Ronald Johnson - 13 Days in Ferguson

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13 Days in Ferguson

Copyright 2018 by Ronald S. Johnson. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of Captain Ronald Johnson copyright Scott Olson/Staff/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

Designed by Dean H. Renninger

Edited by Dave Lindstedt

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ISBN 978-1-4964-1657-5

ISBN 978-1-4964-1661-2 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-1660-5 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-1659-9 (Apple)

Build: 2018-06-05 15:37:05 EPUB 3.0

To all the men and women in Ferguson on both sides, on all sides, who stood for humanity, for change, and for freedom

~and~

To Sister Mary Antona Ebo

(Franciscan Sister of Mary)

Your blessed memory and angelic spirit will live within me forever.

In short, we, the black and the white, deeply need each other here if we are really to become a nation if we are really, that is, to achieve our identity, our maturity, as men and women.

JAMES BALDWIN

THE FIRE NEXT TIME

THEY SIT A COUPLE OF TABLES AWAY, staring at me.

Four of them. Well muscled, steely eyed, rural Midwestern, midtwenties to early thirties. White. Two with shaved heads, two with military buzz cuts. All four in full camouflage and jackboots. Laughing too loud, pounding beers, chewing tobacco, drawing attention to themselves.

I keep them locked in my periphery. One of them senses me eyeing him and nods slowly. Id call the look menacing.

I turn away, sigh, and speak as quietly as I can to my daughter and her boyfriend.

Dont look, but across from us, a couple of tables down, we have four gentlemen who have been staring at me this whole time.

I wait a beat while Amanda glances over. When she turns back, her eyes narrow and she shakes her head, not understanding.

Things happened, I say. People didnt always agree with me. I knew at some point I would be confronted in public. I cock my head, smile, and try to appear calm. Tonights the night.

What do we do?

I want you guys to walk out the door. If anything happens I catch myself. Dont worry. Ill be okay.

Amandas eyes widen slightly, sparkle. Maybe I should call Mom.

I laugh. Im a twenty-seven-year veteran of the Missouri State Highway Patrol; I go six two, two forty; and my daughters telling me to call my wife. She has a way of defusing even the most difficult situations.

I gently squeeze Amandas hand, and she doesnt argue. Gathering her purse, cell phone, and scarf, and with a minimum of clatter and scraping of chairs, she and her boyfriend exit the sports bar.

I sip my Pepsi and wait. For a fleeting second, I consider calling for backup, but I immediately dismiss the thought. Im in this alone. This confrontation is about me, my actions, my decisions and, I expect, about both the color of my uniform and the color of my skin.

Adrenaline revving, I signal the waitress for the check. She holds up a finger, and after clearing some dishes from another table, arrives at my side with her hands shoved into the pockets of her uniform.

All taken care of, she says.

I stare at her for what must be a solid ten seconds, and she starts to laugh.

Somebody paid your bill.

Really? Who?

She shrugs. The party wants to remain anonymous.

I scan the entire restaurant. I dont recognize anyone. Nobody makes eye contact with me. I look up at the waitress.

Come on, tell me.

She pokes her finger out of her pocket and subtly points behind her. I follow the direction of her fingernail and search every face in the vicinity, but I cant for the life of me identify anyone who would have picked up my check.

I dont see where youre pointing, I say.

She rolls her eyes, tightens her lips, and speaks like a ventriloquist: The four guys over there.

Those guys?

I dont remember getting to my feet or walking over, but I find myself standing at their table. They pause their conversation and look up at me.

Im sorry to interrupt your dinner, I say. I just wanted to thank you for paying my bill.

One of the guys smiles and looks away. Another one taps his fingers on the table.

Youre welcome, he says.

But why?

We live here, the finger tapper says. We appreciate what youve done.

Thank you, I say again. Sincerely.

Then, one by one, I shake their hands.

I return to my table, pick up my cell phone, and head toward the exit. Halfway to the door, I stop and look back at the four guys who bought dinner for my daughter, her boyfriend, and me. Four young white guys with shaved heads, dressed in full camouflage and jackboots, laughing too loud and pounding beers. The last guys I ever would have expected.

I feel embarrassed. And I feel small.

Ive had the confrontation I expected. What I didnt expect was that the confrontation would be between myself and my own bias. I experienced firsthand how easily and suddenly we can cross over into presumption and even paranoia.

Were all biased in some way, every one of us. Its what we do with our bias that matters. We cant allow it to affect our attitudes, influence our decisions, or inform our behavior. Instead, we must acknowledge it. We must be humbled by it. Ignoring our biases or believing they are truth and refusing to change when we recognize bias within ourselves thats when bias becomes bigotry and prejudice becomes racism.

How do we overcome these tendencies that so often seem to separate people in our nation from one another?

Admitting that we all have our biases seems like a good place to start.

Please, God, let me be enough. I just want to be enough.

RON JOHNSON

THE FIRST CALL COMES IN around one oclock in the afternoon. Im in a car with three other African American state troopers, returning from a National Black State Troopers Coalition conference in Milwaukee. My cell phone vibrates, and I take the call. A lieutenant from our office reports that there has been an officer-involved shooting of a young black man in Ferguson and a crowd has begun to gather.

Ferguson, I say.

Anywhere, USA.

A town like so many others.

I basically grew up in Ferguson. Half the kids in Ferguson go to Riverview Gardens High, the same high school I attended. I played football there, ran track, played in the marching band, went to prom, walked in my graduation.

An officer-involved shooting.

Crowds gathering.

Unrest developing.

In Ferguson?

I cant wrap my head around this. Were not talking about a depressed, dangerous, potential powder keg like the south side of Chicago or St. Louis City, where I once lived. Ferguson has its share of challenges and problems poverty, crime but nothing you could point to that would precipitate an officer-involved shooting.