On August 31, 2020 Dijon Kizzee was killed by the LA County Sheriff’s Department. He was approached by sheriff deputies for “bicycle code violations” and fled. He then dropped a jacket that had a gun in it. Then they shot him in the back. The number of shots has not been confirmed, but reports say that it was at least 15.
It all started with a “bike violation.”
They say he made a movement towards the gun. But if his back was facing them, how did they expect him to shoot them? They’ve given false statements before that were disproven. The right to gun ownership is a big thing in the country, except for Dijon. The truth is, when officers have a fear- and lethal-based attitude complete with racist (either implicit or non-implicit, either conscious or subconscious) beliefs, anything they see can be used as an excuse to kill someone. This is not right.
I went to the Black Lives Matter event in front of the Sheriff’s Station feeling nervous and preparing myself for an intense experience. Perhaps there would be clashes with the police, or worse. Perhaps I’d be arrested. I wasn’t entirely wrong. When I arrived a small army of sheriff deputies stood in front of the station suited in riot gear and armed with batons and some kind of rifles in hand. More deputies lined the roof. The parking lot in front of the station was barricaded off.
We started with libations, as we normally do, calling upon those who had been killed and who had been a part of this struggle before us. The generations of those who have suffered as a result of racism and the generations of those who have fought for equality go back and back. Never-ending. And they still continue. Even though I am white, and have experienced nothing to the degree of what these communities have, I hope those who struggled and fought so courageously continue in me, too.
We screamed and shouted “Black Lives Matter” and “No Justice No Peace” more times than we could count. Dijon’s family came and said some words. After all, the event was meant for them. They got up on the back of the event truck, centering around one family member who was an older woman. She did not speak and no one said who she was, but their reverence towards her hinted at her central place in the family. Some family members made jokes about Dijon and about how big of a meal he could eat. Others described what he was like. They raised up his presence to remind us that he is more than a hashtag or another dead black man.
A young woman took the microphone next. She said she was Dijon’s cousin and that she was really close with him. She sobbed and cried and screamed. Her anguish filled the space in such a palpable way. I felt it on my skin the way it feels humidity and sweat. The air was thick with tears and the complete shattering of souls. I hadn’t heard anyone wail or scream like she did. I felt like I could do nothing but continue shouting Dijon’s name with her.
Afterwards, we marched east down Imperial Highway. We blocked the road and the cars. We filled the air with our chants and our calls for justice and equality and democracy. Cars honked and made way for us. We kept on marching onto the 110 freeway, just north of where it meets the 105. We filled all the lanes and stared into the stopped oncoming traffic while holding a banner for Dijon Kizzee.
Eventually the police came. The LAPD helicopters circled us, swooping down low. Sirens joined our voices. The police began crowding and circling people in. Kendrick, the BLM spokesman, called to us through the speakers. He said, “This is the time, folks. If you don’t want to get arrested, I recommend leaving now. If you got priors, if you’re undocumented, if you got something you need to do, if you got kids waiting for you at home, we are telling you now with all clarity, that now is the time to go. If you don’t leave now, we can’t promise you won’t get arrested.”
At that moment it became real for me, and I saw that it became real for many of us. Many of us took a few steps back, but didn’t have the heart to leave. Should I stay or should I go? My mind pulled me one way, but my heart wanted me to stay where I was.
Dr. Melina Abdullah, the co-founder and fearless leader, took the microphone. She reminded us that we weren’t there just for the thrill of shutting down the freeway or to risk getting killed. “We have fucking demands.” She listed them and we listened. Then, as they close every Black Lives Matter event, they recited the chant of Assata Shakur.
Usually, the BLM Youth Vanguard members will recount and lead the chant. But this time they had all left the highway earlier for their safety. Melina asked if someone else knew it and could lead us in reciting it. A young man volunteered. He stuck his fist out, and so did the rest of us. All were silent. And then he spoke the chant. We repeated. It is said three times, the first time in a whisper. The last time in a shout.
“It is our duty to fight for our freedom.
It is our duty to win.
We must love each other and support each other.
We have nothing to lose but our chains.”
We whispered after him, mindful, still, and focused. The outside world was loud and chaotic. But this was our unifying call.
The young man began a second time.
“It is our duty to fight for our freedom!
We must love each other and support each other!
We have nothing to lose but our chains!”
Our voices were louder this time. Some of us began to weep. The sirens came closer. The helicopter swooped down lower. The shouts of the police and front lines of protestors heightened. People had gotten out of their cars on the overpasses and the on-ramp and the 110. They watched us. I could feel their eyes.
“IT IS OUR DUTY TO FIGHT FOR OUR FREEDOM!
WE MUST LOVE EACH OTHER AND SUPPORT EACH OTHER!
WE HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT OUR CHAINS!”
I felt consecrated. My soul felt in full solidarity with them. Emotions overwhelmed me to the point that my voice broke. I cried. My blood felt activated, not with hate or animosity. But with inspiration. With admiration. With humility. With love. It is something that I will never forget.
It is at this point that some of us left, following the calls of BLM leaders that if we didn’t want to be hurt or arrested, we should leave.
I took a few steps to walk off the freeway and then looked back. So many of the others decided to stay. I froze, caught in between the parting crowds. Those who stayed seemed so resolute, so determined, so courageous to stay and live what they believed. I did not want to leave them. I watched others go, but still I could not move. I met the eyes of another young woman who seemed just as undecided. Tears were running down her eyes and sliding underneath her mask.
Minutes passed and I still stood there, watching those who stayed behind to see if they were safe. I finally left with others. I knew BLM wouldn’t judge me, and I knew I did nothing wrong. I still wanted to stay anyway.
Some of us that left the freeway met on a nearby overpass to keep eye on those that stayed. We hung our hands on the chainlink fence separating us from the freeway below.
Then I heard someone’s voice calling us. It was a BLM leader, Janya the Future.
Future called to us, “Family! We’re having a gathering over here!”
Family. Is it white romanticism to say that I liked the way she called us that?
She pointed us to across the street, where Melina and her daughters were in the back of a truck. They gathered us together. We watched the others still on the freeway, and we stayed there til those on the freeway left and marched back to us, arrest- and injury-free, triumphant.
Together we all marched back from whence we came. Residents living in the houses on the side of the street came out and cheered for us. One of the youth vanguard leaders told them, “We’re here to protect you!” I remember the way Melina hugged Jo, another of the BLM leaders. They walked and hugged each other at the same time. We kept at it, screaming Dijon Kizzee’s name.
As I write this I recognize I titled this entry after Dijon Kizzee. But then I wrote a romantic telling of my own experience of a protest for him, an experience that is much more privileged and safe than his own. I don’t mean to equate his life with “this one time when I had a really cool experience and got to block the freeway.” I’m not saying something horrible as “Thanks to his death, I got to do this and feel this.”
It is at this event dedicated to him that, though in many ways I can never fully relate to his experience as a black man or to BLM as a black and brown community, I witnessed some of their anguish and pain. A part of me felt a prick of it, a brush of my heart against theirs. I say “brush” and a “prick” because I don’t want to pretend I can fathom it all.
But in addition to the pain felt there, I felt strength. Hope. Community. Bonds. Love. Kindness. Solidarity. And if I’m correctly understanding what his family said about him, those things were just as much a part of Dijon’s life as his pain and death.
