When Cops Cry
Protestors from Cosecha and Never Again Action marching towards the Department of Homeland Security in July 2019. Photo from NeverAgain Action Facebook.
They stood lifelessly in a line outside the Department of Homeland Security Building, staring straight over our heads with hollow gazes like rigid, brawny scarecrows. It was over 90 degrees in DC that day with an angry sun, cloudless sky, and no shade in sight. We’d all been out there for hours, our voices hoarse and our bodies covered in a film of sweat that oozed constantly from us, drying, evaporating, and mixing with fresh sweat. I was at a direct action co-organized by Cosecha and Never Again Action in the summer of 2019, and we’d successfully locked down the DHS building for most of the day, with protestors blocking all entrances and exits and a huge line of police standing between the blockers and the rest of the crowd.
I don’t remember if it was the call of a tactical coordinator or a songleader or simply the collective life of the group, but at some point in the afternoon, a mood of active confrontation burst through the stagnant heat. Those of us who weren’t blocking exits shuffled into our own line, outnumbering the 30 or so cops about two to one, and inching forward, half-encircling them.
A powerful hymn of “Which Side Are You On” emerged from us, moving at the pace of a dirge. We repeated the line over and over again, and then someone added a haunting counter-melody, which even slower than the main lyrics, that snaked elegantly between the primary rhythm: “Does it weight on you at all?”
“Which side are you on? Which side are you on?”
“Does it weigh on you at all? Does it weigh on you at all?”
We repeated these, over and over and over again, until they became a drone, at once beautiful and piercing. Unlike most things repeated ad nauseam, the meaning of the words seemed only to increase with repetition. Over this drone, one of the organizers from Cosecha grabbed the megaphone, she paced back and forth im the small gap between our line and the cops’ line, shouting hideous truths at them.
“You are the modern day Gestapo.”
“You are responsible for the deaths of immigrants deported to the violence from which they fled.”
“You have blood on your hands that you will never be able to wash off.”
There was something unimaginably cinematic about the scene, the ongoing chanting elevating and coloring the fervor of her extemporaneous speech.
All of sudden, I felt an unusual current of anger flowing through me. Typically, I’m terrified of cops, especially large groups of them decked out in bullet proof vests and sunglasses like the DHS police before us. But, pulled by some force that felt beyond me, I found myself walking the line, with a rageful smile, staring each of them down with an unflinching intensity, as I continued to sing, to scream “Which side are you on?” It became like a game. I was toying with each cop staring them down with bulging eyes until they looked away. A feral energy emanated from me that scared myself.
Finally, one cop attempted to meet my gaze. He was physically enormous, well over six feet and broad, his arms covered in frightening looking tattoos and his shaved head glowing in the sunlight like the head of a torch. When we first made eye contact he smirked. Then he laughed: a deep, hostile bellow, dripping with scorn. But I was immovable. I barely blinked, staring back at him with violent intensity. Finally, his grin fell into an angry glare. Then, unthinkably, his tolerance ran out. He sharply turned down, looking sheepish. Looking afraid. I had never felt this kind of power over cop, flipping the dynamic of who feels small and frightened.
And then the remarkable happened. As the Cosecha organizer concluded her speech, multiple officers involuntarily began to weep, tears streaming from under down their faces mixing with sweat. They stood in the heat, crying softly, broken by song and spirit and being forced to confront the violence they upheld every single day.
I’d be lying if I said I know what to make of this experience. I wish I had more concrete lessons or things to apply to future strategizing. Maybe it’s simply worth visiblizing that through song, spirit, and collective action, we can tap into reserves of courage and energy we didn’t know were within us, and make truth and justice undeniable, even to the most hard-heartened and broken amongst us.