tell jokes, don silly cat shirts, and wear a giant purple squid hat when the mood strikes. This is hard to convey online so I’ve resorted to playing lots of games on Kahoot! I always play with them and I always lose, but let’s pretend I lose on purpose. 

After the strange school day is done, my husband, friend and I head out on foot to the protest. There is a group of unions gathering together to discuss our role in advocating for change to support People of Color for the betterment of all. I’m wearing my Working Educators shirt, which is bright red and useful in case my friends and I get separated in the crowd. I could barely hear the speakers, but clapped heartily anyway. I saw a former student in the crowd and awkwardly air-hugged him. Then we began our march. Chanting loudly, sometimes in unison, and walking through the streets I love. I was flanked by two colleagues from school as well as my friends and husband. I felt that although this was something small, that’s how most revolutions succeed. Old, archaic systems are pulled asunder through death by a thousand cuts. My cut today was holding aloft my cute and colorful sign of the “This is Fine” dog. 

When our group crossed the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, we came to a halt. The police had blocked the bridge we intended to go over. We saw the group flood down the hill and onto 676. My husband and I held hands as we continued the march. What’s a little traffic to get the attention of hundreds for a worthy cause? We saw people in their cars lean out and shout, everything I heard was supportive, but then again I am trained to listen for the good and filter out the bad as there would be no way else to survive teaching high school students otherwise. As we walked under the overpass, I saw a wave of people running towards me. I froze. My husband grabbed me and helped me onto a ledge on the side of the road. When we could move again I saw a line of officers, clad in black. They were at the other end of the bridge so I couldn’t see anymore than that. Suddenly, a girl drops to her knees. She’s crying and bleeding, but I can’t tell from where. A fellow protestor reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of water to help clean the wound. I turned and saw another fellow protester on the ground, holding his face. He looked unable to stand. I was scared so I started to leave him. There were people around, someone else would help him. I heard someone next to him yell, he’s been hit by rubber bullets and tear gas! Up to this point I didn’t realize we were being shot at. I paused, perplexed. I saw my husband see the man’s distress and move toward the prostrate figure. He picked up cardboard and used it to shield the man. In spite of my trepidation, I knew I had to help as my backpack was full of water and a first aid kit. I crouched down to assist, but we were all soon on our feet as we felt more rubber bullets fly passed us and the smell of tear gas was getting stronger. I felt nips at my ankles. Is that what a rubber bullet feels like? Unfortunately, I would soon find out.

The tear gas began flooding the street. My husband held my hand and we ran. With police surrounding us, we were forced up a hill and into a tall ten foot metal fence. As I stepped up to leave. Whap! I screamed out and fell to the ground. Something hit me in my back and the sting knocked the wind out of me. A fellow protestor to my right grabbed my arm to help me up. At this point, I see my husband and I have broken apart, but I can’t get back to him. I think I’m screaming or crying, maybe both. I breathe in the gas and think, this is how I die. I survived traveling the Middle East alone for a year and I die on the side of 676. I am bent over vomiting when an officer pushes me down to zip tie my hands behind my back. When I realize what is happening I ask him if I can get my ID from my bag which has fallen off when I was blindly and desperately searching for a bottle of water to douse my eyes with. He tells me, you don’t get shit. I ask him if it’s my right to have an ID on me (because I honestly don’t know). He responds angrily, saying I can’t get it. I take a step toward my bag and he pushes me down again and yells something. I’m shaking, begging him, please, please, please, I just want my ID. What if they arrest me and claim they don’t know who I am so I’m kept longer? Please, I beg again, I just want my ID. He tells me to stand up. I try to maneuver my way to standing while on a slant with my hands tied behind my back. The tear gas has got me spun around and sick. I can’t see and the pain in my back is incessant. I am almost up when I feel him push me back down. He then dragged me down the hill backward, over the branches and brambles. I wobbly stand once at the bottom of the hill and get in position. I am relieved even though there is vomit on my chin and snot is streaming down my face. The girl next to me asks if I’m ok and says she wishes she could help me wipe my nose. Some air is coming into my lungs. I start to feel like I might not die, only to realize that I am being arrested. 

My mom, dad, friends, family- they all told me to be safe. Be safe? I have never thrown a rock, or broken a window in my life. I’ve never shoved anyone, except when jokingly imitating Elaine from Seinfeld. Why should they be worried about my safety? I was there to support, but I don’t make messes. I help clean them up, that’s what I do. Now, I realize that was my privilege telling me I was safe. My cousin is a cop. I may be against the system, but individuals can see me for who I am: not a threat. That was my privilege. It told me the police would see I was peaceful and I would be fine. As I recall the screams and sobs now, I realize how very wrong I was. 

After I was bent over the median, my situation sunk in. I followed orders. Thanked every officer. Yes sir, thank you, sir. I was pat-down, but with no pockets and no bra, I was an easy search. We were moved to the middle of the road and sat on the median. The girl next to me asks me to look at her hand. She wants to know what color it is. It’s turning purple, I tell her. She tries to ask an officer for help. I ask a little louder. We are laughed at and she’s told that they’ll see her in the ICU. I look at the line of those zip-tied and try to see if my husband is there. When I don’t see him I search the crowd above, but my glasses are covered in chemicals. (It turns out he was up at the top of the hill screaming for me he was forced away by police.)

When we are loaded into the white school buses, I feel like I’m in a strange alternate universe. At this point in the school year, we would be taking field trips in a bus similar to this, but not as clean and devoid of bars. The girl behind me is texting on her cell phone backwards. She asks if she can text anyone for me. Oh my god, I’ve been with my husband for seven years and I never memorized his number. I give her my parents numbers and hope they will see the text during their Zoom birthday conference for my aunt. I am relieved when she tells me they responded. Phew. At least someone knows where I am. 

We sit on the bus, packed with women, ages ranging from early twenties to thirties. There are a few women crying, but everyone is encouraging each other. Someone asks if anyone has been arrested before. The girl next to me replies, does drunk and disorderly in college count? Everyone else shakes their heads no. 

When we reach the station they tell us we are going in five at a time to be processed. The girl who texted my parents for me asks for those who need medical support to let it be known so they can go first. I’m in awe that even in this stressful situation, she has the foresight to be so kind and compassionate towards everyone. 

As I am brought in to be processed, I remember my former student in the crowd. I wish I could see if he is ok. I continue to comply in my normal friendly and gracious manner. A young Black woman in my group of five asks why they need her address again. She’s got some flint in her voice, but she doesn’t curse and is respectful. The officers attempting to process her begin a back and forth at one point accusing her of probably never having a job in her whole life. When she asks why they would think that of her and asks whether it is because she is Black, several officers erupt into laughter and mockingly decry the stupidity of her comment. Her friend stands up in her defense and one of the officers tells her to sit her ass down or she can stay the night. He says they could use the company. He yells at her (and us) stating that this is what we get for breaking windows and causing a riot. They protest and are waved away and told to hush-up or they’ll be locked-up. 

The officer processing me is polite, when he asks my profession and I tell him I’m a teacher he perks up and asks where I teach. When I tell him he’s genuinely excited as our school is unique and has been a Philly landmark since the 50’s. I’m given my Code Violation Notice for “Failure to Disperse” (I laugh and think that they should give that to the fence for blocking my way, but also wondering if stopping us from dispersing was the point because trapping us on that hill sure felt like it). A polaroid photo of me is taken and a young officer writes my name on the bottom. They point me to the exit. I smile and thank everyone. Like they did me a favor. Like they didn’t have a hand in what I just experienced. 

I see the girl who texted my parents outside. She’s passing out water and waiting for her ride. She graciously lends me her phone and I call my mom. I tell her I’m ok, ask her to call my husband and give her my cross streets. I ask her to tell him that I’m just going to start walking home on Montgomery Ave.

I hear my husband’s emblematic “yeerrrp!” and turn around. He’s with two of my other friends who had been trying to retrieve my backpack. I don’t care they weren’t successful, their smiling faces let me know how lucky and loved I am. I think about how this was a strange experience for me, one that I will hopefully never experience again. One that I don’t have to live in fear with experiencing again. Again, I notice my privilege in a new and deeper way. It reminds me why I went to the streets in the first place, why I have chosen Philadelphia as my home. Why I continue to teach in the city that I love and fight for a better future for each of my students. 

When I arrive home to Fishtown, we are told that the 26th precinct has a gathering of White men and women with bats, shovels, and axes. After hearing the gathering using racial slurs, cursing, smoking pot, drinking, and yelling about their guns- other Fishtown residents ask the police to disperse the gathering, to which the police’s response was dismissive and cursory. 

When home, I read the statement from Mayor Kenney and Police Commissioner Danielle Outlaw on what I went through, which was beyond disheartening. I voted for Kenney and I was excited to see a badass Black Commissioner woman take charge (I mean, with the last name Outlaw, I thought she’s got to be great). She stated in her press release, “While on the roadway, the crowd surrounded a State Trooper, who was alone and seated in his vehicle, and began rocking the vehicle, with the trooper having no safe means of egress.  Two teams from the Philadelphia Police SWAT Unit arrived. While the SWAT officers were present, members of the crowd began throwing rocks at the officers from the north and south sides, and from the bridges above the officers. The crowd also began rushing toward the officers. The SWAT officers gave numerous orders for the crowd to disperse, to which the crowd did not comply.”

I am too devastated to even respond. Throwing rocks? Rocking a police vehicle? Refusing to disperse? How could these blatant lies be shared so easily? Every detail is false to every second of my experience, but if people in power say it, won’t everyone believe it? 

The dichotomy of this day hurts in a profound way. As my adrenaline fades and I hear the encouraging words from my family and friends, I feel like I will be ok. My husband pulls up a video from the news of what happened to us on 676. I watch the situation unfold from above and can pick myself out in some shots because of my bright red shirt. Then I see it. I’m being dragged down the hill and the camera zooms in. The reporters notice and comment at my sorry state and I can’t help, but laugh when one says “[she] appears to be a woman.” 

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