Late Night At Barclays
Protestors and passerby caught in traffic celebrate and make noise together.
A day or two after George Floyd was murdered I began hearing rumors about protestors at Barclays. Supposedly, peaceful marches during the day were turning into crazy riots at night, citizen instigators were confronting and clashing with police, and both public and private property were being damaged at an alarming rate.
The Barclays Center is situated in the heart of Downtown Brooklyn and is something like a smaller Madison Square Garden. It was erected by Jay-Z, possibly the best example of a person who transitioned a drug empire into a legitimate business empire, who also brought a basketball team there to call it home. It's a cultural symbol that speaks both to the mostly poor, mostly minority born-and-bred New Yorkers that live downtown and the affluent, mostly white transplants who have moved into the decidedly upper class Brooklyn Heights, Fort Greene, and Cobble Hill neighborhoods that surround it.
The format of this protest was unlike any of the others. When I first arrived in the early evening I followed hundreds of people up Atlantic Avenue to the Manhattan Bridge and then back down to Barclays. The march was unplanned and even though we stopped traffic, nobody stopped in their cars seemed to mind. On the contrary, they rolled down their windows and threw their fists up, honking their horns and chanting in solidarity with us.
When we made it back to Barclays people instinctively split off and posted up in various groups. Some tried to break into the shops in the mall across the street while others gathered in the arena's outdoor esplanade and threw up protest signs. Some climbed up onto a crosswalk traffic pole and tried to speak to the growing crowd, but to no avail. Meanwhile vast numbers of police, fully decked-out in riot gear, gathered into an enormous group barricade.
Moving between these groups was like walking up to different booths at a carnival. Each one was so different from the next and it seemed unlikely they would ever brush shoulders with each other again. For nearly an hour everyone just waited, but without any designated leaders it was unclear - even to them, I think - exactly what they were waiting for. This strange and anxious calm before the storm rose steadily until some protestors lost patience and began throwing water bottles at armed officers. They got up in their faces and cursed at them. Others yelled at these protestors to stop provoking the police and maintain their cool. Still others, like myself, watched events unfold apprehensively.
The Barclays Center is situated in the heart of Downtown Brooklyn and is something like a smaller Madison Square Garden. It was erected by Jay-Z, possibly the best example of a person who transitioned a drug empire into a legitimate business empire, who also brought a basketball team there to call it home. It's a cultural symbol that speaks both to the mostly poor, mostly minority born-and-bred New Yorkers that live downtown and the affluent, mostly white transplants who have moved into the decidedly upper class Brooklyn Heights, Fort Greene, and Cobble Hill neighborhoods that surround it.
The format of this protest was unlike any of the others. When I first arrived in the early evening I followed hundreds of people up Atlantic Avenue to the Manhattan Bridge and then back down to Barclays. The march was unplanned and even though we stopped traffic, nobody stopped in their cars seemed to mind. On the contrary, they rolled down their windows and threw their fists up, honking their horns and chanting in solidarity with us.
When we made it back to Barclays people instinctively split off and posted up in various groups. Some tried to break into the shops in the mall across the street while others gathered in the arena's outdoor esplanade and threw up protest signs. Some climbed up onto a crosswalk traffic pole and tried to speak to the growing crowd, but to no avail. Meanwhile vast numbers of police, fully decked-out in riot gear, gathered into an enormous group barricade.
Moving between these groups was like walking up to different booths at a carnival. Each one was so different from the next and it seemed unlikely they would ever brush shoulders with each other again. For nearly an hour everyone just waited, but without any designated leaders it was unclear - even to them, I think - exactly what they were waiting for. This strange and anxious calm before the storm rose steadily until some protestors lost patience and began throwing water bottles at armed officers. They got up in their faces and cursed at them. Others yelled at these protestors to stop provoking the police and maintain their cool. Still others, like myself, watched events unfold apprehensively.
Say Her Name. Look At Her Face.
A man displays an American flag with some of George Floyd's last words - "I CAN'T BREATHE" - painted on top.
Protesters float down Atlantic Avenue in Downtown Brooklyn.
A woman holds up a sign with the infamous phrase.
A protestor holds up a homemade stop sign underneath the moon.
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A man looks on as he charges his phone at a LinkNYC station outside the Barclays Center.
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A few young people observe the gathering listlessly.
Three friends smoke a joint on a taxied ambulance outside Barclays.
Three teenagers show up and show out.
Tensions heightened even amongst protestors.
A young man poses atop the Barclays Center welcome sign.
A young cop looks up at protestors climbing up pedestrian traffic lights.
A black female cop, laughing with colleagues only a moment before, grimaces as she sees me take her photo.
Responding to the calm before the storm.
Show of force: provoked cops anxious for a confrontation get one.
Cops attack young men attempting to loot a Victoria's Secret store.
A young photographer slips by disinterested police escorts unnoticed.