One Night in Portland

As a native of Portland, Oregon, staying away from the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests was an impossibility. But living in Eugene, Oregon I faced logistic challenges.  I made the 100-mile northward trek for only three nights that summer. Three life changing nights.

With the Trump Administration's disastrous federal police presence and the Portland Police Bureau's history of unapologetically racist and antagonistic dealings with communities of color and constitutionally empowered protesters, Portland quickly became a trending national news story for its well-attended daily protests. Government officials (local and national) frequently mentioned the Portland protests; the city was in the national news more than it had been at any other time in my life. Initiated by the heart-wrenching video of George Floyd gasping for his last breaths under the brutal, unrelenting, unjustified knee of then Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin, outraged Portland residents and community members from surrounding areas gathered immediately, reacting intensely. They took to the city’s streets as soon as they saw the boldly recorded footage of the horrific tragedy that had become our nation’s latest viral sensation. Reactionary groups, acting to combat both the protesters and the federal government, seized the opportunity to antagonize and sow division among the protesters and disrupt the narrative of justified public outrage. Faux journalists instantly became Twitter sensations; DJs equipped with smartphones quickly became prominent live streamers viewed (and used) by national news organizations. As a photographer, artist, and, most importantly, an activist who inherently understands all people are born equal, I was instantly aligned with the reaction in my hometown. While I only managed to escape the daily realities and financial restrictions of my own life for three nights, I will never forget what I witnessed on those Portland streets. 

As a photographer, I have a knack for gravitating toward the action of any event I’m documenting. At a protest, of course, this means getting to the front line of the protesters. I did this each night I was at the Portland protests.  I was dressed in all black. (Pretty typical attire for professional photographers at large, public gatherings). Bold white lettering spelled out the word PRESS on both the front and back of my T-shirt; it was also on an identification card hanging around my neck. When I arrived at the protest around 7 p.m., the crowd was already in full effect: gathered together, walking and chanting, getting their message out. I took precautionary measures to make sure my footage could not be admissible in court. I made sure not to capture protesters whose faces were visible. Why be forced to give evidence of a young twenty-something rightfully lashing out at the injustices many Americans are forced to bear on a daily basis? It’s a shame windows were broken, graffiti was sprayed and people were hurt. But let’s place the focus where it rightfully belongs, on the deeply broken American policing system: nationally, on a state-level and locally. Not on the people angered by the near-constant injustices perpetrated by these institutions. It was quite the feeling to walk Portland’s busy streets with a crowd of people chanting against police brutality. Change was in the air. Businesses that we passed had carboarded windows, while a block away, 5-star restaurants continued to serve urbane guests. A truly surreal, American experience. 

It wasn’t long before the police interfered.

As nightfall descended and the streetlights came on, rumors of a police action surged through the crowd. Sure enough, on Twitter and in the press, the PPB had declared the protest a riot. Protesters were quick to find out through their social media accounts. The protesters kept marching.  Soon they encountered a wall of local police officers and federal agents near Portland’s Justice Center. It wasn’t long before bottles were being thrown, before officers were physically clashing with protesters.  The feeling—the reality—was now chaos. I ran to a spot where I could take pictures of the two sides: the protestors and law enforcement, interacting at the front line. In under five minutes, the PPB declared the protest a riot to the crowd.  Over a megaphone, they announced they would be dispersing teargas (a chemical agent the United States long ago promised never to use in international warfare). Seconds later, they did. But the teargas wasn’t initially launched at the protesters, it was launched at the folks like me, armed only with cameras, wearing press badges, standing off to the side. While we were clearly separated from the protesters and clearly identified as members of the press, the officers targeted us.  Their intent was to prevent the documentation of their actions. Coughing, unable to see and outright confused as to why the press had been targeted over the “aggravators” they claimed to be stopping, I ran from the line of officers as fast as I could.  With some distance between me and the surging police line, I was able to see my DSLR camera was no longer functional; the smoke from the teargas attack nearly destroyed it. The gas had ruined the battery and the memory card and with that, all my pictures documenting the protest.

In the midst of my dash away from the front line, the officers had begun launching more tear gas grenades, this time into the crowd of protesters. A few protesters covered their faces, rushed for the tear gas canisters and chucked them back at the line of officers. Others ran. I could hear people yelling, “All cops are bastards!” as they fled.  Still other protesters held their ground and continued to chant: “No Justice. No Peace.” The officers walked toward them. Eventually, the officers came to a halt and the protesters regrouped, the two lines eye-to-eye in the middle of what is typically a busy downtown Portland street. Tensions increased again. Officers and protesters engaged in violent, physical encounters.  The officers attacked and arrested indiscriminately, not focusing on protestors who were being violent but striking at and handcuffing anyone.  They looked (and acted) more like well-equipped street thugs than a trained enforcement unit. Ironically, their actions proved everything the protesters had said about both the PPB and the federal officers. They were using unnecessary force—more than the situation required.  The strategy was not founded in law, but rather seemed guided by a goal to provoke and silence. 

After most of the crowd dispersed, either by being arrested or running away, the officers pulled back. Civilian medics began treating the wounded lying on the sidewalks and in the street. Those who were left from the crowd mingled around, documenting what they could, speaking with each other about what they had witnessed and experienced, offering comfort and support. I couldn’t get over the fact that law enforcement officers—here in the United States of America—had targeted the press before the crowd of people they said they were here to control. Constitutional rights were ringing in my head. 

This was the first of my three nights with the protesters in Portland. While I always hold my core beliefs close, as a photographer my goal is to document the situation as best as I can without bias. While I wasn’t going to capture a protester’s face, I would take a picture of fresh graffiti, a burning trash can, a broken window. I wanted to reveal reality. To answer the question: “What is happening in the Portland protests?” And I would be as truthful as possible.  I would not take a side.  When I returned to my car, preparing for the two-hour drive ahead of me and reflecting on everything I had just experienced, I was overwhelmed with emotions. Sadness, at first. Then anger. These injustices happen so often. When someone attempts to open a dialogue by taking a knee, he is told he is unpatriotic, disrespecting his country (the very country that grants the right to protest in its constitution). He is fired. If a student speaks up—questioning a textbook truth, she is removed from the classroom. If you visit government property—placard in hand, you are arrested for trespassing.  So, where can we speak? Where can we be heard? How can we enter the conversation? How do we move forward?  In the wake of ongoing, unjust police violence, protesting is a way of participating, of saying enough is enough, of engaging in the process of improving our society. But because that legitimate exercise of peaceful expression was met with militarized, state-sanctioned violence, the narrative changed.  When the officers targeted the press first, they knew exactly what they were doing. They were evoking a strategy—an illegal, unconstitutional strategy—to get away with violence. The very thing they were supposedly there to end. 

I wrote four songs before I started my car that night. Those four songs became the initial lyrics featured on my project: And They Called Us a Riot? They came from a place of anger. I was no longer unbiased. I no longer wanted to be.  Teargassing me and breaking my equipment caused me to choose a side. My journalistic integrity disappeared, replaced with my personal position and my own moral code. I took my side. I choose justice, freedom, peace and equity. 

I went to the next two protests without a camera. Just a cell phone, a voice and a body. 

To the protesters who managed to attend the nightly rallies for the entire five months, two weeks and four days, I have nothing but respect for you. To the journalists who continued to document history at great personal peril, I am grateful.  You serve our democracy well. To everyone, please follow their example and stand-up for your values, your beliefs and your freedoms. Get involved.  Take action.  No matter where you live, the fight for justice, for freedom, for equality, for love is not yet over. We have a long way to go . . .