Medic Respite Park at McGuffey

Megan

2017-08-12

http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/

As a member of Together Cville, I had signed up well in advance to work the medic/respite site at McGuffey Park. After the enraged response to Klan day, all of us knew this one would be several fold worse, so as a small woman and the mother of two, I deliberately chose not to be on the frontlines; but rather, steadfastly contributing as support. We had two activists from out of town stay with us overnight, having come in specifically for this counterprotest. We walked in very early, 7ish, for our brief orientation. As a marshall, so to speak, a title given to those of us more or less being an information contact point within the park, I was wearing a bright red shirt. Once at the park, we were given black hats, walkie-talkies, a bandana and swim goggles -- which we wore around our necks for the entirety of the day in anticipation of tear gas -- and backpacks full of bottles of diluted Maalox, in that same anticipation.
Someone later in the day equated our constant state of terror as a war zone. I can see the parallel, at a lesser degree, of course. I've never been near that many guns in my life. Walking past insanely militarized groups stalking our usually calm streets is more than a bit disconcerting. Again, as a tiny woman, I more than once ceased walking and attempted to blend into buildings when a screaming and undisciplined group of cammo-wearing bodies stomped past with assault rifles. Jesus Christ.
Our park was a diagonal block away from the heart of the fury. Clouds of tear gas rose visibly, and the thunderous sound of the circling helicopter, each adding to the surreal nature of this day that throughout felt ultimately as though it shouldn't be happening. We quickly learned that the location of the hovering helicopter meant the white supremacists were directly below, and we manuevered our responses accordingly.
The singing march in the morning before anyone was hurt or had died, it never felt optimistic. This day was to be quite different from Klan day; we knew that. The singing felt determined, imbued with intention. We meant our rejection.
Time didn't matter. Our park was the hub of all information, as reports of the occupied areas came through our tech set up in the name of WTJU. Once the supremacists were ejected from Emancipation Park, our knowledge was all that was guiding the counterprotesters who flowed in and out of McGuffey, getting water, sitting for a moment, having abrasions and swollen eyes tended to. Briefly, one activist danced defiantly to music, cigarette clamped in his teeth, eyes closed. We loved seeing him.
And the car. The alert came through my phone once the car struck. All of us staying in touch with one another, hearing that the mass had been thrown out of McIntyre and were now headed for Friendship Court to terrorize families. At this news, our park emptied, the counterprotesters unhesitatingly flowing to their feet and out, willing to place their bodies in between the hating violent and families, children. I'm still left breathless, in awe, at their selflessness. We all knew someone would be hurt. So a friend of mine followed, and reported.
Through text, he cried out a second after it happened, sobbing -- it felt -- for our park's medics. I screamed, "NATHAN!", our defacto leader of Together Cville, and He Through Whom All Updates Flowed. "MEDICS! THEY NEED MEDICS NOW!" And everyone stood, poised, waiting to be told where.
Stammering out "Water St -- a car -- they don't know how many --" and Nathan on the phone, furiously organizing, and the medics and nurses running out, clutching bags. And gone. And we waited. Because we knew. We knew this was bad, and some of them would be coming back to us.
As they did. The not so hurt but still badly broken. Our one medic who had stayed behind cut away jeans from swollen knees, applied icepacks, and we were instructed to keep the probably-concussed awake until transport. Ambulances were busy at the site of the attack; so we summoned cars who had volunteered for precisely this purpose. I held the shaking and weeping, and sent screenshots of maps for Martha Jefferson since so many were from out of town. We cried together, and I smoothed strangers' hair.
And Heather died. And these people are not welcome in this town.