It was four in the afternoon in downtown Birmingham, Alabama. One on side of the street stood a crowd of African-Americans protesting for equal rights. On the other side waited police officers holding nightsticks. Their German shepherds barked incessantly, excited by their masters’ rage. They had been trained to attack black people, who were out today protesting against segregation and calling for peace, which was a clear threat to the social order. Such was the dogs’ mission, and their duty. More than one officer wore a shit-eating grin. What did these niggers think they were going to do? Alabama was set in its ways. The protestors were naive, powerless, and untethered from the reality of their situation. The lawmen were getting ready, and clenching their fists. Their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, the windows to their souls glazed over and obscured. They wore their peaked caps fixed tightly around their skulls, a symbol of their authority. They saw themselves as cowboys, heirs to the sheriffs of the Old West, back when men were men. They wore pistols at their hips, and they had the authority to kill. This was the South, after all. The only law that mattered was the rule of supremacy. We refuse to drink from the same fountains as them; we refuse to send our children to school with theirs, or to ride on public transit beside them. Yukie barked louder, pulling on his leash. He reared up, baring his teeth. His eyes blazed, and he would not be still.
“Bitch sure got a nose for ‘em,” said another officer.
“Yeah she does. Gotta train ‘em to taste blood, that’s the key. That way they learn to tell niggers from whites.”
Larry was holding a bag of rocks, while his brother Mike carried a pickaxe handle as a bat. What could you do against Alabama cops? “We want our rights!” yelled Larry. “Separate but equal my ass! Equality now!” insisted Mike, who regretted being armed with only a piece of wood. Tensions mounted as a handful of rocks were thrown at the police. The dogs bounced with excitement as a police officer yelled into his megaphone: “Return to your homes and you will not be harmed!” “Not a chance,” thought Larry. He wanted to express his rage against the establishment. He knew this type of promise all too well. Once he returned home, Larry would be subject to the same daily injustices. They would call him Jim Crow or Dixie, and he would not be able to ride a bus up to Chicago to visit his Uncle Tom. He’d been on plenty of buses, and on many Freedom Rides, and had ridden the length and breadth of the state fighting for civil rights. But today, his day had finally come. He knew he would be humiliated. Blacks counted for nothing in this country. What could they do against dogs and guns? They were mere prey, hunted like rabbits for sport. It was a cruel irony. The same police officers tasked with delivering justice during the day wore Klan robes at night, and their hatred and cruelty were law.
Rocks began flying from all directions. The Birmingham police advanced at a steady march. With each step, the dream of going to war with the blacks came closer. The African-Americans threw glass bottles and Molotov cocktails that exploded at the officers’ feet. They were vulnerable. The police had numbers, and were protected. They had the law on their side.
“Time to loose the dogs?” one officer asked his sergeant over the radio.
“Wait a few minutes until they’ve tired themselves out. Let ‘em use up whatever they got.”
“Copy that, Sarge.”
Larry signalled the crowd to press forward and form a solid line, so they could face the enemy as one. The police were taken aback by this tactic, which they had not seen before. Once the protestors came at them the cops would react, with no care for loss of life.
“What do we do, Sarge?”
“Loose the dogs!”
The leashes were dropped, and the dogs ran amok. Larry and Mike kicked at the hounds. “Goddamn mutt! Get the fuck offa me!” cried Larry, who was cornered. Yukie had managed to get a hold of his sweater, and would not let go.
Their bark was loud, but the bite was cruel.
Alan Alfredo Geday