FERGUSON, mo. — Before this summer, few outside St. Louis County knew that Ferguson existed. That changed Aug. 9, when white police Officer Darren Wilson fatally shot Michael Brown, an unarmed black man. Today, angry protesters from New York City to Berkeley, Calif., carry signs declaring, “Ferguson Is Everywhere.”
To many, the name has become a byword for racial injustice, for what’s wrong with America.
“I mean, here’s my little town, and now we’re the focus of the world almost,” said Kenneth Wheat. “It’s almost like we’re set up as a model now, (of) how a community can get through something like this.”
It’s a heavy burden to place on a town of 21,000 residents. Former Mayor Brian Fletcher chooses to view it as an opportunity to determine what “our legacy truly becomes from this point forward.”
As city officials debate reforms and business owners decide whether to rebuild torched shops, a governor’s commission is studying “the underlying social and economic conditions underscored by the unrest” after Brown’s death and a grand jury’s subsequent decision not to indict Wilson.
Meanwhile, many are waiting to see whether federal officials will pursue civil rights charges in the case. “No justice, no peace,” the protesters shout. But “justice” means different things to different groups.
For the people of Ferguson, controlling their own narrative might prove one of the most difficult tasks of all.
Unfelt tension
For many of the volunteers at the I Love Ferguson store across from police headquarters, the violence that followed Brown’s shooting and the Nov. 24 announcement that Wilson would not be charged seemed to come out of nowhere.
During his two terms as mayor, Fletcher — who helped launch the I Love Ferguson Committee this summer — said he received complaints about potholes and barking dogs. But nothing of a racial nature.
“So the part about how some people said this has been brewing for decades was surprising a little bit,” said Fletcher, who is white. “Because I never heard from any of the African-American elected officials that there were issues. If there had been something, they neglected in telling me that there was an issue.”
But across town at the Canfield Green Apartments, the disaffection and anger are palpable. The population of Ferguson is nearly 70 percent black. But at the time of Brown’s death, only three of the city’s 53 police officers were black.
Like many in the black community, Anthony Cage, 48, is convinced that police and firefighters allowed “the hood” parts of Ferguson to burn so they could justify bringing in the National Guard, “occupying us. Treating us like we were Russians or Cubans or somewhat, invading America.”
Kenneth Wheat isn’t saying there is no racial tension in Ferguson — only that he had never felt it.
“To be actually honest with you, I didn’t think there was much wrong to begin with,” says the 47-year-old black father, who works as a banquet captain at a luxury hotel in St. Louis.
If anything was wrong with Ferguson, he said, it’s that the black community was not engaged enough.
After the rampage, Wheat came out with buckets of nails to help board up looted businesses. Most days, he or his 10-year-old son, Christopher, can be found at the I Love Ferguson store, making buttons or packing yard signs, coffee mugs and magnets for shipment.
“To me, it’s all about getting out of your comfort zone — getting out and just getting involved,” he said as Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas” over the store speakers. “And you might be the only person there of your race. But if you’re there to help better your community, it shouldn’t matter.”
Bumpy path forward
In mid-November, Gov. Jay Nixon appointed a 16-member commission to study the “underlying social and economic conditions” that led to the unrest and to “help chart a new path toward healing and positive change.”
“However,” its mission statement continues, “as these challenges are not unique to our region, the commission looks to serve as a role model and offer best practices to communities across the country.”
But if the first meetings of the so-called Ferguson Commission are any indication, that path forward is a bumpy one.
At a recent meeting, the commission had invited St. Louis Police Chief Sam Dotson to speak about efforts to curb bias, excessive force and racial profiling within the ranks. Dotson declared that most police officers believe in the “noble cause” and that it is a few bad actors who “taint the pool for all of us.”
“What happened in Ferguson in August is writing a narrative,” he said. “And the Ferguson Commission has the opportunity to finish that narrative. We want that narrative to be a positive one that moves our region forward.”
But several minutes into his address, the meeting dissolved into chaos. Expletive-laced shouts of “liar” drowned out the chief. People stood and turned their backs on him.
Dotson sought to assure the crowd that his department had an overarching “reverence for human life” and that its goals were “protection of the innocent, pursuit of peaceful society, along with the prohibitions against bias, malice and excessive force.”
Three men wearing the now familiar Guy Fawkes masks of the Anonymous movement stood and began chanting, “Hands up! Don’t shoot!” The refrain soon morphed into “No justice, no peace,” punctuated by more cursing and “Shut it down!”
Police officers calmly clustered near Dotson, but were careful not to intervene. The chief never recovered and quietly walked away.
Rebuilding
“It’s frustrating, having grown up here and understanding what Ferguson as a city is really all about, and what the community and the people have been about,” said Mayor James W. Knowles III, who was elected in 2011 with 49 percent of the vote. “It’s disheartening to see Ferguson being raised to a symbol.”
When he asks residents why they’re demonstrating, Knowles said, “A lot of times, it has nothing to do with things that we can address in the city of Ferguson.”
It’s a refrain heard over and over around town: The worst of the rioting and damage was the work of outsiders.
True, only a dozen of the more than 200 people arrested in connection with the unrest live in Ferguson proper. But according to a list compiled by St. Louis County’s Department of Justice services, more than 80 percent were from nearby communities.
None of that makes a lick of difference to Juanita Morris.
Up until Nov. 24, Juanita’s Fashions R Boutique was a thriving business, the hot pink store on West Florissant Avenue promising “Upscale Designer Women’s Clothing, Sizes 6-32.” By dawn the next day, it was a smoldering shell.
Surveying the damage on a recent bitterly cold morning, the black woman pointed to the places where her office and alteration shop once stood. Aside from a sequined hair clip and a remnant of cerulean fabric, there was little recognizable.
The day after the riots, Morris launched a crowdfunding website. More than $22,000 in donations have poured in from around the country. Morris plans to rebuild on the same spot.
“When you’ve been beaten to the ground, you can’t do nothing but come up,” she says. “One brick at a time, one dress at a time … I will rise.”
