The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
The life of a protest organizer
Mary-Pat Hector, 22, has been pushing for change since she was 9.
Mary-Pat Hector wakes up at 7 a.m. on Sunday, partly because she can’t sleep when Atlanta is in an uproar, but also because her colleagues need her help.
There are more than a dozen protests happening that day in metro Atlanta, in the wake of George Floyd’s death, and the organizers are blowing up her phone with questions for Hector. How many water stations do we need? Where should we end it? What about Lenox Square? “You don’t go to Lenox unless you want to get somebody arrested” is her advice.
They seek her advice because Hector, at 22, is an old hand: an organizer at age 9, a member of Al Sharpton’s National Action Network at age 12, a city council candidate at age 19.
Soon she cuts the conversations short. At 3 p.m. she has her own protest to shepherd. She and 19-year-old cosmetology student Zoe Bambara have planned a “Say Her Name” march from the Atlanta University area to City Hall.
Though the deaths of Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery have triggered ten days of protests, black women have also been the victims of police violence, including Breonna Taylor, shot to death March 13 in her own home during a noknock drug sting. Hector wants those women remembered.
At 1 p.m. Hector, dressed in a blue and white tracksuit, arrives at Cleopas R. Johnson Park, and completes an interview with radio station V-103 while her mother, Kathleen Hector, begins unloading cases of water bottles, snacks and a folding table. They are two hours early.
“She is a lot cooler-headed than I am,” says the mother, in a flowing black-and-white dress. “When people are yelling and screaming and calling people names, I have to remember that I have to control my temper because she’s watching me.” The gathering spot is near Mary-Pat’s alma mater, Spelman College, and is noted as the historic launching pad for the Atlanta Student Movement.
“It breaks my heart,” says the younger Hector, of the reason for the march. “It’s been 80 days since we lost Breonna Taylor but nothing has happened to her murderers.”
At 1:30 p.m. she walks a block to the Russell Center for Innovation and Entrepreneurship, to talk to friend Kris Hale to make sure to reserve a few parking spots for marchers.
Back at the park, Cyntelia Abrams is an early arrival. She brings ice and water and her 6-year-old daughter, Harley. “I want her to be a part of it,” says Abrams, “to put her voice and her body behind her beliefs. I don’t want her to be afraid to protest.”
Zoe Bambara has also arrived. Her mother worries about her, but “My mama said ‘You’re over 18, I can’t tell you what to do.’”
“That’s not true,” says Hector. “No matter how old you are, black mamas will always tell you what to do.”
At 2:30 p.m. a Bluetooth speaker comes alive with music, including Janelle Monáe’s tune “Hell You Talmbout” with the chanted refrain, “Say her name!” Only about 75 marchers are in the park. Hector expects perhaps 300.
It’s 2:50 p.m. and activist lawyer Gerald Griggs gives the marshals a quick lesson. How many have been marshals before? About two hands out of 20 go up. So he shows them some hand signals. And tells them “It’s up to the marshals to make sure that people don’t get out of their lanes.” There is no police presence.
Around 3 p.m. Hector uses a portable public address system to summon the growing crowd,
standing in front of the park’s playground.
She invites several speakers to add their voices. Charlotte Haywood-Watkins, 27, a D J from Vine City, gestured to the group and said, “Donald Trump and those old, saggy, racist white men are afraid of this.” Her mother, Colette Haywood, gives the audience a short history lesson on the washer-woman’s strike of 1881.
Porsha Williams — Atlanta radio personality, featured member of the reality TV show “Real Housewives of Atlanta” and granddaughter of civil rights activist Hosea Williams — tells the group that even casual participants need to make the moment count. “I don’t give a damn if you came out here to take a (expletive) picture!”
At 4 p.m. marchers step into the street and turn left on Northside Drive, while marshals, clad in yellow bandanas, stop northbound traffic. The group has now grown to perhaps 800 to 1,000 members. They chant, “I love being black! I love the color of my skin! ‘Cause it’s the skin that I’m in! I love the texture of my hair! And I rock it everywhere!”
Porsha Williams is on the bullhorn, leading chants. Someone steps on Hector’s heel and almost pulls her sneaker off. She’s wearing an orange face-mask, but most of the time it is draped over her shoulder.
“Where is Zoe?” she cries out. “She needs to come to the front of the line.”
In minutes they are crossing the Mitchell Street bridge, headed toward City Hall, chanting, “Black girl magic!”
The crowd doesn’t slow. “I thought this was supposed to be a march,” says an out-of-breath participant. “This is more like a jog.”
Most of the downtown streets are empty. The demonstrators have no audience except the media.
4:30 p.m.: Screams go up as the marchers catch sight of another group of protestors up ahead on Mitchell Street, waiting to join them on the steps of City Hall.
Climbing those steps, Hector speaks to the group, her voice cracking with emotion: “We’ve got to say her name because too many black women have been killed. It’s been more than 80 days, while the murderers of Breonna Taylor are at home with their families.”
She introduces a handful of speakers, all of whom are women, but informs the men in the group that if they have something to say, they can tell a woman, and she can repeat it to the group. No men will be invited to speak.
5:55 p.m.: Hector poses for photos for a while, with youngsters black and white, and then she is gone, hoofing it back to Cleopas Park at a high rate of speed. The marchers, still carrying their signs, get honked horns and fists out of the windows of passing cars.
“The biggest moment for me this week was when (NFL commissioner) Roger Goodell got on television and said, ‘Black lives matter,’” says Hector, waiting to cross Northside Drive to return to the park. “If 75% of the NFL is black,” she adds, “then there is no reason Colin Kaepernick doesn’t have a job.”
At the park Kathy Hector helps gather up the unopened cases of bottled water, commenting, “This is the most hydrated movement there ever was.”
6:48 p.m. Mary-Pat and Kathy Hector head to their Stonecrest home for supper.
9:52 p.m.: Hector is lying in bed, still talking on the phone, and reflecting on the day’s events. “I’m very happy with how it turned out, despite the fact that there was so much going on. We saw hundreds of people say they wanted to be part of that event, to be in that space with us, which we truly appreciate.”
The next day she will meet with two NFL players who want to know how they can get involved. She says goodnight.