Chapter Text
It was a beautiful summer day, if judged by the weather alone. Clear sky, mild breeze, and tepid temperatures. Of course, that did little to temper the fact that the pandemic was raging, our criminal justice system was as broken as ever, and after months of protests for reform, even with widespread popular support, it looked like few places were going to get significant measures on their ballots in the next election at state or local levels, forget about federal. Sometimes Sam got downright pessimistic about it all.
Of course, then he would look for some avenue of opportunity for forward action, some way forward. Even if he couldn’t be truly hopeful about it, he would always look for the best path forward, and would always work for it, one foot in front of the other.
That’s what he was doing here, today, out on the streets in his winged Captain America suit, carrying the shield proudly, facemask demanding SAY THEIR NAMES, at the head of a march. Today’s march was from the site of an “officer involved shooting” through city streets to the courthouse where none of the officers involved would likely be brought to any justice.
Things started out well. It was well organized, with support spots along the route with water, first aid supplies, and volunteers with walkie talkies. So when it turned out there was a cluster of “counter protesters” amassing at a park ahead, Sam heard about it well before they reached it. The march route would take them past two sides of the park. The word over the walkie talkie was that a number of them were open carrying. Sam tightened the shield straps on his arm and took a turn leading the chanting call and response.
As soon as the park came in view ahead, Sam could see them. Extremists waving American flags, “All Lives Matter” signs, the Thing Blue Line flag, and all manner of racist and white supremacist iconography. There was more than one confederate flag. There were also a whole mess of unique signs each with their own misguided, dismissive, or outright hateful sentiment.
Soon enough the march had reached the park and the “counter protesters” started shouting, calling out their own chants, even coming into the street to try to get a reaction. Some of them were all but shoving the protesters, or standing in their way to force an altercation or stop the march.
They hurled insults and slurs of all kinds, some individuals or small clusters singling people out to harass. A middle aged white woman with a man her age who might be her husband and another who might be her son singled out Jen and Terri, who were marching by Sam holding a sign with the pride flag colors striped across the Black Power fist icon. As soon as they were singled out, the white woman viciously throwing homophobic slurs, they too each others’ hands and kept walking even more proudly, keeping their eyes looking straight ahead.
Some of the language was so hateful, even though Sam knew they were right to not engage, right to ignore the bigots as much as possible, he still hurt for his sisters. Sam put his hand on Jen’s shoulder for a moment, squeezing it in support.
She smiled grimly, keeping her eyes straight ahead as she said, “It’s nothing we haven’t heard all our lives.”
Terri said, “I’ve been bullied since I was in primary school. Both for who they thought I’d love and for the color of my skin. But schoolyard bully or school officer or these bigots: they’ll stop when there’s consequences. And if we don’t demand they are held accountable, then who will. That’s why we’re here.”
Jen continued, “And maybe these guys,” she indicated the shouters, “will help wake up people who say it’s not a big deal, who don’t realize how bad it can get.” She wasn’t wrong: in addition to formal press leading and trailing the march, many of the fellow marchers were filming, posting, live streaming, and otherwise documenting.
Sam could only hope this all amounted to substantive change this time.