Words And Deeds

“How are you doing over there?” Brian asked. “You look a little nauseous.”

“I’m not a little nauseous,” Rachel denied. “I’m a lot nauseous. This whole thing is ridiculous. I don’t give speeches. I haven’t given a speech since my college speech and debate class, and I only took that class because they wouldn’t let me graduate without it.”

“Rachel, you are here because you have literally stood up to people who were trying to kill you without batting an eye,” Brian said. “Is one speech really that bad?”

“It’s worse,” Rachel said. “If I had a choice between death and public speaking, I’d pick death any day of the week.”

“Ms. Horschowitz?” a slightly frazzled-looking young man asked as he poked his head in the door. “They’re ready for you now.”

“Guess I’m ready then,” Rachel grumbled, reaching for her cane and using it to lever herself up. She hated soft, comfortable couches these days. At least a hard chair didn’t fight her so much when she tried to stand.

She followed the young man out towards the stage, waiting in the wings between thick red curtains until the presenter announced her name. There were thousands in the audience in person, millions watching the broadcast, or so she’d been told. She couldn’t bring herself to believe she was really that interesting. Despite the cane and the limp, she made her way to the podium at a fairly good clip. They’d offered to let her give her speech sitting down, but one withering look and they hadn’t brought it up again. She took a moment to steady herself before she began to speak.

“I know I’m not the first person giving a speech tonight, nor the last. I’ll probably be the worst. Most of the people here, they used words to make a difference, to change things. I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong. Words are powerful. That’s why they worked so hard to strip us of our ability to use them. So when we wanted things to change, we couldn’t use words. They weren’t available to us.

“But truth be told, I never thought I’d change much of anything anyway. I was just too angry to stand by and do nothing anymore, even if it got me killed.”

*****

Rachel walked swiftly from the bus stop to her apartment, cursing herself silently for getting so involved in her work that she’d lost track of time. With one eye on the ever-darkening sky, she kept the other on her surroundings. For a moment, it looked like she might be in luck. Her building was just ahead, and it seemed as if the rioters had either taken the night off or had chosen a different area of the city to harass for once.

Then she heard the pained cries, mixed in with vicious taunts. The words themselves were indistinguishable, but it didn’t matter. The meaning was clear. She was running towards the sounds before her common sense had a chance to make an appearance, hand reaching in her purse for the pepper spray she’d bought two months into the riots when it had become clear that not only were they here to stay but that no one was going to lift a finger to help the people like her who didn’t have enough money to flee the destruction in the cities.

There were five of them dressed in black bloc, kicking someone curled into a fetal position on the ground. They looked like nightmare figures, covered from head to toe, anything that might humanize them carefully hidden away behind their ragtag costumes. It should have frightened her. It just made her angrier.

“Hey!” she screamed. One of them turned towards her, raising something in his hand. A bat, maybe, or a stick. She maced him, or possibly her, in the eyes, and he let out a high-pitched shriek, dropping to his knees. She got two more before one of them struck her across the face, sending her to the pavement. She wondered, in a dazed, detached sort of way, if that was how she would die. But her mother had always told her that God watched over children and fools, and she supposed that must be the case, as she heard more people shouting suddenly and the attackers retreated, stumbling off together into the darkness.

“Rachel!” someone called. It took a moment for her to place the voice and focus her eyes on the face above her. It was Miguel, who owned the corner store across from her apartment building and always showed her the latest pictures of his kids when she came in to pick up some groceries. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Rachel said. “How’s the other guy?”

“Not so good,” Miguel said, turning to take in the man curled up nearby. If it hadn’t been for the audible wheezing, Rachel would have been sure he was already dead. “I’ll call for help. You stay here.”

So she sat there on the cold ground, jaw throbbing. After a bit, she scooted closer to the beaten man and reached out to hold his hand while she waited. And the longer she sat, the more she felt her anger build.

*****

The rest of the week passed in a mixture of utter normality and odd surreality. She recounted the events of the night to a police officer, who seemed weary and resigned, admitting that although they would try their best, they were stretched thin and there just wasn’t much to go on. She got up and went to work as usual. She visited the man in the hospital and learned his name was Brian Dodgson. And through it all, an idea began to slowly take shape.

On Saturday, she went to see Miguel. Then she went to see Jimmy and Rosa, who ran the little café next door. Then Dwayne and George, the brothers who owned the pawn shop beside the café. And right on down the line she went. She spent Sunday talking to more people, and the following week making phone calls. Then she found the accounts on Twitter telling where and when the rioters planned to be. And she activated her phone tree.

They were surprised, she thought, the rioters in their black bloc, to see ordinary people proudly standing there making no attempts to hide their identities when they arrived at the gathering spot. Admittedly, it was hard to tell with most of their faces covered, but she could definitely see some of their eyes widening. Rachel stepped forward from her own crowd and bent her arms at the elbows slightly, an invitation which the people on either side of her took, linking their arms with hers. Swiftly, they formed a chain in front of the businesses behind them which had already taken so much abuse over the previous months that the once-beautiful glass storefronts were nothing more than boarded-up plywood marred with vulgar graffiti, but at least these buildings hadn’t been burnt to the ground yet. Rachel meant to keep them that way.

The rumblings had started among the people in black bloc, slowly turning to shouts and chants, fists thrust in the air as they approached Rachel’s line. Soon there was someone right up in her face no more than an inch or two away. They wouldn’t back down, she knew. They were only interested in destruction, not peace. She’d warned everyone before they came that this would be the case.

“Hold the line!” Rachel yelled. “No matter what. Hold the line!”

And then it was as though a tidal wave crashed over her, knocking her to the ground. The world faded away into blackness, and when it returned, she was propped up against a lamppost, police and EMTs scattered throughout the area.

“That was a really dumb thing you did tonight,” the EMT squatted down beside her said.

“I know,” Rachel agreed. “I’m probably going to have to do it again tomorrow night too.”

*****

“They asked me here to speak tonight like it was just me out on those streets. It wasn’t. One person couldn’t have done anything. Maybe it was my idea, but I wasn’t out there holding the line by myself. There wouldn’t have even been a line without all those people who stood beside me, and all those people who formed their own lines in other cities across the country.

“Here’s the truth we weren’t allowed to say back then and that a lot of people don’t want to know even now. We had to risk our lives, and one hundred and ninety-three of us had to die, because we couldn’t speak. We couldn’t use words. No one was listening. The news wouldn’t air it. It got pulled from the internet as soon as it was posted. And when you’re stripped of your words, it’s real easy to feel powerless and give up.

“The thing is, though, that’s what the people taking your words want you to do. That’s why they take your words. But only you control what you do. Only you can decide if your deeds are going to be honorable or if you will lower yourself to their level. Everyone has the right to make a stand for what they believe in. No one has the right to hurt other people when they’re making that stand. They don’t have the right to hurt them physically and they don’t have the right to take away their livelihood and their ability to support their families.

“I’m thirty-eight years old and I’ll never walk without a cane. It was worth it. If I’d died, it still would have been worth it. Because we finally made it so they couldn’t ignore the destruction in our communities anymore. We finally made them step in and own up to the fact that all violence is wrong, no matter who’s behind it. And even though a lot of people objected to me being here tonight and tried once again to keep my words from being heard, here I am, when five years ago I wouldn’t have been. Slow progress is better than no progress at all.

“I know I’m no one special. I’m probably no one you should be taking advice from either. But since I’m here, I’m going to give you some anyway. It doesn’t matter if you’re using words or deeds to do what you know is right. It only matters that you’re making a stand for what you believe in, and that you’re doing it with honor.”