By Nick Valencia
ATLANTA— Twelve years ago, I stood on the streets of Baltimore. The tear gas was unforgiving. It reminded me of Ferguson. Of Baton Rouge. Of Charlotte. Of New York. Of so many American cities where the streets became more than streets — they became the country’s conscience.
From Michael Brown to George Floyd, from Walter Scott to Ronald Greene — I’ve spent the better part of a decade documenting protests across this country. What I’ve seen, over and over again, is a pattern few outside the field ever really grasp. Movements may look like a singular mass from a distance, but up close, there’s a layered complexity in who actually shows up.
There are, broadly speaking, three kinds of people who come to these protests.
The first are the sincere believers. They’re the soul of the movement — the reason why people like Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi spoke of the moral force of peaceful resistance. These are the parents and students, the artists and organizers, the workers and elders. They show up with respect, and purpose. In Los Angeles last week, I watched a crowd move through the city with clarity. The signs were sharp. The chants were intentional. Their historical awareness was palpable. Many referenced Proposition 187 — the 1994 California ballot initiative that sought to bar undocumented immigrants from public services — recognizing the chilling parallels between that era and the climate of fear gripping immigrant communities again today.
The second group is harder to categorize. Some call them professionals, though that label feels off. They’re not always part of an organization. But they know what they’re doing. You see the same faces across different cities, years apart — often with gas masks tucked in their bags, med kits strapped to their waists, and legal aid numbers scrawled on their forearms. I remember one woman I first saw at a protest in Manhattan. Months later, I spotted her again in Charlotte, standing on the front line, eye to eye with a riot officer. Her movements were unflinching. Her hands steady. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She moved like someone who understood the dance — the choreography of resistance.
Then there is the third group: the opportunists. The ones who come not for the cause, but for the chaos. Petty thieves, taggers, low-level criminals who wait for confusion to spread and for police lines to shift. At one protest in Los Angeles, a young man approached me and asked, “Hey, how many followers do you have watching?” I told him, “Not many right now.” He laughed, leaned into the frame, and said, “I’m just out here to have some fun.” A moment later, his friend spray-painted a nearby wall — the tag had nothing to do with the movement. It looked more like a crew’s signature than a political statement.
To confuse these three groups — or worse, to collapse them into one indistinguishable “mob” — is to miss the nuance and, more dangerously, to delegitimize legitimate dissent.
They may march on the same street. They may chant in unison. But they are not one group.
The overwhelming majority of people I saw last week in Los Angeles were thoughtful and deliberate. They carried with them quiet conviction — and stories. Stories of a co-worker deported. A neighbor detained. A family member too afraid to report a crime because of their immigration status. These people weren’t there for spectacle. They were there because they understood, viscerally, what was at stake.
There’s always been a temptation — by pundits, police, even well-meaning allies — to paint protest movements with a broad brush. But if my years on the ground have taught me anything, it’s this:
The street tells its own truth — if you’re willing to listen.