A Day at the Museum

     On Saturday morning, I entered the Brooklyn Museum, never thinking I’d be calling my father to come and get me out of jail six hours later.

 You know, I shouldn’t have been at the museum at all that morning. A month earlier, Professor Clark, who taught Literature and Art at Brooklyn College, posted a list of topics for our mid-term research papers. I chose literature of the African Diaspora. Her instructions were simple: research and write the report and submit it by the first Monday of next month—no exceptions. She encouraged us to make an appointment to see her if we ran into any problems. During every lecture, Professor Clark emphasized the papers would count for one-third of our grade. But those warnings weren’t enough for me. I kept putting off my research. I was failing the class; I couldn’t afford to miss her deadline. Now, I had to cram four weeks of work into three days. I started my research at the Brooklyn Museum.

My steps were heavy as I climbed the museum’s limestone steps. I dreaded the thought of being cooped up in the museum for hours on a lovely Summer day like this. There were so many other things I’d preferred to be doing—fun things like sleeping late, watching tv, playing Call of Duty with my friends, or just browsing the internet.

At the museum’s entrance, I offered my Brooklyn College Student I.D. to the security officer. She stepped back, held up her left hand, and asked loudly through her mask, “Do you have a  mask, sir?”

I smiled sheepishly. “Yes, officer. It’s in my backpack.”

“I suggest you put it on.”

She waited until the mask was in place before motioning me to approach her.

The officer took my I.D. carefully using her thumb and forefinger. She officer took a minute or two to scrutinized both me and my I.D. Satisfied, she returned my I.D.

“That’ll be ten dollars, sir.”

She took it and held it up to the light. I sighed loud enough for her to hear me.

 “Sorry, sir,” she explained. “We’ve been getting a lot of phony tens lately.”

           I nodded. “I understand.”

Handing me a museum map, brochure, and an activities schedule, she wished me a Blessed Day. I offered a muffled, “Same to you.”

         I stopped for a moment to watch the crowd of busy people in the grand lobby. The variety of people were indicative of Brooklyn’s culture. As I  searched the brochure for the African Art Exhibit, someone walked up to me and said.

         “Well, hello, Jamaal. I never expected to see you here.”

         It was Dora Rodriquez, a fellow sophomore at Brooklyn College. I had a secret crush on her since middle school.

         “Oh, hi, Dora.” I tried to hide my excitement. “How have you been?”

“Okay, I guess. I had to come to the museum today, ya know.”

I didn’t know, but it seemed essential to Dora to be at the museum.  

“Have you ever done something like this before?”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I didn’t want to seem like a nerd.  So I said, “No, I haven’t. have you?”

“Well, no. But the Student Union planned it for twelve noon, so I had to be here.”

Dora kept glancing at her watch.

“Dora, if you got someplace to go, don’t let me keep you.”

She looked up and smiled at me.

“No. I have no place to go. Do you mind if I stay with you?” She said as she grasps my hand.

My heart skipped a beat. “Would I mind!?” I thought to myself. I had to regain my composure before answering.

“Sure. You can stay with me as long as you want.”

During our conversation, I hadn’t noticed that the crowd seemed to get closer. I looked down at Dora and asked, “Are people getting closer to us?”

Dora giggled. “Of course. It’s time.”

I checked my watch. It was twelve noon.

To my surprise,  the people formed a vast circle. They began handcuffing themselves to the person on either side of them. Before I could react, Dora handcuff herself to me!

Then some guy on my other side is smiling as he handcuffs himself to my other wrist. I gave Dora and this other guy my ‘WTF’ look. They’re both smiling as we ease down to sit on the cool marble floor.

         “Dora, what’s this?”

         “It’s a sit-in, Jamaal. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

         “God, no. I’m here to do research on my midterm paper.”

         “Oh. I thought you were here to join our protest. How could you not know we planned to protest today? There were posters plastered all over campus.  Leaflets were handed out all week.”

         “Look. I knew nothing about this. Get me out of these cuffs. Where’s the key?”

         Dora looked up and gave me a weak smile.

         “I’m sorry, Jamaal. Nobody has a key. If you had read the posters and leaflet, you’d know that the plan was to handcuff ourselves to each other and sit. We wanted the cops to use their handcuff keys to free us and take us to jail.”

         Jail! No, Dora. Oh my God. My dad will kill me, and my Mom will bury me! I can’t go to jail.”

         “Well, why not? Where only going to be there for a short time. They’ll issue us summons, then let us go. They’ll probably give us a court return date, but—”

         I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling.

         “Dora, you don’t understand. My dad’s a cop. In fact, he’s the head cop-the Inspector-of the precinct that covers this museum. When they arrest me and see my last name, they’re going to ask questions. Plus, I know a lot of cops in that precinct. Oh man, I’m in trouble.”

         “Oh, Jamaal, I’m so sorry. How can I make this up to you?”

         “It really doesn’t matter, Dora. After today, I’ll be dead.”

         I sat there listening to people chattering. Some thinking this was an excellent thing for a great cause. If I never hear the phrase, “The struggle is real!” ever again in life, it will be too soon.

         After minutes of silence, I turn to Dora and asks, “What’s the reason for this sit in?”

         Dora looks around to make sure no one is listening. She acts as though she’s embarrassed that I’d asked that question.

         “Well, it’s—”

         “We’re trying to stick it to the man,” the guy I’m handcuffed to proudly declares..

         I gave him a puzzled look. “’ Trying to stick it to the man?’ This ain’t the 60’s. By the way, who in the hell are you?”

         “Oh, pardon. I’m Kevin. Blackl Lives Matter, you know.”

         “Kevin put the pipe down. This isn’t a Black Lives Matter protest.”

         Kevin looks at me suspiciously and says, “Isn’t it?”

         I turn back to Dora. “You’re kidding me about not having a key? These aren’t the kind of handcuffs that come apart with a hard tug?”

         “No,” Dora replied, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

         “I guess it’s okay. But can you tell me what I’ve got myself into? Can you at least tell me that?”

         Dora’s expression became serious. “We’re protesting the museum’s hiring of off-duty NYPD officers as part-time security. We feel they have no rapport with the neighborhood, and they bring their negative vibe to a community place. If you had—”

“Yeah, I know. If I had read the leaflets and flyers. But why is that guy next to us holding up a sign that states, ‘Supported by the LGBTQ+ Community’?

Dora’s raised an eyebrow.”Because we’re sitting in the LGBTQ+ section.”

“That’s great, now everyone’s  going to think we’re gay.”

She leaned towards me and said, “Jamaal, I’m a lesbian.”

At first, I thought she was kidding. “Naw. Look at you. You’re gorgeous. You could be with any man?”

Dora smiled. “Thank you for the compliment, but I prefer women.”

“If you say so, Dora.”

I sat there feeling sorry for myself. I was stuck in the museum on Saturday. I won’t be able to research my paper. I learn the girl of my dreams is a lesbian. What else could go wrong?

The police officers, wearing riot gear,  marched in through the main entrance. The atmosphere in the hall immediately became tense. The officers seemed surprised to find the protestors sitting peacefully on the floor. The tenseness in the hall quickly subsided. The officer’s relaxed posture led to conversations between them and the protestors. That put everyone at ease.  A white-shirted police officer walked in and, through a bullhorn, asked for our attention. You could tell from his demeanor, he was in charge.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I am Inspector Taylor. I am in charge of the police detail handling this event. The organizers and I have agreed to end this peaceful sit-in in 30 minutes. At that time, we will escort you out of the building to a waiting transit bus. Then you’ll be driven to the local precinct, where you will be formally arrested for trespassing.”

The crowd began to moan.

“No one will remain in jail.  You will be issued a summons and told when to report back to court to answer your summons. If you follow our instructions, everything will be okay. And no, this will not go on your permanent record.”

A sigh of relief resonated throughout the hall. Some of the protestors let out nervous giggles.

“My officers will be coming to each of you to get your information. I would appreciate your cooperation. Thank you.”

As the officers walked around writing down information, I turned to Dora and asked, “Why did you choose today to protest? And don’t tell me if I had read the leaflets, flyers. I know that. Why today?”

“On every first Saturday of the month, the museum host Target First Saturday.  It like a big community party. We knew a lot of people would be here today. Sitting in here and now would bring attention to our cause. Later tonight, there will be all kinds of fun and socially significant activities to enjoy. Live music, food exhibits. It’s a great time. Why don’t you come with me next month?”

Before I got a chance to answer, the police leaned forward and asked me for my information. When I told him my last name, he frowned.

“Are you.” He looked at my face and didn’t need to ask the question.

“Hey, Lieutenant, can I see you over here?”

The Lieutenant strolled over, and the officer whispered in her ear. She glared down at me. “Come with me, young man.”

She helped me up and escorted me over to Inspector Taylor. Before they led me away, I looked over my shoulder and said yes to Dora.

The Inspector frowned and shook his head.

“Who’s your father?”

“Inspector William Cole.”

The Inspector stepped closer to me before whispering, “You’re Bill Cole kid? What are you doing in this mess?”

“It’s a long story, sir. It began when—”

“Save it. I’ll let you tell your father. Lieutenant, take this young man to the Mobile Command. He needs to make a very important phone call.”

I turned before leaving. .”Inspector, may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, what?”

“Can I be sent to jail instead?”

“Get him out of here!”