PTSD: The Aftermath of this Summer's Protests
CW: // police brutality + blunt trauma injury //
I hadn’t even realized the kind of conditioning that I had underwent until I heard the sound of fireworks going off in the neighborhood during July 4th weekend. With each firework that lit up the sky in celebration of our so-called “freedom”, my entire body shuddered in fear. Each booming sound sent a chill up my spine. It wasn’t long before rounds of shots joined the symphony of crackles and booms. My heart rate quickened and I could feel my fight or flight response kicking in the longer the series of fireworks and gunshots continued. As someone who used to enjoy the holiday solely because of the food, fellowship, and fireworks, this year exposed hidden trauma as a result of the first protest I attended this past May in Raleigh, NC.
Their combined cacophony of sounds was all too familiar to the rubber bullets, tear gas explosions, and flash bombs I experienced on that day. Although I was sitting in the “safety" of my friend’s apartment, flashes of intense memories plagued my mind bringing back every emotion I experienced on May 30th. My night of fellowship with my friends was cut short by intruding thoughts about my unresolved feelings. It served as a grim reminder that safety is not a guaranteed luxury I can assume as a Black person—especially a Black woman—in America.
As our current movement against police brutality and systemic racism has demonstrated, Black people are not safe in America. Even before George Floyd’s death, we have been killed for doing things most people would consider everyday actions. Breonna Taylor was murdered as she slept in her own home. Ahmaud Arbery was murdered while jogging in a neighborhood. Elijah McClain was murdered from walking home from a convenience store. Tamir Rice, a child, was murdered for playing with a toy gun in a park. The most unfortunate thing about their murders is that it has become commonplace throughout the years to hear incidences like this—the list grows daily. The protests that have been occurring since May 25th have only further lifted the veil of the “safety” we believed we had. Most of us within the community have understood from a young age (whether spoken or unspoken) that it is dangerous to be Black. Until now, many of us within the Black community believed that “doing the right thing” and “staying out of trouble” would keep us safe and alive. However, we have been proven time and time again that we could do everything right and still end up on the receiving end of violence.
I’ve seen it with my own eyes in the 7 weeks of protests across the country. There’s been no escape or relief from the videos of police antagonizing and attacking peaceful protesters—with lethal force in some cases—on my timelines. I’ve also experienced it firsthand during my first week of protesting.
May 30th, Raleigh protestors outside the Wake County Courthouse shortly before police antagonization and brutality began
Saturday, May 30th is a day I’ll never forget. It was one of the first organized protests in my city after George Floyd’s death. Tensions were high that day and for good reason. The city has its history of police brutality that they’ve yet to confront. Keith Collins, Soheil Mojarrad, and Akeil Denkins were all murdered by Raleigh police officers. None of the officers involved have been charged for their murders and remain on payroll to this day. Considering that peaceful protestors were being met with aggression and violence from the police at demonstrations across the country, I was prepared to be met with the same by RPD. However, I refused to allow anxieties to deter me from standing with my community against the injustices and brutality we face. Every video I saw of peaceful protestors being met with tear gas, rubber bullets, and other forms of brutality perpetrated by the police further fueled my desire to protest. I understood the time for action was now and I couldn’t idly sit by in silence. However, watching the violence unfold from a screen couldn’t prepare me for how it felt witnessing it firsthand.
The police wasted no time using antagonistic tactics on the protestors. Around 4 PM that day, at Raleigh’s downtown police station, they deployed multiple rounds of tear gas on peaceful protestors to the point where it came from every direction. By the time I made it downtown (around 6 PM), they had barricaded off all of the major streets. The lack of cars on the road and people on the sidewalks made it feel eerily reminiscent of a war zone. Police were positioned on every block with extra enforcement hidden within some of the parking decks. Everyone was already in riot gear. It was obvious the moment I stepped foot downtown that the protests would become violent and not by our hands.
The amount of people downtown for the protest took my breath away. All week I’d been seeing pictures and videos of the tremendous turnouts in other cities, but it was nothing like seeing it in person. It was breath-taking seeing the hundreds of people in agreement of demanding justice for the Black lives that’s been lost and that change is necessary moving forward. My exhilaration from being among the crowd screaming the chants and yelling the names of those we’ve lost to police brutality and senseless violence was short-lived. 20 minutes after meeting up with the protesters, we were tear-gassed. Similarly to earlier, multiple canisters were deployed coming from various directions so we all scattered to avoid the gas. The scene became absolute chaos as shrieks erupted from the crowd. People ran into each other trying to get away from the gas, while others tried to put out the canisters to stop them from completely deploying. I ended up near the capitol building close to a police unit that was guarding it. A female officer gave a warning that things were going to get worse and urged my friends and me to leave. Her foreboding words lingered as I rejoined the protests unknowing that her warning would come true.
Around 8 PM, we stopped marching, peacefully gathering around the Wake County Courthouse to rally. Firsthand accounts of brutality and violence were shared as well as various other reasons why we are fighting against the injustices of our current system. Uneasiness and heavily concentrated tension filled the air as nightfall approached; I could tell by the facial expressions and body language of the people around me. It’s as if we all understood that this moment might be the last peaceful part of the protest. The officer’s warning lingered in the back of my mind because I knew in other cities nightfall was the turning point of the protests. Ultimately, the rally helped ease tensions through strengthening our resolve and ended with a clear understanding of our purpose. Before we continued marching, one of the leaders that night gave us a warning—to leave if we were not ready to deal with the violence that would ensue as the protests continued throughout the night. She urged us to not retaliate against the police once it began but to continue peacefully protesting instead. Everyone stayed, ready to face what was next. By this point, the police had surrounded us but we were determined to ignore the cops and continue peacefully marching.
Barely a minute after we began moving, screams erupted from the crowd. My best friend yells at me to run because they had begun shooting. As soon as I turned to run, I was immediately hit in my thigh by a rubber bullet. The police were moving in on us from the intersecting streets, firing tear gas and rubber bullets into the crowd. There were full teams of officers in riot gear on almost every side street, so my only option of escape was to run towards the end of the street. My adrenaline was at an all-time high, keeping the pain in my leg at bay. I had to be more focused on running to avoid being hit again while dodging my way through the panicked crowd of people and children. I ran as far as I could before the pain in my leg became unbearable and I had to stop. While accessing my wounds, the battle raged on. It was absolute mayhem outside the courthouse as the police continued their attack on us. Although I was further up the street, once again we were hit with tear gas from multiple directions and I was caught in the thick of it. By then my leg felt like it was burning, but I had to keep moving despite my injuries. I mustered up enough strength to quickly limp down a street away from the direction of the gas. I can still feel how the burn slowly crept up, severely irritating my nose and eyes.
As I waited to regroup with my friend who got separated in the commotion, I couldn't help but notice the people around me. Our numbers had dwindled to a small group due to us becoming separated as a result of the police’s assault. Those of us who managed to get away from the multiple units of riot cops saw some relief from their brutal attacks, but the damage had been done. People were in the streets helping each other flush tear gas out their eyes and treating the wounded. I watched people in tears, inconsolable and in complete shock because of the brutality we all witnessed and faced firsthand. Other protestors were becoming angry, especially considering that we could hear the rounds of shots coming from a few streets over as Raleigh’s police launched another assault. We had every right to be enraged that night. We hadn’t done anything to warrant the use of aggressive and violent tactics from the police. We were peaceful. We did everything right. I screamed out in rage—holding back tears—as sentiments of despair began to overtake me. The situation became overwhelmingly difficult to process at once.
The night ended in rioting and looting on Fayetteville St. (one of our main streets) from outsiders and white supremacists who infiltrated the protests.
My rubber bullet wound aftermath, 2 days post
I hadn’t realized how much of that night I internalized until July 4th. There was no time for me to process my feelings because I had to keep fighting injustices especially on that night and every day moving forward. It didn’t help that every day since the beginning of the protests has been marked by the unveiling of a new horror perpetrated against the Black community. It became even clearer after May 30th that the government was trying to suppress and quell protests by allowing police to perpetrate violence against us. All while the media portrayed us as “looters” and “thugs”. It’s frustrating knowing that officers across the country are still carrying out acts of brutality 7 weeks later, without fear of being held accountable or reprimanded.
Instead of focusing on processing that night, I placed my energy in educating myself and others, providing resources through my socials, signing petitions, donating—doing everything I could to support our current movement. Although my wound left me limping for almost a week, I even continued protesting within my limits, remaining cautious and maintaining distance since I couldn’t run. However, choosing to heavily focus on the cause left me no time to heal the trauma I unknowingly experienced after my first protest. My flashbacks on July 4th pushed me to confront the internalization of those overwhelming emotions and the traumatic experience of witnessing and facing police brutality firsthand. I also had to accept that I am a victim of police brutality. I initially downplayed its severity because I’d seen worse from other victims, however, I had to recognize all of our injuries—internal and external—all stem from the same corrupt police enforcement system. It’s still police brutality whether I suffered severe bruising or lost an eye due to a rubber bullet. I should’ve never diminished my experience because it still mattered.
Every day, I will continue to heal from the trauma of that day. It’s further fuel in my desire the fight against the injustices of this nation’s corrupt system. I will not stop until law enforcement is defunded and subsequently abolished. I cannot stop until there’s justice for ALL the Black lives that were unjustly taken by the police.
All lives won’t matter until Black lives do.
-Shakilya Lawrence
Note from Ars Poetica: Our blog editor Shakilya Lawrence is so passionate about the movement across the US and the world, she is now launching a weekly Ars Poetica curated series featuring BIPOC artists and activists. Each feature will be paid $50 for their contribution, featured here on our blog as well as on our Instagram page. Please email Shakilya or DM her on IG to submit your stories and your work!
sulawren@ncsu.edu // @shakilyaaa
