You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Protesters walking through the city, threatening to shut down the interstate, again.
It’s 8:30 on a Friday night and a group of 75 protesters is marching across Nashville.
It was an orchestrated event. The police were prepared. The protesters were organized. The media was informed.
But once it started to happen LIVE it was like Civics Russian roulette.
Spin the barrel. Put a protest to your temple. Pull the trigger. Hope to God nothing bad happens.
I’m not involved in the protest, yet. I’m working on another story, editing, secluded in my cubby hole.
But I can hear the intensity escalating all around me.
I’m listening to it on the scanner. I’m listening to it through the producers communicating with the crews in the field. I’m looking at it via newsroom feeds that include live shots and TDOT cameras.
The scanner is belching angst.
Police officers are shouting instructions as the group moves through the city, through intersections, across frosty streets.
Police officers are moving ahead of the protest group, closing down intersections and making sure that the marchers are safe.
“Here they come. Keep them off the ramp. Shut it down!,” a police officer yells.
There’s a sense of angst in the newsroom.
There’s a sense of angst on the scanner.
There appears to be a sense of angst in the street.
The protest started peacefully. But the masses are moving, a mechanism with many moving parts, not all of which are controllable, predictable.
“No justice no peace”
It’s a catchy slogan that sounds good when you shout it, but it tests the nerves of the establishment, it pushes the boundaries of calm, it infringes upon those who have done nothing wrong.
No Justice, No peace. The 1st amendment barrel is raised to the city’s collective temple. The gun is poised, ready to explode.
Will someone pull the trigger? Might everyone, pull the trigger? What will it look like when a peaceful march blows apart in a bloody battle that has the potential to plaster Nashville across the national spectrum.
According to the protester’s Facebook page, Hundreds of people were scheduled to march. But our reporter on the scene says the crowd is less than 100.
Still they are dedicated and moving and unpredictable.
“Close down Broadway,” a cop screams over the scanner.
News people are gathered around the main monitor in the news room.
“If they close down the interstate, I say let a truck run em over,” someone yells from the newsroom.
“They’re laying down at 4th and Demonbreun!” an anonymous police office bellows through the scanner.
“Oh Crap,” someone in the newsroom groans.
The conversation is lively, unscripted, emotions are raw.
“They have the right to protest peacefully,” a colleagues says. “But do they have the right to lay down in the interstate and shut down a major artery?”
“No,” someone shouts.
“That violates my rights!”
“What if someone is having a heart attack and an ambulance can’t get through?” someone else barks.
“What if we didn’t cover it at all?” I ask.
“We have to cover it,” comes the response.
“It’s an event. It’s happening. It’s news.”
“Just wondering If we didn’t go. would they protest as hard. If we didn’t cover it, would they protest next time?”
“Social media would broadcast it anyway.”
“Not the same thing,” someone says.
“It’s way bigger,” someone counters.
And so it goes.
We are a Friday night skeleton crew. We have two reporters and only one photographer who has been baby sitting these protesters since 6:30 pm. The poor guy is marching with them, a camera on his shoulder. He has walked several miles in the cold, alone, documenting the event, reporting back to us. He is our roving lighthouse, letting us know what the mood is moment by moment.
Now we are all being held hostage by a bunch of people who might obey the law. We are changing what we do to cover people who have the right to exercise their freedom of speech, but at what cost, at whose expense?
Nashville cops are handing the protesters hot chocolate.
It’s a nice P.R. move.
Many cops will tell me they hate it.
“We’re not the damn girl scouts,” one cop will tell me.
Metro Police were both lauded and criticized 2 weeks ago for letting protesters leave with a warning after they laid down on I-24, shutting the interstate down 2 weeks ago.
If you laid down on the interstate, chances are you would die. If you didn’t die, you would be arrested in a heartbeat.
But in light of recent world events; Everyone is on pins and needles.
The gun is pointed at the city’s temple, and nobody wants to make a sudden move.
“Hands up don’t shoot.”
“Hands down get a job.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Black lives matter.”
All lives matter.
Freedom matters.
“If they turn down the ramp, don’t let them go. They will shut down the interstate,” a cop frantically yells.
The news room air is fluid, electric.
“They are shutting down the interstate.”
I get in my car and drive toward the protest.
I criss cross over the interstate several times.
Cars are flowing.
I get to 12th and Demonbreun and I see a phalanx of blue lights. It looks like a tornado of color ripping through a dark winter sky.
The interstate is slow, but open.
The marchers are near the ramp, but not on the highway.
The moment is tense, but legal.
This is the delicate balance of freedom. Tension surrounded by rights wrapped in hope.
I climb over the guard rail and work my way to the fence that separates the highway. I pull out my camera and begin to record.
“It’s 9:55. This is the scene around I-40 West. A bevy of police cars is moving slowly as protesters walk down Demonbreun toward lower broad.”
I post the :29 video to Facebook and get back in my car.
It’s Friday night. I pull onto I-65 South and watch as the blue lights disappear around the bend.
I’m heading home, to a beer and a weekend where protesters don’t have a gun to my head.
Thank God for freedom.
Thank God nobody pulled the trigger on this pins and needles night.
Life’s Crazy™