George Floyd protests reach even small cities as America confronts systemic racism

As America took to the streets to protest George Floyd's killing and police brutality nationwide, smaller U.S. cities started their own conversations with no less life-and-death urgency than in Minneapolis or Detroit.

These may be calm, silent, tumultuous or contentious conversations outside major metros, but they all share something in common: Black Americans who say conditions have not been and are no longer tenable for everyday living.

How will things improve? Beyond the endless, sleepless national chyron and the drumbeat of Los Angeles and New York City alerts, smaller cities like Savannah, Georgia; Erie, Pennsylvania; and Greenville, South Carolina, are grappling with existential questions.

Where racism is blanketed by the relative calm of a quieter way of life, how does the urgent need for equality find a voice? Who will listen to it and how will people's lives truly change? And what does protesting look like near and far, when a sudden seismic upheaval sends tremors throughout an entire nation?

USA TODAY Network journalists in towns across the country spoke to citizens from May 31 to June 3 at protests and community centers to better understand the situation on the ground. Here's what we heard:

Map of protests across the United States

GREENVILLE, South Carolina

Eric Connor, Greenville News

The line between peace and violence is in the smallest decisions that human beings make in the heat of the moment.

Taurice Bussey and Nikki Bowdoin found themselves in such a moment — human beings on either side of the battle lines drawn in the streets of downtown Greenville as the Sunday sun began to set on a contentious weekend of protest.

One a self-made small-business owner who thinks he had an easier time as a light-skinned black man.

The other a public servant and former high school basketball player who one season was the only white player on her team.

On this day on opposite sides of the line.

Greenville isn’t accustomed to mass civil unrest. This is a town regularly featured in the Top 10-best-you-name-the-accolade magazine lists, where protest more or less is a scheduled event to be managed as diners enjoy their meals uninterrupted along the sidewalk.

This, however, couldn’t be scripted.

Taurice Bussey, an activist based in Greenville, S.C., poses for a portrait downtown, where numerous demonstrations occurred in the wake of George Floyd's death in Minneapolis June 4, 2020.
Taurice Bussey, an activist based in Greenville, S.C., poses for a portrait downtown, where numerous demonstrations occurred in the wake of George Floyd's death in Minneapolis June 4, 2020.

A white man, seated on the overhead patio of a fancy downtown restaurant overlooking the crowd of protesters that had begun to thin, spit on a black man.

Bussey and Bowdoin found themselves in a moment. One where one wrong move — a water bottle thrown or a sharp word — could ignite kindling into a wildfire. Or one right gesture could deprive it of fuel.

Bussey, a black protester who says he enjoys an unfair privilege because he’s light-skinned and without effort presents a natural so-called “non-threatening demeanor.”

Bowdoin, a police investigator with 11 years on the force who two years ago made headlines when she was attacked by a man who broke her jaw, requiring extensive surgery.

“Please, will someone hold a Black Lives Matter sign? Show us you care?” Bussey asked the line of police using their shoulder-to-shoulder bodies and bicycles as a human barrier.

A moment.

It took Bowdoin a few moments to seize this particular one.

Greenville police S.N. Bowdoin, right, holds a "No Justice No Peace" sign protester Taurice Bussey, left, gave her during a protest remembering George Floyd at Falls Park in Greenville Sunday, May  31, 2020.
Greenville police S.N. Bowdoin, right, holds a "No Justice No Peace" sign protester Taurice Bussey, left, gave her during a protest remembering George Floyd at Falls Park in Greenville Sunday, May 31, 2020.

Then she stretched out her hand and, looking ahead with the blank stare officers are trained to keep to maintain a presence of neutrality in protests, held the sign at waist level.

The crowd and news media took pictures. People cheered. Then Bussey and other protesters said, “They did their part. Now it’s time for us to do ours. Step back.”

At that moment, two sides took a step toward common ground.

“In that moment, I was looking for a sign that our city and county officers knew what our message meant — that we were looking for true change,” Bussey said.

Deep within the pleas and demands was an intimate, visceral culmination of years of frustration poured out in anger and sadness all at once.

Bowdoin saw it.

“The people whose eyes I was looking into were pleading their hearts out,” Bowdoin told USA TODAY in an interview. “It touched my heart, and I wanted them to know. I wanted them to know, ‘Hey, we’re not against you. We’re not against what you’re standing for and what you’re here for.’”

However, as with most everything involved in the protests erupting every day across the country, the matter isn’t simple.

The crowd ended up passing through and onto the next police line at Augusta Street, which throughout the weekend served as flashpoints of protest.

They marched, in one form or another, into the night.

And the moment was only one of many.

“I would say it’s a start,” Bussey said. “It’s a gesture. ... While other police officers refused to take the sign, while they would just kind of stare me in the face and not acknowledge me, she took the time.”

But the police line blocking the protesters was inappropriate, he said — a matter of controlling rather than protecting.

Bussey, a 25-year-old University of South Carolina graduate, grew up poor and black. But as a protester, he said he brings the advantage of being educated and from a two-parent household that supported him through college. Now he owns his own business in financial services and real estate investment.

Unlike his brother and friends, his interactions with police have been mostly positive.

“I’m not a victim of unfair assumptions about my character, about my level of aggression or level of threat,” he said. “I’m not initially looked at as a threat just because of who I am, because of my demeanor and how I carry myself. That’s not to say that they are justified in looking at other taller, larger, darker-skinned black men as a threat, because they actually are not.

“That’s a privilege,” he said, “that I have no control over.”

Protesters take a knee and pause for a moment of silence on Main Street in downtown Greenville during a protest of the death of George Floyd, Sunday, May 31, 2020.
Protesters take a knee and pause for a moment of silence on Main Street in downtown Greenville during a protest of the death of George Floyd, Sunday, May 31, 2020.

For Bowdoin, the gesture pointed to something deep within her.

At Berea High, Bowdoin was a rare white girl who didn’t flee to private school. People of color were her friends. She’s a godparent to two mixed-race children.

She said she’s aware of the cliche of saying, “That’s just who I am.” But she said it’s true — not just for her, but for the colleagues she knows among the police department’s force of more than 200.

In the end, Bussey said what will come of the moment and many others that will happen in the coming days and weeks depends on action.

“It’s not just about race,” he said. “A huge part of it is a power issue and an ego issue. Police officers have been allowed to act with largely unchecked power. They have harassed people they feel don’t have power to hold them accountable.”

The way forward will require fundamental, systemic change, he said.

SPARTANBURG, South Carolina

Dustin Wyatt, Spartanburg Herald-Journal

A group of peaceful protesters marched around the Spartanburg downtown area and to Barnet Park on Sunday.
A group of peaceful protesters marched around the Spartanburg downtown area and to Barnet Park on Sunday.

During a peaceful protest in Spartanburg, a white man confronted a crowd of black men about the “Black Lives Matter” sign they were holding. “It should say ‘All Lives Matter!’”

The Rev. Joseph Parks happened to be nearby and stepped in. “All of my bones matter. But if my wrist is broken, the only bone that matters at that moment is the one that’s broken.”

The exchange ended in an embrace, even though they disagreed. “It was a person who had a different thought. I understand and respect that,” Parks said. He referred to Proverbs 4:7, “In all thy getting, get understanding.”

STAUNTON, Virginia

Jeff Schwaner and Patrick Hite, The News Leader

The police presence at the silent march is Lt. C.R. Kauffman.

He spends about an hour directing traffic at the corner so marchers can safely cross on their way down the hill to the Augusta County Courthouse.

“Just doing my job,” he says, and then jogs out ahead of another wave of walkers carrying signs saying BLACK LIVES MATTER. From the northeast corner of the intersection, the lone cop facilitating a march of hundreds protesting police brutality is framed by a giant mural of two cardinals holding a banner aloft reading “You Belong Here.”

That’s Staunton.

The silent march that has traveled over a mile from Gypsy Hill Park is emblematic of the quieter corners of our country where it’s been years since a cop shot another human being. Where the only police presence days earlier at a vocal rally at the courthouse was a press release from Chief of Police Jim Williams excoriating the police behavior that killed George Floyd in Minneapolis and pledging that it would not happen here.

Behind every officer’s decision to not engage in violence is a mix of conscience telling them what not to do and hundreds of hours of training giving them options for what they should do. Likewise, years of experience are behind the decision of citizens to take up with their fellow residents and march in a peaceful town that until last year still had its high school named after Confederate general Robert E. Lee.

Ciara Brown and Meghan Conner organized a silent march in downtown Staunton to protest racial injustice Tuesday, June 2.
Ciara Brown and Meghan Conner organized a silent march in downtown Staunton to protest racial injustice Tuesday, June 2.

Ciara Brown was a cheerleader at Lee. She felt strange wearing a uniform with the name of a Confederate general. Her mom is white and her dad is black. Brown is dark-skinned. When she was 8, her mom went into a local store with her to buy cigarettes.

The cashier wouldn’t sell them to her, telling Brown’s mom that the little black girl with her wasn’t her child. Brown remembers telling the cashier that the woman was her mom, but they wouldn’t believe her. The Browns eventually left, without cigarettes.

Later that night, Brown's mother talked to her. “Before anyone even gets to know who you are, they’ll judge you by your skin color,” her mother told her. “I’m sorry you’re going to have to face that.”

After a silent march in downtown Staunton Tuesday, June 2, protesters gather on the bandstand in Gypsy Hill Park.
After a silent march in downtown Staunton Tuesday, June 2, protesters gather on the bandstand in Gypsy Hill Park.

Experiencing those types of incidents made Brown want to make a change and be part of a solution. “Be a part of something way bigger than myself,” she says on the day of the march.

Participants meet at the park’s bandstand. A handful, then a dozen, then several dozen, finally well over a hundred walk in from various parts of a park full of shade and trees.

The soundtrack to the silent march begins with markers squeaking against posterboard. Then of shoes on the sidewalks underneath the lush June foliage of Thornrose Avenue. A few cars and a bus honk their approval. One woman slows her car down and shouts, “Stand up for your rights! Yeah! Stand up!”

As they walk in a flat part of town, Trasonya Crawford remembers the once-thriving black business district that was razed in the 1960s for downtown “progress.” Later she will have to sit down with her daughter, 9, and speak frankly, just as Brown’s mother did, about the things you don’t always see.

“I never taught her color,” Traysonya Crawford of Staunton, Virginia, said. “I teach her to love people for who they are. But I do teach her history.” Crawford and her daughter Adrian were at a silent march after George Floyd's killing.
“I never taught her color,” Traysonya Crawford of Staunton, Virginia, said. “I teach her to love people for who they are. But I do teach her history.” Crawford and her daughter Adrian were at a silent march after George Floyd's killing.

“I never taught her color,” Crawford said. “I teach her to love people for who they are. But I do teach her history.”

Christa Gleaves stands on an elevated stage, looking out at the crowd that had just finished an almost 2-mile journey. Gleaves tells those gathered her own story, of how she didn’t even recognize some of the racism inherent here until she left for college. She’s proud the name of her school was changed to Staunton High School.

“In Staunton we don’t experience it as much,” she said. “It’s easy to be in this place where there’s a lot of peace and we can ignore the underlying systems of racism.”

She remembers being called the N-word while delivering food to a white fraternity at the University of Virginia, where she has been studying and will graduate in December with a degree in African American studies.

K.I.A.S., also known as Christa Gleaves, spoke to the protesters in Gypsy Hill Park Tuesday, June 2. following a silent march through downtown Staunton.
K.I.A.S., also known as Christa Gleaves, spoke to the protesters in Gypsy Hill Park Tuesday, June 2. following a silent march through downtown Staunton.

Seeing racism firsthand changed her. “It ignites a flame inside of you that makes you want to fight no matter where you are,” she said.

She wants those who have lived their entire lives in Staunton to understand that flame.

Outside it’s still hot, but nothing’s burning in the city. No windows broken by angry crowds; the only serial looting has been by a white man taking advantage of the emptied streets in a pandemic and not during protests, and he’s in the local jail these days.

The lone law enforcement officer has long since gone home or moved on to another assignment.

As the marchers disperse, there’s a sense that something’s been accomplished. A TV crew swoops in for a few summary soundbites, but that won’t be found here. There’s something deeper, beneath the level of easy words, in each person. Something that is still walking.

SHELBY, North Carolina

Diane Turbyfill, Shelby Star

The Rev. Billy Houze speaks to a group of protesters that assembled Sunday.
The Rev. Billy Houze speaks to a group of protesters that assembled Sunday.

A small group of women made signs and assembled in uptown Shelby. Their protest against racial injustice was met by honks, waves and words of encouragement. That one-day gathering inspired another and yet another.

The Rev. Billy Houze used a megaphone to make his voice heard. He spoke highly of those who chose to protest with the right message. “I’m glad in Shelby we don’t have to burn down a building. We don’t have to throw rocks to people who worked so hard to build an economy,” he said.

ERIE, Pennsylvania

Ed Palattella, Erie-Times News

Daryl Craig reformed his life and then spread hope in Erie, Pennsylvania.

The former gang member, originally from Buffalo, New York, is known for his extensive anti-violence efforts. Despite the rioting that broke out in Erie’s downtown May 30, when more than 100 protesters surged in after a peaceful demonstration and smashed glass and set fires at 16 businesses, Craig remains optimistic that progress will flourish.

Before the rioting, Craig thought this industrial city of 95,508 that sits on Lake Erie in northwestern Pennsylvania was headed in the right direction.

Known as “Brother D,” the 64-year-old activist coordinates the Blue Coats, a volunteer group that works to bolster school safety and mediate disputes between students.

Daryl Craig, far right, is part of an Erie School District door-to-door team back on July 11, 2019.
Daryl Craig, far right, is part of an Erie School District door-to-door team back on July 11, 2019.

“It is a small town,” Craig said. “Everybody knows everybody.”

Cops went to school with people who stayed in town and built lives. They all played on the same football team in high school. “I think that gives us an advantage. There is already some sort of framework for a relationship, if not already a relationship,” Craig said.

But being a smaller city, he said, can also work against Erie and its minority community.

Erie’s overall poverty rate of 26% is a major issue, especially among the minority community. The city has an overall nonwhite population of 27%, including a black population of 17%.

The city and nonprofits have launched anti-poverty and anti-violence efforts as Erie tries to move beyond its Rust Belt image, investing in a multimillion-dollar redevelopment of its downtown — including the area that was damaged in the riot. Craig said he appreciates what led to the rioting. He described a community already weary and on edge because of the pandemic and social distancing.

“People are stuck in their homes,” Craig said. “And then you sit here and you are impacted yet again — another African American loses their life for being African American.”

Gary Horton, 68, president of the Urban Erie Community Development Corp., is part of a group that wants to develop one of the poorest neighborhoods in Erie, Pennsylvania, into a health and wellness center, an urban farming facility and a solar panel network on the 25-acre Savocchio Park property.
Gary Horton, 68, president of the Urban Erie Community Development Corp., is part of a group that wants to develop one of the poorest neighborhoods in Erie, Pennsylvania, into a health and wellness center, an urban farming facility and a solar panel network on the 25-acre Savocchio Park property.

Gary Horton, president of the Erie NAACP chapter, said he’d been concerned about the level of organization for the peaceful protest, which an Erie resident, a white woman, put together through a Facebook post. He believes the rioting grew out of national and local concerns, including a lack of opportunities for black people.

Erie, he said, can help black residents by establishing a community college. He also said Erie needs to build on inclusion, focusing on the concerns of young people in particular.

But any initiative, he said, must be multi-layered. And it must involve more than the police. “Too many people leave it for the police to solve,” Horton said. “It is not fair to them. All the expectation is not on them to make black people’s lives better.”

ROCHESTER, New York

William Cleveland, Rochester Democrat and Chronicle

Iman Abid didn’t know what to expect. But when she looked out over the thousands gathered in Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Park in downtown Rochester, she was speechless. And then she delivered impassioned instructions she hoped protesters would follow to protect their own if police intervened.

Abid, 28, was one of the four organizers behind Rochester’s Black Lives Matter, Don’t Shoot Us! rally to recognize police brutality and call for meaningful change. The rally drew thousands downtown May 30.

Abid, who is executive director of the Genesee Valley chapter of the New York Civil Liberties Union, organized the rally with three friends.

Iman Abid was one of the organizers of the Black Lives Matter rally through downtown Rochester on Saturday, May 30.
Iman Abid was one of the organizers of the Black Lives Matter rally through downtown Rochester on Saturday, May 30.

Ask her a question and you’ll get a passionate and rapid response. “I was so overwhelmed by the amount of people who turned out,” Abid said. “I didn’t know what we would see. I know there were large turnouts all over the country but I definitely had no idea what to expect here.”

The rally plan was hatched 24 hours before the gathering, and word was spread through social media, including a Facebook event page that boasted 5,000 interested Rochester-area residents.

“Most Americans are under stress right now, especially as we think about a lot of the conversations we’re having around the pandemic and racial disparities,” she said. “As we have yet another instance of police brutality that we’ve known historically has impacted black and brown people, this was another stress ...

“For those of us who have never felt the impact of police brutality, we felt something after watching that (Floyd) video or hearing the cries of his family.”

Several thousand protesters march on Court Street in downtown Rochester to the Public Safety Building and police headquarters, during a Black Lives Matter rally.
Several thousand protesters march on Court Street in downtown Rochester to the Public Safety Building and police headquarters, during a Black Lives Matter rally.

Once the speakers wrapped up, thousands began a march from the park. They crossed the Genesee River to the Rochester Police Department Public Safety Building.

Police didn’t intervene. Officers closed down streets to allow protesters to pass. It wasn’t until some men, mostly white, ended up on top of a police patrol vehicle and the windshield was smashed that the peaceful demonstration devolved into chaos. Several police vehicles and city-owned cars were burned, some were flipped over. More than 80 businesses were damaged and looted. A countywide curfew was enacted.

A protester stands face to face with the Rochester police outside the City Public Safety Building during a Blackout Lives Matter rally in downtown Rochester.
A protester stands face to face with the Rochester police outside the City Public Safety Building during a Blackout Lives Matter rally in downtown Rochester.

City and county officials tried to separate the nonviolent protest from the chaotic aftermath. They blamed outsiders for the unrest. But Abid and organizers disavowed that narrative. The first batch of arrests showed this. Of the 15 people arrested so far, 13 are from Rochester and two are from neighboring suburbs.

Instead, organizers said police aggression was responsible for the resulting chaos and violence. The only outside agitators were the police, Abid said. “Police brutality is not an issue that’s unique to Minneapolis. It exists in every single municipality in this country. This was a system that was created to perpetuate the institution of slavery. It was never intended to protect black lives.”

So Abid doesn't stop at incremental ideas. She has called for the police to be defunded.

EVANSVILLE, Indiana

John Martin, Evansville Courier & Press

For Amira Donahue and the hundreds of others who marched in Evansville against racial injustice, George Floyd’s death felt like the last straw. The high school senior was 9 when she saw news coverage of Trayvon Martin’s death.

“Then it was Sandra Bland, then it was Tamir Rice, and over and over, seeing more people killed,” Donahue said. “Like, I was scared. I have brothers, I have uncles, I have a dad. It was like, 'Who’s next?'”

Donahue joined the May 30 protest because of her own painful experience with racism as well.

While working in February as a hostess at Evansville’s Olive Garden, a customer requested a white server instead of the server already assigned to the table. Both Donahue and the server were black.

Amira Donahue, 16, is a former Olive Garden employee who made national news when a customer singled her out during an incident of racial discrimination on Feb 29, 2020.
Amira Donahue, 16, is a former Olive Garden employee who made national news when a customer singled her out during an incident of racial discrimination on Feb 29, 2020.

“This lady said I looked like I should work at a strip club, and I’m 16 and in my work uniform,” Donahue said.

The Olive Garden manager on duty complied with the customer’s request for a different server. That manager no longer works for Olive Garden, the company said.

But for Donahue, the damage was done.

“I’m tired of it.” Speaking about Floyd’s death, she said, “If it wasn’t recorded or posted, nothing would have come from it. It would have been swept under the rug. I’m tired of that also.”

Protesters in Evansville, including many white people, said societal inequities are inexcusable – but they keep happening.

Evansville City Council President Alex Burton noted the city's highest concentration of COVID-19 cases are in a lower-income ZIP code, but no neighborhood-level testing for the virus has been available there.

Just under 10% of Vanderburgh County residents are black, yet 27% of local residents who have tested positive for COVID-19 are black.

“That is a perfect example as to the frustration so many people have,” said Burton, who is black.

Evansville in recent years has promoted an inclusive-sounding motto for itself, "E is for Everyone."

For the motto to ring true, Burton said, the city must deal with inequities in issues such as housing and economic opportunity for minority communities.

People gather for an anti-violence rally at the Four Freedoms Monument in Downtown Evansville, Ind., Saturday, May 30, 2020.
People gather for an anti-violence rally at the Four Freedoms Monument in Downtown Evansville, Ind., Saturday, May 30, 2020.

About 500 people attended Saturday’s protest march. The noon event remained peaceful until the early evening hours, when one juvenile and three adults were arrested after confrontations with officers.

One of the Evansville Police Department officers watching over the event was Mario Reid, who is black. He stood and listened as the crowd protested Floyd’s death and injustices real or perceived.

“Some things they were yelling, I agreed with,” said Reid, who joined the department in 2014. “George Floyd was killed by police officers not acting according to their oath or by any training I’ve ever had. Everybody out there (at the protest) was hurting.”

Evansville Police Department officer Mario Reid on Thursday afternoon, June 4, 2020.
Evansville Police Department officer Mario Reid on Thursday afternoon, June 4, 2020.

Reid said he understands protesters. He said he also understands the hurt of an officer in a situation where circumstances legitimately call for the use of deadly force. He killed a man in October who, after crashing a car, refused Reid’s command to show his hands and approached him aggressively with an object Reid thought was a gun. It turned out to be a hammer.

Reid returned to work after an internal investigation found he acted in a "legal, justified and reasonable manner."

Protesters gather in a group as they chant “Unity is power” off Carpenter Street in Downtown Evansville, Ind., Wednesday afternoon, June 3, 2020.
Protesters gather in a group as they chant “Unity is power” off Carpenter Street in Downtown Evansville, Ind., Wednesday afternoon, June 3, 2020.

“When you ask me to stand between society and those who would do harm, it’s not always safe. … A part of me died that day. It is hard every day, but the reason I continue is I’ve got a wife and kids and other family and friends, and I’m going to be the one to make sure they are safe by continuing to do this job.”

Reid said he had some positive exchanges with peaceful protesters Saturday. He encouraged those who are angered over Floyd’s death or societal injustice to take additional steps.

“I want us to petition the government and for grievances to be heard, but we can’t just talk about the grievances. We have to take that next step. I challenge people in the community who want to organize and do those things to come together so we can come up with solutions. … We can build a better community together, but a partnership goes two ways.”

ITHACA, New York

Matthew Steecker, Ithaca Journal

Hundreds of protesters march down a street in Ithaca, N.Y., as part of the March 4 Floyd, a peaceful protest against police brutality and systematic oppression on Wednesday, June 3, 2020.
Hundreds of protesters march down a street in Ithaca, N.Y., as part of the March 4 Floyd, a peaceful protest against police brutality and systematic oppression on Wednesday, June 3, 2020.

Hundreds of members of the Cornell University community marched from campus to the Ithaca Commons and the police department, a continuation of protests in Ithaca.

Others promised protest would be a weekly occurrence in Tompkins County.

“George Floyd became the catalyst because of the egregiousness of his death, the blatant disregard of life and the confidence of the police who murdered him, and the system they are a part of that supports that act,” said Onyinyechukwu Nnodum, a member of Black Students United.

STOCKTON, California

Scott Linesburgh, The Stockton Record

Alayssia Townsell, a 19-year-old Stockton native and UCLA freshman, says lasting change will require more than a large gathering and chants for justice. The real battle is about ideas and actual reforms that can prevent tragedies like George Floyd’s death and so many others before.

“There’s always room for change if you have enough people advocating for it,” Townsell said after protests that drew 1,000 people. “It’s difficult. But I think it’s possible and you have to try.”

Protest organizers are advocating for widespread measures, including the addition of ethnic studies in the curriculum of schools, removal of cops from campuses and reopening cases against police brutality. What’s vital, she said, is not waiting for others to speak up.

WILMINGTON, North Carolina

Gareth McGrath, Wilmington StarNews

Peacemaker.

Lily Nicole didn’t envision playing that role when she joined the George Floyd protest in downtown Wilmington Sunday night. She went worried about what might happen, knowing it wasn’t an organized event like Saturday’s peaceful protest that was sponsored by several black community groups. Talking to friends and watching social media, Nicole also knew a lot of young people were planning to attend.

“I wanted to be there for the kids if something happened,” said the self-declared community activist, who is black.

Lily Nicole talks with officers with the Wilmington Police Department during a confrontation between protesters and police in downtown Wilmington, N.C., Sunday, May 31, 2020. The protest turned confrontational as protesters and police clashed a day after a peaceful protest was held to show solidarity with George Floyd.
Lily Nicole talks with officers with the Wilmington Police Department during a confrontation between protesters and police in downtown Wilmington, N.C., Sunday, May 31, 2020. The protest turned confrontational as protesters and police clashed a day after a peaceful protest was held to show solidarity with George Floyd.

As tensions began to rise between police and protesters, Nicole stepped up to defuse the situation — at one point speaking with Interim Wilmington Police Chief Donny Williams on the police line.

Tear gas was eventually fired, much to her frustration, but Nicole likely helped with a situation that could have gone much worse. She intervened, she said, “because nobody else was. I just wanted to see if I could try.”

Nicole, who works at Wilmington’s historic Thalian Hall theater, attended the University of North Carolina Wilmington and has remained in the Port City since graduating. Now in her early 30s, Nicole said she has seen lots of change in the fast-growing city, mostly for the good.

But, being a Southern city, physical and social vestiges of segregation remain.

Protesters unite at City Hall in Wilmington for another day of demonstrations June 2 in the wake of the death of George Floyd.
Protesters unite at City Hall in Wilmington for another day of demonstrations June 2 in the wake of the death of George Floyd.

Nicole said she has been pleasantly surprised at the cross-section of Wilmington that has come out to join the protests, seeking not just equality in the eyes of law enforcement but social and political justice, too. She just hopes city leaders are paying attention.

“Come find out, come talk to us,” Nicole said, lamenting that Wilmington’s political elite has been noticeably absent from the protests. “Everyone has different reasons, but overall it’s for change.

“The community is begging for you to listen.”

Nicole said she doesn’t know when or how the protests will end. But she knows she and the other protesters won’t let things go back to the way they were.

“We need open communication, and we need accountability,” she said. “There’s an obvious vacuum there.”

SAVANNAH, Georgia

Mary Landers, Savannah Morning News

Savannah’s mayor was racially profiled this year while escorting a youth group to New York. “I didn't do anything,” said Van Johnson, the 67th mayor of Savannah. This “officer came, jumped out of his car and came in my face and was threatening me.”

But as bigger cities around the country erupted in protest and some in violence over the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, the mayor of Savannah relied on his experiences and empathy to guide his majority-black city.

Savannah Mayor Van Johnson II stands in front of Savannah City Hall, where hundreds gathered Sunday, May 31, 2020, to peacefully protest the killing of George Floyd.
Savannah Mayor Van Johnson II stands in front of Savannah City Hall, where hundreds gathered Sunday, May 31, 2020, to peacefully protest the killing of George Floyd.

“Before I became mayor of the city, I was a black man and I will remain a black man,” said Johnson, speaking in the quiet council chambers of Savannah’s City Hall days after the rally in front of the gold-domed building. “Secondly, I have training and experience in the area of law enforcement. So I understood it from a law enforcement perspective. And then finally, as a mayor of a community that is predominately African American, I also recognize then that this was also a matter that was very concerning to our community.”

Johnson, 51, grew up in Brooklyn, came to Savannah at 16 for college and never left. He was a county police officer for about a year and then served as a reserve sheriff’s deputy for almost 20 years while pursuing a career in human resources.

“I understand that the officer, at the end of the day, wants to go home, too,” he said. A four-term alderman, he’s five months into his new role as mayor.

Savannah was primed to react to Floyd’s killing in part because the high-profile killing of another black man, jogger Ahmaud Arbery, took place in Brunswick, an hour down the coast.

When Johnson heard rumors of a protest taking shape, he stepped in to guide it, calling a press conference the night before to clarify what would happen. He invited clergy to join him, and more than 100 showed up. They walked together from the historic First African Baptist Church to the May 31 rally, many in their clerical collars or robes.

Thousands of Savannah-area residents streamed into the historic downtown area. Johnson addressed them from the steps of City Hall, speaking “from the heart,” without notes.

“Protests are usually based on emotion,” he said afterward. “And we know from the various ones that have happened across the country. The protests come — they're there. They happen. The emotion goes away. People go back to their business is always what happens next. And I remember saying that today is the moment, tomorrow is the movement.”

At the rally he announced a blue-ribbon panel to study disparities in Savannah.

“Because I think you have to have facts, data to quantify the perceptions,” he said afterward.

Protesters gather in Johnson Square in Savannah, Ga., on May 31.
Protesters gather in Johnson Square in Savannah, Ga., on May 31.

The crowd at the rally grumbled when Johnson suggested they could become police officers to make change from inside the organization. Many also chafed, he said, at his suggestion post-rally that “black men killing black men” is a bigger problem than police brutality in Savannah.

“If you look at our statistics, you don't see officers killing black men,” he said. “You see black men killing black men. If we're going to be upset, we're going to have righteous indignation at what happened to George Floyd, which we cannot control. We can control the young men in our cities that are killing other men.”

Among others, activist Moncello Stewart is organizing an "Enough is Enough“ rally to allow grass-roots organizations, including the men’s group League of Brawn and anti-gun violence group Moms Demand Action, to introduce themselves and recruit members.

Peaceful, well-attended demonstrations are great, Stewart said, but they’re not the goal.

“I think until we kind of hold our elected officials accountable and talk about some of the issues and commit to changes, we're always gonna have these issues,” Stewart said.

LUBBOCK, Texas

Jayme Lozano, Lubbock Avalanche-Journal

The shockwaves have reached even mostly conservative West Texas, where Lubbock residents began protesting last week.

Students from Lubbock High, Lubbock-Cooper High and Monterey High have all taken part in the protests, including one Wednesday where some graduating students wore caps and gowns the day before their own graduation.

Their jump into the action comes at an unexpected time for the young adults. Senior year activities came to an abrupt stop because of the coronavirus, and graduation plans had been canceled and then rescheduled with limited seating.

Hairuo Yi, a Lubbock High School student in Texas who organized a George Floyd protest.
Hairuo Yi, a Lubbock High School student in Texas who organized a George Floyd protest.

The virus has been mostly in the background since George Floyd’s death, only coming back into focus as organizers offer face masks to protesters without one. Some people have arrived with the words “I can’t breathe” written on the front of their masks.

"It's not only about this one case — police brutality has gone on for way too long," said Hairuo Yi, a 16-year-old senior at Lubbock High. "This has gone on a decade, if we're only counting the most recent viral incidents. We don't want any more of this."

Yi, who is Chinese American, came to the U.S. with her family when she was 6. She was inspired by seeing how Americans peacefully protest compared with the few experiences she had as a child, and she's determined to keep advocating for social justice in college.

SUBSCRIBE: Help support quality journalism like this.

She said part of the change she hopes comes from the protests is better training for police and somewhat limiting police immunity to leave less room for potential racial profiling.

Kori Egure, another Lubbock student, said even though their generation has seen some of the most violent acts after the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, adults don't take their concerns seriously because they are young.

"Listen to us. We've been silenced for too long," Egure urged. "We've been told we don't know what's going on, we can't understand it, but the reality is we've been exposed to it for too long. We're too young to have to live through this kind of stuff."

ASHEVILLE, North Carolina

Brian Gordon, Asheville Citizen-Times

Michael Hayes and Ajax Ravenel speak of two Ashevilles.

The first Asheville, they described, beckons millions of visitors a year with restaurants, breweries, eccentric vibes and access to western North Carolina’s vast mountains and trails.

Though a generation separates Hayes, 53, from Ravenel, 18, both said living within another Asheville — black Asheville — taught them to challenge their city’s charming reputation.

“It's well for privileged white people,” said Hayes, who serves as executive director of the Asheville-based Umoja Health, Wellness, and Justice Collective. “It works for them. It doesn't work for us.”

As Asheville sees daily mass gatherings against police brutality and the killing of George Floyd, leaders in the local black community demand policymakers reform the city’s law enforcement and reverse widespread opportunity gaps in housing, health, recreation and education.

“It started because of George Floyd, because of the lack of justice we saw there, but it's about so much more than that,” said Ravenel, who is home from Clark Atlanta University for the summer.

Michael Hayes and Ajax Ravenel posed for a portrait at Umoja Health, Wellness and Justice Collective in Asheville, NC, on June 4, 2020.
Michael Hayes and Ajax Ravenel posed for a portrait at Umoja Health, Wellness and Justice Collective in Asheville, NC, on June 4, 2020.

Ravenel and other advocates say protests must be for the black community, free from destruction and outside agendas that some mostly non-black participants brought to rallies.

Like the city itself, black organizers want the protests to work for them.

To Hayes, Floyd’s death doesn’t feel removed. Sitting on a sofa at the Umoja center with colleagues around the room, Hayes held court. He spoke freely and easily about Asheville’s past, present and future, displaying a cadence and vocal stamina he employs as a local radio host.

He mentioned Johnnie Rush, an Asheville man who in 2017 was subjected to a severe beating at the hands of an officer. Body camera video captured Rush saying he couldn’t breathe multiple times while being restrained on the ground.

“This is Asheville, North Carolina. The same thing that’s happened to George Floyd has happened here, a lot of times,” Hayes said. “So seeing it sparked something in us.”

Asheville’s first mass protest took place on May 31. Hayes marched alongside hundreds, and he worked to de-escalate tensions after authorities fired tear gas and rubber bullets.

Hundreds gathered at Vance Monument in downtown Asheville June 1, 2020 to protest police brutality before continuing on to Asheville Police Department.
Hundreds gathered at Vance Monument in downtown Asheville June 1, 2020 to protest police brutality before continuing on to Asheville Police Department.

Later that night, while protesting downtown, Ravenel watched white demonstrators set off fireworks and intentionally topple a newspaper stand and other objects.

“It seemed like our voices were being drowned out,” she said. “The ones who are leading it, the black youth who are leading this stuff, they're actually doing it correctly. It's the antagonizers that are coming in and ruining everything.”

When the first fireworks went off, Ravenel left. She skipped the next couple downtown rallies too, which ended with multiple broken storefront windows, copious graffiti and authorities releasing tear gas. On June 2, the city government declared a state of emergency, imposed an 8 p.m. curfew and called in the National Guard.

Hayes did not protest in subsequent days either, but both he and Ravenel were coordinating plans to get back out on the streets. From Umoja, the two attended Zoom calls with hundreds of area residents to plan a weekend demonstration that would be peaceful yet forceful, presenting a unified message about the changes they demand.

“We're protesting for George Floyd, but we're also protesting for ourselves,” Ravenel said. “Right here, right now, every single day. And we're protesting for the generations that come after us.”

AMARILLO, Texas

Douglas Clark, Amarillo Globe-News

Tremaine Brown, owner of Shi Lee's Barbecue and Soul Food Cafe, has led the serving of 1,000 meals a day to those in need during the COVID-19 pandemic. But on a recent sun-splashed morning, Brown woke with another cause in mind, sharing thoughts with a social justice group at city hall about a plan of action after the first George Floyd protests. They got to work.

"What you can do after this is be very courageous, steadfast and passionate about what happens to others," he said. "We have to stay strong.”

FAYETTEVILLE, North Carolina

Michael Futch, Fayetteville Observer

Fayetteville police officers in riot gear take a knee during a protest in Fayetteville on Monday.
Fayetteville police officers in riot gear take a knee during a protest in Fayetteville on Monday.

Protesters followed a police directive to back up to a tree on Murchison Road one evening this week, facing a line of officers wearing riot gear. A rally leader called for many of the protesters — still close to 300 strong after some had departed earlier — to take a knee.

“I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe,” they chanted.

And then, the police officers followed suit, taking a knee in solidarity. Cheers and applause erupted among the activists.

This article originally appeared on USA TODAY: George Floyd protests reach even small cities as US confronts racism