The Burning Leaves of Change

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire.  The trees were lit like the torches of the giants and cast a glow on the people below as they ran pell-mell.  Some carried shopping bags and shoe boxes, dropping items and not looking back in their hurry.  Others carried signs that were almost forgotten in their rush to leave the war-zone-like atmosphere.  Their faces were distorted with the anger and fear they all felt.

I did not want to be in this crowd where it seemed almost anything could happen, among this crowd that had seen too much, but I had to find my son.  He wasn’t answering his phone, and I couldn’t bear it if he became another one of these news stories, just another face on the television.  In all of this, he probably wouldn’t even rank in the top ten stories to make it on the news.  He’s not a little blond girl or a politician; he’s a seventeen-year-old track star with hopes of going away for college next fall that is tired of being profiled for the color of his skin.

His father and I worked so hard to give him the best and send him to school with the promise that if he does well, his life will be different, but as he sat at the kitchen table the night before painting on his poster board with creative slogans and the raised black fist made famous in the 60s, I knew that his life had not been all that different.  When the cashier at the local drug store looked at him, he didn’t see the honor roll student; he saw another kid that might shoplift.  When the other passengers saw him and his friends on the public bus on their way to the history museum, they saw a group of troublemakers.

As I strode down the street that night, I tried calling him again.  He was supposed to be at the park with his girlfriend and some buddies protesting for another needless death, but things change, especially when things go to hell like this.

The news had shown the progression from peaceful marching to police standing guard in front of businesses to confrontation and factions breaking away from the protest to wreak havoc.  And finally, there was the violence, but I didn’t want to think about that right then.  I just wanted to find my son.

The crowd was growing thicker as I neared the park.  Their chants carried on the wind.

Ahead of me, a large group pressed forward against a line of police.  I scanned the faces, searching for my son.  What had he been wearing when he left the house?  His black hoodie?  A green t-shirt?  I panicked as I couldn’t remember.

I could see a surge in the crowd, like a row of dominoes, pushing from the back, cascading and tightening until the front end was pushed helplessly into the line of police.  The officers went from standing stoically with folded arms to an army under attack.  Their arms pushed back, and some reached for their batons.

I caught a glimpse of a boy that looked like my son taking a fist to the jaw and falling to the ground, and the offending officer bent after him, jerking him up and behind the police line.  The surrounding officers closed the gap left behind so I couldn’t see whether he was being placed in handcuffs or any of his further treatment.

My heart thudded, and my eyes teared as I continued along the outskirts of the crowd.  My emotions swung from extremes.  My inner voice raged that if I ever found my son, I was going to give him a butt whooping like he’d never had before and ground him to his room for the next decade, but then it was screaming that I had better find my son or I would ball up and melt right in that spot.

I found a policeman standing on the sidelines, just watching as the crowd roiled.  “Can you help me?  I can’t find my son,” I nearly pleaded with him.

“Have you seen this crowd, lady?” the officer asked, not even removing his hands from his hips.  “If he’s anywhere around here, you’ll be better waiting at the police station to pay his bail.”

I turned away from him, holding onto my frustration because it was safer than falling to pieces.  I pulled out my phone again and dialed my son.  I watched the screen with his smiling picture and the word “dialing” followed by pulsing dots as the call connected.

My breath caught as the call was answered, and I could hear my son’s voice shouting a chant.  “Brandon!” I yelled into the phone.  “Brandon!”

“Mom?” I heard him respond from far away, and then his voice was stronger.  “Why are you calling?”

“What do you mean?  I’ve been calling for the last hour, and you haven’t been answering.  Where are you?”  My anger was back, and it felt so good now that I knew my son was safe.

“I couldn’t hear my phone ringing in my pocket.  It’s been kind of loud.  We’re over on Jefferson Street, and we’re about to do a sit-in.”

I sighed in relief.  At least he was away from this raucous crowd and safe in a peaceful protest.

“Mom?  Where are you?  It sounds pretty loud.”

“I’m over by the park where you said you were going to be.  Things are pretty bad.  Do not come over here,” I told him, watching as another officer pulled another young man from the crowd and pushed him on the ground to cuff him.

“We were over there about an hour ago but left when it started getting too crowded.  Listen; I’ve got to go, Mom.”  With that, he hung up.

“I love you,” I answered to the dead air, “but you’d better not get yourself into too much trouble, or I’m sending your father to bail you out.”

I slid my phone back into my pocket and started my walk back home, past the crowds and firetrucks attempting to put out some of the fires.  I would always worry about my son, whether he was standing up for himself like that night or just going to a gas station for a drink.  I had to have faith in my son that we taught him right and that the universe would treat him fairly, or else I would lose my mind with the what-ifs.  For now, I had to settle for the feeling of pride that he was out there doing something and let that tamp down my fear.