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Take a Look inside New York City’s Protest for Mike Brown

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As I ended my slave labor shift a strategic ruckus, in unison, caught my attention. I came to the corner of 14th Street and 6th Avenue where countless determined and angry faces sat atop young and old bodies, stomping through the streets of Manhattan. Signs which displayed disdain for the police graced the sea of protesters.

The devastating verdict from the Mike Brown trial must have been declared, I thought. Darren Wilson, the inhumane and degenerate cum stain–who fell out of his mother’s toxic womb 28 years ago–was cleared of any criminal and legal wrongdoing by a grand jury Monday night. (I want to give thanks to CNN, because, apparently, they were kind enough to air footage of old Ferguson riots before the verdict was read. As if they were hyping up the American people for the fucking Super Bowl.)


It’s not a surprise that Wilson, the bloodthirsty human being who killed Mike Brown and referred to him as a demon, was acquitted. Honestly, who hasn’t gotten away with murder while hiding behind a police uniform, military fatigues or plutocratic garbs? Every person involved in the blatant murders of Amadou Diallo, Sean Bell, Eric Garner, Mike Brown and countless others appear to be absolved from any responsibility. They face no consequences, except the usual slap on the wrist and a life with a guilty conscience–as I’m sure their lawyers advise them to say, for the sole purpose of preying on the public’s pity, in a transparent attempt to circumvent harsh judgment. No remorse whatsoever, folks. These executioners hide behind their badge, comfortable and confident, that their authoritarian masters will coddle them and protect them from any real harm–as Wilson’s disappearance from the public eye, since the shooting, confirms.


“Keep it tight,” yelled one protester as I began marching along. He noticed what I saw (and many had heard) which was the sound of policemen, on scooters, surrounding us and creating a barricade between the marchers and the sidewalks. Both news and police helicopters were presumably monitoring us.


The fiery orange glow from the Empire State Building, like a guiding light, stood vigorously as the protest moved uptown through the streets of Chelsea. Several chants emerged from the raucous citizens of the city, who were brimming with malcontent emotions over the verdict:

Hands up! Don’t shoot!

No justice? No peace! No racist police!

NYPD/KKK: How many kids have you killed today?

There were people of all colors, creeds, cultural backgrounds…and smells marching. A man invited two women, observing the scene, into the march. Men and women who were starting their overnight shift stood outside of the work establishment and chanted with us. Those exiting the gym or going for a night run cheered us on.


Once the protest reached the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) cabs and other drivers came to a halt and were succumb by the overwhelming breath of a revolutionary moment. Some sat above their cars documenting the scene for social media fodder, while others held their hands up, mimicking surrender, as the chant of “Hands Up! Don’t shoot!” closed in on them.


Times Square, which is undoubtedly the commercial capital of the world, came to a halt. There was not a vehicle able to move and anyone in the area stopped to witness the synchronized movement against injustice.

“We’re young, we’re strong–we’re marching all night long!”

Before the mass exodus of Times Square lead the protest to shut down the Manhattan, the Triboro and Brooklyn bridges, Bill Bratton, the New York Police Commissioner was splattered with fake blood.


Marching in the streets isn’t enough, but until some adjustment is made to the way we discipline the boys in blue, I’ll continue to chant the wise words given to me by NWA: Fuck the police!

Photo Credit: Me

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Enrique Grijalva - Mr. Minimum Wage

Enrique Grijalva - Mr. Minimum Wage

My father came, my mother saw...and I conquered. I encourage children to do drugs, I buy alcohol for teenagers, and I drink beer with the homeless. In my spare time, I attend art galleries for the FREE booze while rubbing elbows with modish elephants. I also hammer six-inch nails into small penises. Stuart knighted me as Broke-Ass King of New York. You've been warned.