Shutting down NYC for Sean Bell

Disbelief and anger were overwhelming in New York after a judge let off the three cops who had shot 50 times, killing young African American Sean Bell and wounding two of his friends early on the morning of his planned wedding. On May 7, several thousand people, the majority Black workers, blocked tunnels and bridges into Manhattan in protest over the verdict. Sharon Black of the Troops Out Now Coalition was one of those arrested at the Triborough Bridge in Harlem, and wrote the following letter to her son. Dolores Cox and Andy Stapp (see quotes) were arrested at the Brooklyn Bridge.

Don’t worry about me. The action in Harlem was absolutely amazing.

Sharon Black handcuffed after group blocked Triborough Bridge. WW photo: Mike Eilenfeldt

The big business media will probably lie about the numbers. But I know for a fact that hundreds of people were involved in the Harlem protest—certainly well over 500 participated.

A sea of people stretched from the subway at 125^th Street to Third Avenue. You could tell that people were spontaneously joining right from the streets. One man looked at the signs I was carrying and asked, “Please, can I have one?” The sidewalks and streets were so packed it was hard to move.

Several people in electric wheelchairs fearlessly rode with the group. Children and young people, families and older workers all took part in the protest. Workers still in their hospital uniforms marched. Neighborhood participants brought homemade signs.

I had to run to catch up with people who appeared to be organizers with the National Action Network so I could sign up to participate in the civil disobedience. As you know, I’m so new to New York City that I didn’t know a single person—but things are the same pretty much in every city. Look for the person carrying the clipboard.

Sure enough, I met the coordinator—a dignified man, younger than myself, probably older than you—who shook my hand and took my information, including my Baltimore I.D. He made a special effort to both welcome me to Harlem and thank me for participating.

I can’t put it into words—maybe it was the sincerity of our exchange or something a little intangible—but it struck me at that moment how vitally important it was for white workers to show support for the Black community and to put themselves on the line on this issue.

Opposing racism is always important, but at a time when all of us are under such severe economic attack, it’s absolutely critical.

Later, in the jail itself, I was happy to see that a small but significant number of young white people had participated. Of course, we have to continue to try even harder—not only because it is the just and the right thing to do—but literally for working-class survival.

At 4 p.m. 150 people left the main group and began to march to the Triborough Bridge. About 40 of us broke down into three groups. This was done so quickly and smoothly that you would have believed we had rehearsed it hundreds of times.

Twelve in the group I was with ran to one end of the three main arteries of the bridge. We locked arms and stopped traffic. An MTA bus was idled in front of us—along with scores of cars. This happened at the other two arteries simultaneously.

We had done it—we had shut the bridge down!

We sat down and raised our fists in the power salute waiting for police to arrest us. Scores of police marched in step to waiting police wagons where other demonstrators had gathered, chanting in our support.

It was all exciting. Of course, once they get those overly tight plastic cuffs on you and push you into the police wagon, the real process starts. You begin to think, “What a drag—the best I can do is endure this with dignity.”

But this was different. The cops certainly had control of us—we were locked up and behind bars—but the magnitude of the action, the fact that the jail was filled with over 200 determined and conscious people, turned the tables a bit.

The fact that the Black working class had shut the city down, even if for a brief time, created a sense of empowerment and accomplishment even behind the walls of the jail.

Of course, that didn’t stop all the games that cops play. They took the arrestees from Harlem to the wrong police precinct—took us out of the wagons—put us back in—and then drove around in circles. This delayed the process and extended the pain of being handcuffed.

But the courage of the women I was jailed with made up for these inconveniences.

One was a construction worker. She had gone to work at 5 in the morning; when she got off, she went directly to the demonstration. She spontaneously decided to be arrested, despite the fact that she might jeopardize her job. She explained that she had two sons and she worried that both could become Sean Bells.

A 68-year-old grandmother was so proud of her daughter. Pointing to her Spellman College tee shirt, she explained that her daughter had graduated from that famous Black school and had moved to Queens after her own wedding a month after the police gunned down Bell. Her daughter’s fiancé could have been Sean Bell, she explained.

Later in the wee hours, I spent time joking with a 19-year-old technical college student. She had to take finals the next day and was worried that she was soon going to miss the last train back to New Jersey. Together we did push-ups to break the boredom. She was so proud and happy that she had come.

Perhaps the person with the most to lose was a quiet older woman who had major health problems. Both her legs were badly swollen and she explained to me that she had massive arthritis. Because of back pain, she could barely move. She was one of the organizers of the march—who had attended meetings since the beginning.

Her health problems hadn’t stopped her, any more than the young deaf woman who linked arms with me at the foot of the bridge.

I’m now out of jail—but I’m still high on “the power of the people.”

The organization and precision of what took place in Harlem, and seeing what was possible, even briefly, proves the power that the workers have. Manhattan is, after all, an island connected by bridges and tunnels. That in and of itself should humble the powers that be.

Love, Mom