A Week of Protest in Syracuse
graphic courtesy of @notagain.su Instagram
My friend is sobbing in my arms, her cheeks lined with salt, and her nose stuffed from crying, “I am fighting to exist,” she keeps repeating as we sit in her off campus apartment. She has become so terrified due to the events of the past week, she has asked me not to use her name.
Though her family is mixed, she identifies as black. I am white, and we are both students at Syracuse University. She does not feel safe on campus. This week she has begun to “lose trust in white people.” She hasn’t slept in her bed for two nights because she’s been participating in a campus sit in protesting the administration’s slow response to a series of shocking racially-motivated hate crimes.
As has been reported in national news, over the past week Syracuse University has been plagued by a series of hate crimes ranging from vandalism to verbal assault. Because one of the incidents involved fraternity members, SU’s Chancellor Kent Syverud has cancelled all fraternity and sorority social events. Shortly thereafter a rumor about a white extremist mass shooting manifesto had been posted on an easily accessible website, which spread panic across campus.
“I need to tell my professors I can’t make it to classes tomorrow,” she said last week,
“but I’m not sure if they will support me, because they’re white.” After the post circulated, she has not left her apartment at all.
Here is the protest, as I saw it unfold.
Last Wednesday at the Barnes Center--a newly opened athletic student center--LaVanda
Reed, a black administrator from the College of Law speaks to gathered students. She says, “We do care. We hear you.” She tells the students what is currently in the works to make the campus more diverse. Nevertheless, their distrust and frustration fester.
A student screams, “You are a mother! You are a mother!” He screams at the top of his lungs, tears streaming down his face, and he shuts down her rambling about the new diversity hires. He yells, “You are aiding in the fall of the black community, so I don’t care.”
The room is in an uproar. The room is hot, the voices are loud. One person’s voice sparks another, which sparks another. A one-mic rule is implemented, but people are too fired up to follow it. The administrator stops speaking.
The mics are passed, as students raise their hands, begging to be heard. “How can you say we’re your number one priority? Who are you saying that to? ‘Cause you’re not talking to black people...You haven’t done anything to help us.”
There is rage, hurt, and fear. The administrator stands nodding. One student yells, “I hate it here!” which sparks the crowd to start repeating “I hate it here!” almost like a battle cry.
There is unity as well as chaos, people of all races, sitting and standing. And everyone had one thing in common: they were mad.
By Thursday afternoon protestors are organizing themselves into different committees. Jackets are tossed everywhere, and students sprawl across the floor. The only news sources in the building are the student-run CitrusTV and the student-run paper, The Daily Orange.
A student leader instructs protestors not to talk to the press until an official statement can be constructed. The @notagain.su Instagram gains traction as a way for the protesters to talk to the community and spread official news and statements.
A few hours later, everyone is sitting on the floor with narrow paths between people. Maneuvering comes with a lot of apologies. The room smells of donated pizza.
The Hendricks Chapel Choir walks in, having just finished practice; they want to lend their support to the protest. They sing “This Little Light of Mine” by Moses Hogan, and “The
Lord Bless You and Keep You” by Peter Lutkin for the group, and everyone is entranced by their voices. People are clapping and cheering. It feels like we are all part of a community that cares, and that wants to see this campus resemble what is happening here now.
Everyone quiets down as a spokesperson stands. She informs us that the administration is threatening code-of-conduct sanctions if we try to protest through the night again. This breaks people into quiet chatter, and there is debate about where else the protest could continue.
Twenty minutes later, the spokesperson is back. Now she says that the on-campus security officers will not be forcibly remove people. Students prepare to settle in for the night, but around 10:30 the information changes again. Now the administration says they will be punishing students who sleepover. The group talks about options, but in the end decides to risk potential sanctions to continue the protest.
A Friday, I walk into the protest, only to find my friend in tears. She is sitting on a bench near the door, and I walk over and hug her.
“What’s going on?”
Her eyes are damp. “I can’t even focus on the protest, because I’m tight about our friends.” She means angry. She and I share a group chat in which most of the students are white.
None of them have said anything in response to her messages about the racial threats, or even asked her how she was holding up.
Later on Friday, we learn that the Chancellor is coming to talk to us. Immediately there is a scramble for a plan. Other students are meeting with a lawyer to finalize students’ demands in the form of a contract which the Chancellor could sign. Among students, this administration has been known for its lip service, and we are not having it today.
I plant myself in the back of the room, where some of the faculty are setting up a second microphone. I think nothing of it until the Chancellor picks it up, and suddenly I’m seated right next to him.
There is tension. The Chancellor speaks softly, in his slightly nasal voice. I’m so close to him that I see his hand tremble as it holds the list of demands. His knees bounce nervously beneath his grey suit pants.
“We gotta get better,” he says, speaking a truth that every student in the room already knows. All phones and eyes are trained on the Chancellor. Two students hold pieces of paper that read, “When’s enough SU?”
Saturday night, my friend has gathered the group to confront us.
“Your silence will not protect you,” she said to us, her white friends, as we all sit together. “It is better to say that you don’t know what to say, instead of saying nothing.” Her eyes are hard, and tension ripples in her voice.
The group is silent, before one says, “How do we improve?” The tension slowly slips from the room as we talk about what it means to be on campus right now, and what allyship looks like both for each other and for the protesters. On the bus ride home, I see her smile, genuinely, for the first time in a week.
Ashley Clemens is a sophomore at Syracuse University studying magazine journalism.