On June 7, 2020, when Tamika Mallory, co-founder of Until Freedom, a non-profit activist organization, posted to Instagram a call-to-action for a protest in Louisville, the only questions I posed to myself were how would I get there and what exactly were we going to do?

I had already begun to follow Tamika’s activism after her profound speech in Minneapolis, Minnesota, at a George Floyd rally and in connection with Lonita Baker (the attorney representing Breonna’s family). I understood her to be a committed and trustworthy leader, so with little time left to sign-up as a participant, I quickly researched her organization and their intended plan of action.

There wasn’t much to be found, which was actually somewhat of a good sign to me; it implied someone was protecting the integrity of the plan and the safety of all involved. After a few days of weighing all the options and risks, including meditating and praying on the idea, I concluded that I would participate. I packed a bag, invited a trusted friend, bought a plane ticket, got a COVID-19 test (it came back negative) and all was a go.

In a few days, I found myself in Louisville marching down a long wooded two-lane road alongside my friend, Marquis, and 100-plus additional protestors. Until Freedom had led us in a non-violent and civil disobedience training earlier that day, where I got to know many local activists and young leaders from all over the country. While marching we social-distanced ourselves as best as anyone’s adrenaline would allow. A local news chopper began to hover over-head and many cars crept by to see what was happening. It was a very hot day, but our intentions were calm and focused.

Less than a couple minutes into our march, the traffic on the other side of the road began to blow their horns in rhythmic support of our first chant, “Say Her Name, Breonna Taylor,” as they passed by. Black fists, white fists, brown fists hung outside car windows in solidarity.

Another one of our chants was a call and response that said, “Show me what democracy looks like? This is what democracy looks like!” It didn’t occur to me at the time, but our protest, like many others from New York City to Portland, was also a display of what patriotism looks like. Patriotism by definition is the vigorous support of one’s country, and there were about 120 of us representing so many different groups and classifications of American citizens unified in our concern of justice for Breonna Taylor and our radical optimism about what leadership in our country is capable of.

Retrospectively, we can appreciate that among us were Indigenous, Black, Latinx, Asian, Arabic, White Americans; LGBTQ folks; cis-gender men and women; gender-non-conforming people; able-bodied, dis-abled bodied people; immigrants; folks with various religious, spiritual and atheist beliefs alike; all social-economic classes or levels of privilege from artists and celebrities, to TV stars, NFL athletes and more. It was the kind of unity that would make J. Edgar Hoover roll in his grave (per his notion that the alignment of “Blacks” and young whites was the one of the most dangerous threats to America).

Once we rounded into the neighborhood of our destination, parents and their children came out of their homes to witness our march. Others chanted along with us and held Breonna Taylor and Black Lives Matter signs. Before long we were outside the home of none other than Attorney General Cameron.

Now, if you saw a picture, witnessed via live feed or watched news coverage of the raw footage, you would have seen us wearing mostly white T-shirts that said Until Freedom on the front and #BreonnaTaylor on the back. After orienting ourselves we walked onto the lawn and sat down in three rows. The majority of us protesters were seated in what true yogi’s would call Sukhasana pose, a cross-legged position of peace. Every protester wore COVID-19 protecting masks with Breonna Taylor written over them, and from our lips rang a repetitive call and response of “Say Her Name, Breonna Taylor.”

Within minutes, a unit of about 20 officers came and surrounded us on the lawn. They weren’t wearing riot gear or carrying guns with rubber bullets, but instead dawned their vests and their very real deadly weapons, however, not one of the 87 of us who dared to sit on Daniel Cameron’s lawn were unclear about who we were there to oppose; it was not those individual officers or even Daniel Cameron himself, but rather the system of leadership and law enforcement that has thus far failed to protect Black lives by not holding bad actors lawfully responsible for their actions.

White supremacy sits at the bedrock of policing in our country. We know there are indeed many cities and communities who have left that dark truth in the past, but the vast majority of our nation’s city police forces are holding on to that past with all their might. Many otherwise progressive cities and states have had their highly regarded police forces infiltrated by white supremacists, and those individuals are taking advantage of their proximity to power, resources and qualified immunity; because that is the case, it is critical that all fair and just citizens scrutinize the tactics of law enforcement and call upon elected officials to hold police accountable for their transgressions.

The Attorney General is the chief enforcing officer of the law in any state, so our insistence upon continuing to sit upon his lawn was indicative of our collective belief that an America where all Black lives are deemed worthy of justice, is undoubtedly an America worth fighting for. Steadfast in that belief, we willingly put our bodies between a dark past/present and a very necessary future. And consequently, all 87 of us who stayed were arrested.

Before that day, I had never been arrested, never received so much as a point on my license, but when the officer came over to me I surprisingly did not flinch. She asked if I had any weapons on me, asked what my name was and then fully searched me. Once the citations were written up all 87 of us were then transported via paddy-wagon to the Louisville Metro Police Correctional facility.

The ride was probably the most disturbing experience of everything. I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a space so small and dark in my life; the walls were so close there wasn’t enough room to sit forward and hold my hands down behind me with the handcuff zip ties on. Thankfully, the woman beside me, Malinda, was shorter than I and so kind as to insist that I turn diagonally towards her, which provided some relief. In the meantime, every time I felt my mind wanting to drop into a claustrophobic panic attack I concentrated on the sound of Malinda’s voice. It turned out she had lots of friends and family from the part of North Carolina I was born and raised in. Hearing her recount her experiences in my hometown and place of peace helped a great deal.

Lauren E. Banks

Writing since February 2022 · 1 story contributed