First Hand Accounts of the George Floyd Protests at the Columbus Capitol Building
Rolando Rubalcava
My experience in the protests were the beginning of a process of reflecting more intentionally upon how I exist within and relate to systems of power, and of racism, especially as someone who is white. What will it mean to keep learning and showing up? How can we keep the painful unlearning of racism at the forefront of social change, and in our individual thoughts and actions?
Laura Neese
Where I live in Columbus, I often see and hear police helicopters circling the neighborhood. The number of phone calls, porch conversations, and zoom meetings they have interrupted is uncountable and the anxiety they produce is palpable. This summer during the height of the protests, their sound was almost constant. Several of my friends and colleagues have been seriously wounded by rubber bullets shot at close range and continue to experience unsettling health problems as a result of being sprayed in the face with pepper spray and tear gas. Between the escalating police violence and the pandemic, it hasn’t felt safe to march. During several small protest events, a friend and I talked about other ways to be involved from a safe(r) feeling distance. Since then, I’ve donated to bail funds and individuals, to national organizations like the ACLU, SPLC, and NAACP, and to local groups in Columbus like BQIC and SURJ, whose work is important and ongoing. I’m enacting antiracist pedagogy in my work and teaching, and I continue to do the work of unlearning and addressing my own biases and trying to help others do the same. But it still doesn’t feel like nearly enough. Individual effort isn’t enough on its own. We need to support our communities and advocate for changes like the creation of a civilian review board, the establishment of community-based resources and services that can do the social welfare work the police are unequipped to do, and dismantling the racism baked into institutions of education, law, housing, employment, health care, and so many others. I have faith in the work that’s being done, but we have much much more to do to make our neighborhoods truly safe and peaceful places to live.
Anonymous
On the first weekend after George Floyd’s murder, the Saturday protests in Columbus turned violent. I followed on news and social media and was disgusted by undue use of force by police against protesters from early in the morning through night. Representative Joyce Beatty was pepper sprayed, medics pepper sprayed at point blank range, an unarmed protestor punched in the face - it was hard to believe. It reminded me of documentary footage from the 60’s, the kind of protests I thought I’d never see in the US in my lifetime.
On Sunday morning I felt compelled to go downtown, fueled by a desire to show peaceful solidarity. I’ve never picketed or protested anything before. I was nervous about being in a large group of people and reticent to shout due to Covid-19, but mask on and sanitizer in hand - it felt important to bring my physical self to the space with others.
On the walk down High street through the short north to the Statehouse, I noticed groups and even families holding homemade signs emblazoned with “Black Lives Matter,” “ACAB,”, and “Say their names!” heading in the same direction. I noticed shops boarded up or in the process of boarding up in fear of riots. Some boards had messages of support for protestors scrawled across them, others signaling that the businesses were Black owned, women owned, Latino owned. There was a sense of trepidation coupled with support.
