With Daunte Wright’s death, Brooklyn Center became another city of mourning and collective action.
A writer spent a week there, in her hometown, giving back to the place that raised her.
This article is a project from The New York Times Student Journalism Institute, a professional development program for collegiate journalists.
By Ariana Wilson
On Sunday, April 11, I sat at my laptop working on an article about George Floyd. After months of trying to connect with Mr. Floyd’s family and find an impactful story angle, my editor and I had finally settled on a direction. Minneapolis has been my home for the last five years and Mr. Floyd’s story felt personal. I felt protective of the narrative and how the community would be represented before the nation. And with the trial of Derek Chauvin, the police officer accused of killing George Floyd, going on, my adopted city was in the spotlight.
But that evening, I spotted a Facebook post about a 20-year-old Black man killed by the police in Brooklyn Center, the nearby city where I grew up. Black people have not even had a chance to grieve and process Mr. Floyd’s death, I thought, and here we are dealing with another tragedy. That was the start of a week of high emotions, worriful reflection and constant action on behalf of the place I had called home. But it was also a week of community and compassion — kinship amid turmoil and fear.
April 11
Daunte Wright was pronounced dead at 2:18 p.m. after being shot by a Brooklyn Center police officer, Kim Potter, during a traffic stop. I was a contract employee for an organization that provides community resources to young people in Brooklyn Center and neighboring Brooklyn Park. I knew we had to respond. In a group text, we came up with a plan to meet our needs and those of the young people we serve: mental health resources, spaces to process trauma and grief, ways to express themselves. Basic needs, like food and shelter, would also have to be met.
As we awaited word from the Brooklyn Center mayor, Mike Elliott, the initial shock of the news gave way to dread. Yet in a twisted dystopian way, I felt better prepared this time. The pattern was becoming familiar. There would be protests. Curfews. Tear gas. An increased police and National Guard presence. Someone in our group text passed along something she had heard: “If they don’t burn down Brookdale, it would be a shock.”
I searched for Daunte’s name on Facebook. We had two mutual friends.
April 12
National Guard members stood on the median in the old Brookdale Mall parking lot that once housed a Barnes & Noble that I had frequented with my grandmother. Scraps of paper littered Bass Lake Road in front of the vandalized Holiday gas station. I started to cry, not out of fear but hopelessness. Brooklyn Center, a city that I called home from age 3 to 18, was a plywooded ghost town haunted by people in camouflage, carrying guns.
Rumors were rampant. The police officer meant to grab her Taser but instead grabbed her gun? She attempted suicide? The speculation was soon swept aside with the release of the officer’s body camera footage. My grandmother and I watched the news conference from the kitchen.
I should have looked away. You could hear the bullets. I could see Daunte flinch.
Curfew would begin at 7 p.m., county officials said.
I spent the night with my friends Hunter, Alex and his boyfriend, Peter, joined later by one of my best friends from high school. It felt good to be among people I loved. Because of fear of the coronavirus, we had been unable to be together to comfort each other during the uprising after George Floyd was killed. Now, the five of us sat in the lamplight of the living room, sipping drinks and eating snacks. It was a moment of peace.
But outside, police cars and National Guard trucks sped north on Hennepin Avenue. Friends were heading out to protest, to provide safe rides home, to report for their jobs. I worried about their safety. When my best friend left to go home after midnight, I imagined him being pulled over. Young and Black, he could be an easy target. When we hugged goodbye, I held onto him longer than usual, then mentally cursed myself for being so dramatic. I squeezed him tighter.
April 13
It was the first time I had been back to Brooklyn Center Community Schools in years. The Blue Barn building in the parking lot (a gym and all-purpose space) was filled with volunteers, like me, and donated supplies. There was enough boxed macaroni and cheese to last a lifetime.
Teachers and staff members thanked me for being there. But there weren’t many places I’d rather be than back with the community that raised me — even if unpacking and organizing groceries with my old gym teacher was unexpected. My civics teacher, invoking the school mascot, joked, “Once a centaur, always a centaur.” That phrase used to drive me nuts in high school. That day, it was comforting.
Then, the other plague that has been disproportionately killing Black Americans crept up on me: My co-worker, who had driven me to and from Brooklyn Center, had been in contact with someone who had Covid-19. More anxiety and now temporary quarantine until her test results came back.
April 14
Stuck in the house, I spent the day at my laptop, responding to requests from the city and other local groups about coordinating resources and informing the community. Providing help with housing relocation for people who lived next to the police station — a focal point of the protests — became a priority. I also finally had time to return texts from concerned friends and family, as well as my reporter friends who were covering the situation.
My co-worker’s Covid-19 test results came back, and we were in the clear. Tomorrow, we could get back to work.
April 15
In the morning, back at my high school, we helped with a student-led protest. At the protest assembly, young people shared their fear, anger and frustration. I told my English teacher that this was the worst five-year class reunion ever.
At the barn, people were lined up for food and supplies. I spent hours loading grocery bags of food into carts. An older African woman repeatedly blessed me. You couldn’t see the smile underneath her mask, but there was relief in her eyes.
More teachers were there. I looked at all the people who had helped shape me into the person I am today, working together in response to a crisis. It’s a testament to the hard work they spent instilling values of benevolent kindness in us, their students.
April 16
I got my second vaccine shot and had no side effects. Was it related to my weeklong adrenaline rush?
My therapist and I discussed the skills I needed to respond to trauma. It was the first time in a week that I was forced to think about what I needed to do for myself and how I was feeling.
A friend of my best friend was arrested during a protest. It felt like the presence of the police was closing in around those closest to me.
April 17
Up at 7 a.m. to volunteer again at the high school, this time with Peter and Alex. But the school had enough volunteers, so instead I posted a request for funds on social media. Peter and I went to a dollar store and stocked up on toothbrushes, laundry detergent, adhesive bandages and toiletries. My mother met us at Costco to help us purchase supplies with the $700 I had collected.
On the car ride home from a march at the University of Minnesota, Alex played Harry Styles’s “Fine Line.” I fastened onto the words at the end: “We’ll be all right.” I thought about the concern and kindness of my friends. Every text and call, gestures as simple as playing a favorite song, had been uplifting at a time when I needed it most.
That night, I fell asleep on the couch listening to my friends’ chatter.
A few days later, Mr. Chauvin was found guilty of second-degree murder, third-degree murder and second-degree manslaughter. Officer Potter resigned, was arrested and charged with second-degree manslaughter. Daunte’s funeral was April 22.
