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Seattle protesters show the best way to non-violently shut up a notorious street preacher

via Journalist News / YouTube

A group of protesters in Seattle discovered the best way to get rid of an angry, manic street preacher at the Capitol Hill Organized Protest on Sunday. They formed a circle around him and shook a lil' sumpin'.

The preacher kept trying to get away from the dancers but they wouldn't allow him to break free from the dance party.

One wonders why he tried to get away from the protesters instead of joining them and busting out some holy-ghost-inspired moves? Jesus was all about peace and love between people, regardless of race, shouldn't the preacher be on the side of the protesters instead of screaming at them?


Watch the video below:




The video of the protesters using the power of dance to silence someone they disagree with shows a positive way people can handle disagreements in public.

Unfortunately, that's not the way things have always gone for the preacher during the recent protests. Video shows he was assaulted by protesters last month — which is completely unacceptable.

Protests of various sizes have been taking place in Capitol Hill area of Seattle almost every night since the murder of George Floyd by a Minneapolis police officer on March 25.

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As a Jewish woman, this anti-Semitic photo is a reminder of the pervasive threat of hate in 2020

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In the midst of racial equality protests following the murder of George Floyd, a recent photo of college students with drawn-on swastikas on their shoulders surfaced—bringing me to tears.

It's hard to imagine Ryann Milligan, a Penn State student, who has been identified in a change.org petition, stands with her friends smiling proud, showing off their swastikas and anti-Semitism. All over the country, people are angry and hurting. These egregious acts tear us further apart.

The photo reminds me of the first time I saw a swastika tattoo. It was 2007, and I had just turned 21 years old, entering into my junior year at Temple University. I was moving into a new apartment in Philadelphia, bright-eyed and hopeful to be a journalist and graduate soon. My roommate at the time was dating a sweet guy, someone I had met through social circles and lived down the hall from me on campus the year before. He invited his friend, someone I had never met, to help us move all the heavy furniture. It was a sweltering day in Center City, temperatures nearing 100 degrees, pearlescent sweat mustaches dotted our upper lips and perspired our faces. The friend I never met before, peeled off his shirt, leaving his white chest exposed. There it was—the hooked cross swastika tattoo of oppression and symbol of hatred— right in front of me.

I stood there, alone with him, looking at this large swastika near his right shoulder. It was an immediate gut punch. I wondered if he knew I was Jewish? If he found out, would he harm me? Does he hate black people too? I thought about all the times I read about people like him. All the racism, prejudice, xenophobia and white supremacy that's continued to grow across the globe. I remembered my recent trip to Israel and the six million Jews who died in the Holocaust. What about my great grandmother—she was 13 years old when she escaped Nazi Germany on a boat after her entire family was slaughtered in a concentration camp. I thought about all the Jews who have been discriminated against for centuries.

I was silent for a few minutes, but those minutes felt like hours. A phone went off. I ignored it. I stared at him a little longer. "You going to answer it?" he asked me. I gripped the cell phone to my chest. "You know I'm Jewish," I blurted out. He looked perplexed. I pointed to the swastika. "Oh, that," he said. "I got dared to get that one night. I was really drunk. It doesn't mean anything to me." I don't know what offended and enraged me more—that he dismissed it or that he didn't understand why it was a big deal.

He clearly knew very little about the history of Nazism. I felt like it was my responsibility to strengthen his understanding of what it meant. Knowledge was my way of responding to the hate and anti-Semitism. I told him how horrible it made me feel. I explained how Jewish people and black people take that symbol as a sucker punch in the face. To my surprise, he listened and then apologized. He told me he would get it covered up immediately. I hope he did.

Things like this continue to happen in our country. Let's not forget, less than three years ago, hundreds of white supremacists and neo-Nazis marched the streets of Charlottesville, Va., in the "Unite the Right" rally, protesting the removal of a statue of Confederate general Robert E. Lee. They brandished weapons and lit tiki torches, performing Nazi salutes and chanting "Jews will not replace us."

The rally turned violent when white supremacist James Field Jr. steered his Dodge Challenger into a peaceful crowed of counterprotesters, killing Heather Heyer and injuring many others. There was also the off-the-rails press conference with President Trump and his infamous quote: "You had some very fine people on both sides." It's difficult for things to actually change when the leader of our country doesn't fully condemn racism.

Seeing that picture of those young women really brought me back to that day in 2007. That was twelve years ago, but what has really changed? According to the NY Times, the Anti-Defamation League statistics reveal that anti-Semitism has more than doubled in the United States in 2018 over 2015. The question begs why would these young college girls do this? What were they thinking? It could be that they don't know better. Maybe they were raised like this. Maybe it was supposed to be a joke. Who knows.

The University responded to the image in a tweet stating, "We are disgusted by the behavior portrayed, which does not reflect our values. It is deeply troubling that as a society, we today are still facing racism." They also mentioned that they will continue to speak out against hateful speech, but they don't have the power to expel students over it, even if it is reprehensible. "But the University does have the power to condemn racism and address those who violate our values." However, theChange.org petition is asking for Milligan's removal at the college, which has garnered over 120,000 signatures so far.

In a time when our country is in turmoil, strife and demanding change, this can be a learning experience. When the women wash away the black ink swastikas on their skin, I hope they think about the visceral impact it's caused others. I can promise you that pain won't wash away as fast. Maybe they'll think about their actions—let's hope it's tattooed inside their brain. At least, this time, the ink wasn't permanent.

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Please, take your knee off my neck.

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Many days, I find myself mesmerized by my daughter's brilliant eyes and vibrant confidence. She's enchanting, warm, and outspoken. I feel privileged to know her and love her. However, there are also many days I look at her, and far too often, think, "I am thankful that she does not look like me."


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My daughter is biracial.

Even at three, we've already had many interesting conversations about race. Caroline sees herself as brown — dark brown. When we color our family, she picks the richest shade of mahogany and gleefully squiggles lines and circles to represent who she is. If you were to ask her who she looks like, she'll adamantly vocalize that she looks exactly like mommy, and is utterly confused by anyone who would say otherwise. It warms my heart that she views my skin as beautiful. And I agree. However, I constantly worry about the day when she realizes society feels otherwise.

Each day, I wake up fully aware of my brown skin. Every day.

I intentionally style my hair, walk, and speak, knowing how others might perceive me as a black woman while in the grocery store, at work, or in the gym. I am entirely aware of my race, as I've spent my entire life as an outsider. The token person of color in a world that is mostly white.

  • I remember being shown out of a craft store in elementary school as the shopkeeper screamed, "I don't want nigger children in my store."
  • In high school, I reported that I was raped. The white man, whose sperm was found inside me, denied touching me. The detectives told me he was innocent and called me a liar. At that moment, I recall feeling powerless and worrying, "What's the point of crying for help? Because, as a black woman, society will always value his words over mine."
  • In college, I remember having to console friends after a swastika was carved into a classmate's dorm room door at Miami University.
  • As a young adult, I've heard too many times to count, "You're really pretty… for a black girl. But I can't date black women."
  • As an adult, I worry about the day when I may be stopped, in my mostly white neighborhood, not because I did anything wrong, but simply because I look like I do not belong.

Now, before you draw your eyes away from this message:

  • If you have turned on your TV and only see a mob instead of protesters — this message is for you.
  • If you have shrugged your shoulders at President Trump's tweets as "not that bad," — this message is for you.
  • If you've replied to reading "Black Lives Matters" with "Well, White Lives Matters too," — this message is for you.
  • If in those quiet moments in your home, you've thought, "But I'm not a racist. I don't see color." — this is for you.
  • If you have watched the video of Amy Cooper in Central Park and thought, "I could never be her," — this is for you.

To my white friends, family members, and neighbors — this article is for you.


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November 9th, 2016, I woke up with swollen eyes that were still stinging from hours of crying. The type of cry where your entire body aches and you simply feel worn — even hours after finally managing to catch your breath. I was sitting in our newly painted nursery, staring at the light yellow walls, and reflecting on the news of the day — Donald Trump Wins the 2016 Election.

I'm not writing this as a political statement — but as a plea to be heard. As it would merely be irresponsible of me to not mention the pivotal catalyst for my more vocal advocacy over the last several years.

I write this as someone who has defined her political views as conservative. I've worked for Republican leaders and have spent the majority of my adult life voting for and supporting candidates who believe in free enterprise and less government intervention in the lives of everyday Americans. Which, frankly, is all the more reason why I'm sharing these thoughts.

The 2016 election was devastating. It was devastating because I genuinely believed that it was impossible for someone who flooded the airwaves with so much hate could then become the leader of the country I love. A person who continues to falsely claim five young black men known as the "Central Park Five" are guilty of sexually assaulting a jogger in 1989, who is okay with continuously sexually assaulting women, and who belittles immigrants from "shithole" countries.

Like me, President Trump descended from immigrants. However, his continuous statements about immigrants from mostly black and brown countries are repugnant. It's hard not to be offended when the President of the United States says that my parents didn't deserve the opportunity to achieve the American Dream, like his, simply because of their country of birth.

Nevertheless, as I reflected on this new era, that we as Americans were about to venture into, I blamed myself.

The struggles of victims of violent crimes, immigrants, women, and people of color are real, and our voices need to be heard. However, I sat there crying and thinking, I did not do a good enough job sharing my experience as a human. I cried, thinking perhaps if I had more conversations that were open about my life and my experiences, maybe others would have a heightened sense of empathy and awareness for people like me.

As irrational as it sounds, I blamed myself.


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With Caroline in my arms and only a few days old, I promised her I would not remain silent. I would be fearless in the face of adversity, and I would leverage every tool I had to be a better and more vocal advocate for myself and others. I promised her I would do everything I could to change the world. I promised this to my firstborn child, hoping that her experience as a black child would be better than mine.

We are approaching the four-year mark of this promise, and last night I had another one of those cries. I believe my therapist would say this is good, as showing tears and anger is not one of my strengths. Nevertheless, it was another night of hyperventilating and hot tears as I realized we have so much further to go.

The dismissive and indifference highlighted by some of my friends and family members who continue to look the other way when it comes to people of color, victims of violent crimes, and immigrants must stop. I need you to take a moment to understand what it feels like to walk in my shoes, in my daughter's shoes, and in #GeorgeFloyd's shoes.

  • I need you to acknowledge and take the time to understand what is at the core of our anguish and concerns.
  • I need you to realize there are systemic injustices that black and brown people face every day in our country.
  • I need you to understand and acknowledge institutionalized racism exists.

The issues listed above impact us all.

However, how can it be that a photo from 2020 can look like a photo from 1967? How can you then look at the humans marching in America's streets and dismiss them all as foolish thieves?

Do not let the small number of individuals who are using this moment and demonstrating violence as an easy excuse to dismiss the pain and injustice of an entire community. We are expressing raw anguish because we continue to share our stories, and we are not being heard.

You've told black athletes to stay in their lane. You've told black comedians to focus on jokes. You've mocked black politicians who focus on race as a public health crisis to look elsewhere.

I ask, who is supposed to speak out about our plight, and when will you hear us?
  • Imagine being a young black girl and receiving harsher discipline at school because you're perceived to be unruly, loud, and unmanageable. #BlackGirlsMatter
  • Imagine what it is like to go on a run and die because you don't look like you belong. #AhmaudArbery #LivingWhileBlack
  • Imagine what it is like to be violently assaulted and being accused of making it up. #SophiaFifner #MeToo
  • Imagine what it is like to be unfairly convicted of a crime that if you were just a few shades lighter would be a misdemeanor #FerrellScott
  • Imagine what it is like to be black and to die simply because you exist. #BreonnaTaylor

People who look like me are living with this injustice every day, and we are tired. The only difference between me and the protester's face you see on Fox News is that our anguish is released in different but equally valuable forms.

I have the privilege of access to health care, education, and resources to channel my frustrations through volunteerism, legislation, and countless therapy sessions. However, my plight is no different than the faces of the black and brown people you see on your screen. I am them, and they are me.

We are both living in a world where, whether we take a knee or protest in the streets, our concerns are not being heard — and we can not breathe.

I realize every person's journey for understanding humanity takes different shapes in forms. Some jump headfirst completely embracing words and phrases like #blacklivesmatters, intersectionality, and implicit bias. However, for others, you may need a more gradual approach.

For those who need a more gradual approach, here are a few suggestions:

  1. Actively listen more than you speak
  2. Admit your bias and check your privilege
  3. Learn with intentionality to understand people who do not share your same experience.

Change cannot happen in a vacuum. I refuse to live another 50 years, waiting for justice. I refuse to silently sit by waiting for you to listen. Therefore, I'll close with this simple ask.

Please, take your knee off my neck and help me breathe.


This article originally appeared on Medium. You can read it here.

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Democracy

She was peaceful. The demonstration was peaceful. Police still fractured her skull.

via PeaceloveandIt / Instagram

A disturbing image posted by LaToya Ratlieff on Instagram is visceral proof that peacefully protesting police brutality in the United States can get your skull cracked open by law enforcement.

On Sunday, May 31, Ratlieff was at a peaceful demonstration at Huizenga Plaza, in Fort Lauderdale, Florida organized by Black Lives Matter Alliance of Broward and other local groups to protest the deaths of George Floyd and people of color at the hands of police.

An estimated 1,500 citizens attended the protest and they were told not to engage with the police and to remain calm at all costs. Organizers chose a couple of dozen marchers and designated them as peace keepers if tension should arise.

At 6:15 p.m., three hours after the protest began, marchers returned to the park for a final prayer before going home. As the demonstrators returned to a local parking garage, they were confronted by a riot squad.

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They tear gassed the protesters and shoved a kneeling woman, further agitating the crowd. Some protesters began throwing plastic water bottles at the police.

"While continuing to walk toward my car, the crowd began to become angrier and angrier," Ratclieff wrote on her Instagram post.

"Several of the protesters, including myself, began asking the other protesters to relax. And, we decided to kneel on the ground. While, we were kneeling, the officers continued to throw tear gas at us and even began pointing the guns at us," she added.

The gas began to suffocate Ratlieff. While coughing and gasping for air, an aid approached her and asked if she needed assistance. Within moments, she claims a police officer shot a foam rubber bullet at her head."It wasn't until I saw all the blood on the ground that it hit me," Ratlieff told the Miami Herald. "I've been shot."

If it wasn't for two aids that came to her assistance, Ratlieff says she would have continued to "lay on the ground while the cops watched me bleeding."

The incident was witnessed by a reporter from the Miami Herald who says a "black projectile hit Ratlieff in the forehead and ricocheted 50 feet down the street. Reporters were unable to locate the munition, but later returned to the scene and found cartridges labeled: '40 mm Foam Baton.'"

Foam Baton bullets fly at the extreme velocity of 325 feet per second.

Scott Ross, a photographer on site, says that the police shot people who were fleeing the situation in the back of the legs. "The tear gas is working. People are running away," Ross said. "Why are they shooting people in the back? It appeared punitive."

Ratlieff was taken to the hospital where she was treated for a fractured eye socket.

"I'm okay. My eye will heal. I was able to come home," she wrote on Instagram. "But, George Floyd and many others did not."

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