Nashville Families Belong Together March Draws Hundreds in Protest

June 30, 2018

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The open green lawn of the park lay bare, heating up by the minute in the Nashville summer sun. By mid-morning, the temperature had risen, as did the crowd. 

 

 One by one, a vast and colorful palette of people  gathered in the space—many wearing white that reflected not only the blinding high sun, but a unity shining just  as bright. Signs and posters towered above the energetic mass like a moving forest; trees producing fruits of strength, anger, hope, defiance and peace. 
 

This was the Families Belong Together March, part of a nationwide protest against the Trump administration’s immigration policy of separating children from their parents along the southern border. Hundreds all across the Volunteer State volunteered their time to stand against the government’s actions. Together they organized, together they chanted, and together they marched.
 

With my camera and phone in hand, I blended with the crowd to document the story unfolding before me, a mere passage in this chapter of our history. I weaved in and out of the assembly, capturing moments and words in real-time to better explain why this was happening, unfiltered from any mass-media lens. It was just me, the people and their stories.

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DR. CARTER

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The chants ebbed and flowed before the march began, a warm-up of things to come. Among those lending their voice was Richard A. Carter, M.D., M.P.H. The older gentleman caught my eye; age nor scorching temperatures prevented him from joining in with the rest. Accompanied by a few others his age, he graciously gave me a few words on why he made it out to the march.
 

“I’m here because this is a very serious time in our national history. I’m an ex-Marine, ex-Peace Corps, and I’m a physician. I’ve done all I can do for this country, and I very much resent the way we are treating people,” said Dr. Carter. “This is a country of immigrants, and I think we’ve got to live up to our ideals. You know…we’re perfecting. Let’s keep it going here. This is a setback. So that’s why I’m here.”

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Dr. Carter, clad in white with a small American flag tucked in his straw hat, held up a sign featuring a young Mexican boy peering in between thick rusted bars, with the words “Make America Good Again” at the top.
 

Immigrants, he said, “who have traveled a thousand miles or more through all kinds of hazards to get here, they deserve to be here. Much more than most of the rest of us who didn’t have to go through that kind of stuff.”
 

With his past experience under other administrations, I asked about his thoughts on the one at hand. His hope: a change of heart.
 

“I’d like to see the present government have a little more empathy for people. All of the people,” he ended softly.
 

MAMA PEACHES

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I parted ways with the man and moved back into the crowd, circling the movement and taking in the atmosphere, the energy, and its stories. Along the way, I saw a Black woman standing proudly and resiliently among her cohorts. In one hand she held an umbrella, her shield from the sun, and in the other she wielded a smudging stick of smoking white sage; a battle-ready warrior.
 

 As I went to take her photograph, she turned as if she felt my presence, and we locked eyes. At that moment, we started our own story together. Known widely in her community as “Mama Peaches,” Karen Spencer-McGee came to Nashville from Memphis.

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Her credentials sprawled like the march soon would: On the executive committee for Black Lives Matter Memphis, a chairwoman for the Poor People’s Campaign, a member of the Advisory Board for the Women’s March Tennessee, and “fights like a girl,” she added with a beaming smile. Speaking deliberately and concisely, she explained her reasoning for being present that day.

“When we were being sold as slaves, no one was there to say ‘nuh uh, no, nah, hell to the naw.’ When the Jewish people were being put in concentration camps, no one said ‘nah, that ain’t right,’” McGee said. “So today we come together–yellow, gold, tan, black, brown, gay, straight–nobody left behind. Forward together, not one step back, to say this is not alright.”

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McGee had previously experienced troubles with other marches being falsely declared canceled online, nefarious efforts from others to decrease turnout in events where numbers are vital. However, she kept faith that all would go as planned for today's march.
 

“With me being on the advisory board, I have to do what God said do. Fast pray and trust and put it in his hands. And you see it’s happening. This is a beautiful, beautiful sight, and if you look that way, you can see that they’re still coming,” she said, pointing down a street filled with other marchers coming our way. “I’m so happy. I'm a peacock proud. I’m giddy glad. It’s a wonderful day in Tennessee.”
 

NEILY

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We wrapped up our conversation and she went back to smudging the surrounding area with her wand of sage. The march began to come alive as chanting grew louder. Drummers began beating to the vocal cadences. Horns soon joined in the symphony as the ensemble began moving forward as one. With the crowd stretching into a parade, it soon became clear just how many people had shown up to the rally. People of all walks of life seemed to participate, coming together for a common goal, displaying signs, photos and flags.
 

Making my way down the scheduled path, I spotted  another individual braving the heat for the cause: an obviously expectant mother by the name of Neily Boyd. Her pregnant belly was framed by a t-shirt emblazoned with the word “Y’ALL,” with the latter three letters striped in rainbow

colors. As we walked together, she talked about the march happening in her city.
 

“We say that we’re a city that loves its neighbors, and you see shirts all around Nashville that say things like, ‘Love: it’s the Nashville way.’ So, I think it’s really important that people in Nashville today are coming out and standing up for things that they believe are injustices, and making sure that we’re making our voice heard on a national level,” Boyd said without pause or disrupting her pace.
 

“It’s hard in a time like right now where every day we’re getting news that goes against what we’re hoping to see,” she continued, “but I think ultimately the privilege of being in a democracy is that when politics aren’t going the way you hoped they would, you are able to get together with other people that share the same beliefs that you do and make your voice heard.”
 

I learned Ms. Boyd was not only a mother, but also a local school teacher, giving her another perspective on the country’s recent policy of separating the children of immigrants.
 

“When I think about the world I want my children to grow up in, and all people’s children to grow up in, it’s important that we aren’t just saying here are the things we want, but we’re actually getting out and making sure we are doing what we can to help make those things happen,” she said with optimism. “Historically, you typically see most generations make progress on the one before, so hopefully we are paving the way for them to continue building on what we are building on.”

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With as much energy as she had when we started talking, she swiftly walked ahead after saying our goodbyes.
 

KARLA

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The march ended in the middle of a blocked off intersection, allowing those leading the charge to set up in the center as the others surrounded them like a church service. Speakers took turns engaging the crowd and reading poems, punctuated intermittently with the eruption of applause or chants. Standing closely behind the banner which led the group, I spotted a Hispanic woman holding a familiar sign which read “I am the American Dream.” I remembered her from when I first arrived at the lawn; I had taken her photo as she stood stoic amongst the busy crowd, staunchly keeping her sign held high. I had to talk to her.

Karla Poole was the name behind one of my first images of the event. While she was a woman of few words, her presence spoke volumes.
 

 “I’m a first generation American-born citizen, and I want to fight for the rights that the kids now don’t have…that I was lucky enough to have,” Poole said quietly but sternly under the noise.
 

 She said that her parents were immigrants that “came over during a time where it wasn’t so controversial.” As a child of immigrants herself, she felt strongly in fighting “for the ones who don’t have a voice.”
 

“It’s very emotional,” Poole noted, clearly moved by the experience. “In Tennessee, it always feels like it’s an uphill battle to explain who I am and where I come from, and to see a sea of people supporting immigration is amazing,” she finished while clutching her sign tightly.
 

With the march itself over, the massive group began to thin as people took to nearby shade trees or presumably set off for water; it was noon and it was dangerously hot. Thirsty and overheated myself, I felt it was appropriate to end my time after meeting with the first person I photographed; it came full circle. With my photographs and recordings in tow, I retraced my steps through the remnants of signs and banners back to my car, eager to share the day we experienced together. 

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