Arrested for “attempted protest.” My first taste of injustice breaks my heart.

This is certainly jail. My bed is a metal slab topped with fold-up vinyl cushions, like from PE class. I have my own toilet (no seat, just the bowl) and a sink. All of us women have our own cells, while the men have been put together in a big room. (I didn’t see, but I doubt their toilet/sink set-up is private.) I periodically shout for my friend who was arrested beside me, knowing it takes time for them to check your body for what’s not allowed; after the fourth yell, a fellow cell resident shouts, “she’s in a different section!” I’m alone then, although I do get a cellmate as the hours pass. She’s a Mom with a two year old at home. She’s wearing boots. Smart, I think, as I look at my flopping tennis shoes. They took my laces. (They take your laces.) 

Of all the things they can take, shoelaces are the best-case scenario. 

Being arrested as a white person is such a rarity, that – depending on whom you tell – the experience is either an intrigue, a spicy story, a badge of honor, or a mistake. I think about the adjectives surrounding arrest for anyone with more melanin than a cloud or who earns minimum wage alone, and the descriptions typically aren’t as casual. This is my first arrest, and the broken trust feels like a first break-up. I thought the system had good intentions, but our disagreement is eye-opening. 

. . . 

“Times Square, Red Steps, wear black, noon,” our gathering directive. As I round the corner, I hear Bible verses coming from a small line of people snaking their way through the space. Sure, Christians should be standing against forced hysterectomies at an ICE facility, but these few aren’t here for it. As they depart the area, I look for my group that’s come to march against the human rights abuses Dawn Wooten just revealed.

Five young people are gathered loosely around one with a bullhorn on his shoulder. These are my people. A police presence (thirty, so far) confirms this thought. Our organizers today are a few college-age Black activists, in collaboration across organizations. It’s inspiring. Black leadership has been at the forefront of liberation movements for centuries, and this movement is no different. Watching these leaders gives me hope for our future. I need hope. Patiently, they let our numbers reach a critical mass of about a hundred. Here, on the 108th day of consistent, city-wide protests against police brutality targeting people of color, we are outnumbered, but undeterred.

The NYPD has made mass arrests of these protestors since ICE marches began two days ago. It’s because the gatherings happened near Federal buildings and the police are guarding property, I tell myself. After an hour, the police presence grows in disproportion to our number and I admit to myself, this isn’t about property. 

The NYPD stands in the street, while we listen to motivational speeches and our bikers are released into position. For those not marching in NYC, a quick lesson about structure is helpful here: basic street-marching formation is for a bike team (bicycles, not motorcycles) to act as a motorcade, protecting the safety of the marchers. In appearance, it’s bikers in the front of the group, bikers in the back, and bikers along the side to make sure cross-cutting traffic doesn’t drive through bodies. Bikers are the mobile fence, and ours just took position.

Five minutes pass and we receive our departing instructions, “this is a non-violent protest – those acting differently will be asked to leave.” As soon as we turn around to join our bikers, the NYPD jumps on them. Multiple officers per person, yanking bikes away and grabbing arms. 

We haven’t even begun the protest. We’re being shut down before we even start.  

This our constitutional right! my brain screams. I go over my self-righteous checklist: we are legally permitted to peaceably assemble and petition the government for a redress of grievances. We are gathering on behalf of the women in ICE facilities who have no power! Our grievance is with our elected government, allowing this non-consensual removal of human organs. We haven’t even begun to march!

As expected (provoked?), we surge forward to protect our team but are stopped at the curb by a wall of bike cops. The NYPD’s protective formation is similar to that of our march, the biggest difference being that cops are armed with weapons and qualified immunity. 

“Shame! Shame! Shame!” we shout in disgust. The NYPD is meant to protect the citizens and uphold the law, but this action serves only to protect power. We’ve hit a stand-off that’s been happening for decades. As many Black Americans have stated prior: the violence isn’t new, it’s just recorded. Our leadership has prepared us, “in the event of a police encounter, those not at the front lines must record everything.” My phone is out.

After more than one hundred days of marches for BLM and no mass arrests like this, why the sudden flex by NYPD? ICE. Its programs have a different leader.

The Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency, founded only in 2003, is part of the Department of Homeland Security and therefore under Federal Jurisdiction. This protest – if it were allowed to happen – would represent a direct dissent to the Federal Government’s actions. The current NYPD Union President has recently broken with tradition, by endorsing a political candidate for the first time. In contrast to the majority of the city they serve, and in protest of the officers of color, this NYPD leader publicly pledged fealty to the incumbent at the Republican National Convention. How can we, citizens, view the actions of this City agency as neutral, if their leadership endorses a specific agenda? They serve and protect, whom?

Our bullhorn rings out from the curb, “We are requesting a means of egress. You cannot lawfully arrest us, unless you first provide a means of egress.” 

Silence. The dead-eyed silence of the unconcerned and unaffected. Why should they care? The NYPD are shielded in every sense of the word. They always have been.

Silence is exactly why we gathered here -

Silence is murder without accountability.

Silence is forced hysterectomies at the hands of our own government. 

Silence is comfort instead of courage.

Silence is complicity in the status quo. 

Silence is fear.

Silence is a choice.

We are gathered to shout with our entire bodies. 

It’s clear, from our position at the curb, that the only way forward is through. We step back from the stand-off to take instruction from our leadership, and the police release their line. This shift clears access to the street so we can march.

The 1st Amendment protects the right to protest, but not the location. And location matters - ask realtors, snipers, and fish. If a country legally allows protest, yet arrests us at the attempt - is this allowing protest? Making an arrest is a policy directive not a legal requirement. Whose policy is being followed?

“Those willing to face arrest, please come to the front line.” About forty of us respond, arms-linked for protection and solidarity. We shuffle into 7th Avenue to become the fence but no one fills-in behind our tightly-packed pod; the police have already cut-off access. Our second attempt is trimmed.

“Voluntarily depart the roadway or face arrest” repeats a loudspeaker on one of the cops surrounding us. We sit-down, in clear non-violent protest. A mosaic of phones now lines both sidewalks and surrounds the officers that surround us. We are held in this thin cellular protection as we are slowly, methodically, and quietly all arrested. Stand-up, clumsy zip-cuff, personal items taken.

“Abolish ICE,” a dropped sign reads. Our march is being taken. 

As we’re loaded into the prisoner transport bus, officers are giving each other high-5s. This is fun for you? Or is this a thrill for your quota? That tally sheet of police culture that feeds competition at the cost of critical-thinking: just get the numbers. This is not community safety.

“Crime” is a construct for control.

Justice is determined by those in power.

My arresting officer doesn’t even know how to put on my zip-cuffs, so another officer intervenes. This cattle arrest allows for three cell phones to make it onto our transport bus, so we contact our loved ones. Due to their zip-cuff incapabilities, another arrestee opens windows and makes sure all our masks are up. 

Who keeps us safe? We keep us safe.

As the bus slowly fills to standing-room only, we watch another cop eagerly gather a fallen protest sign, “I can add this to my collection!” It’s like collecting souvenirs at a divorce proceeding. 

In the classic good guy/bad guy scenario, on what side are the cops versus the protestors, today? My mind turns with the bus. 

We’re taken to One Police Plaza, central booking in Manhattan. After being held four hours in my cell, I’m removed. Our zip-cuffs have to be cut-off with garden sheers that barely fit between the plastic and my wrist. I’m lucky only the cuffs are sliced. 

Release is slow. In New York City, they’re still using a pen and paper to release those arrested. One person, writing in a large ledger book, discharged the over 200,000 arrests made last year. This is the system. The NYPD has an annual budget of $11 billion dollars. Billion. They spent $220 million on misconduct settlements last year. Allocating money for misconduct rather than advancement, is a system that is structured to protect power not people.

As we await the penmanship of the officer with the ledger, I ask my AO, “do you even know about the hysterectomies?” faithful to our purpose. “Oh, don’t start with me,” she sighs, “I’ve had a long day.” Oh, have you? I think, How’s your uterus? 

The men are held twice as long as the women, but all of us receive three summonses each - compounding the waste of time, money, and paperwork going through this system. My protest friend receives an extra: an unidentified rash from her cell bed. 

Our protest never even happened.

I flop out in my unlaced shoes and there are still people in line being processed for arrest – it turns out eighty people have been arrested today. More “attempted protest.” After my AO escorts me to the street, I re-lace my shoes and await my friend’s release. They return your shoelaces. Not your uterus.

. . .

The Monday after we’re arrested for attempting protest, 45 declares NYC an Anarchist Jurisdiction, for its response to the protests in June, against police brutality and systemic racism. Anarchy is defined as “a society without government or law.” Another mischaracterization by the sitting President, now with the backing of a complicit US DOJ.

Just because the President doesn’t want to recognize the legitimacy of the elected government of New York, nor the constitutional law of the land, doesn’t turn both the citizens and the government into anarchists. It just reveals this President’s disagreement with the system. This is America’s system: citizens engaged in democratic action, rather than being ruled without dissent. Our vote is an act of trust in our democracy.  

. . .

This experience has revealed what I want in my future government: a healthy one. My job has been affected. I’m facing fines for my own harassment and suppression. I never even got to march. A broken heart still powers for change.