March 21st, Vallejo Police station,111 Amador Street, CA, from 3:00–5:00 pm
Photographs by Chris Tuite.
When I was eleven years old, I got my first diary. I wrote about two remarkable events. The first was about getting my first “training” bra, as if one’s breasts’ could be trained to become. I also wrote about my first concert, Sonny and Cher. Cher felt Amazonian to me with her deep voice and tall, lanky body and it was a big note to my pre-pubescent self. However, on many days, I wrote that “nothing happened.” This is exactly how I would describe my day at the Vallejo Station.
When I arrived, there wasn’t an obvious and easy place to put myself. I walked around to the top of the steps, saw the disability ramp to my right, and very little room near the doorway. I circled around once again and sensed my hesitancy on where to kneel. Then, I decided that having the cape on the steps would be the best approach, but a friend had warned me that the Vallejo police were known to be “very aggressive.” So I parked myself on the 5th step below the platform to the door. This meant that I had to kneel with both knees.
When I have one knee on the ground and one foot ahead, I feel stable, contained and strong. But kneeling with both knees is vulnerable. It connotes subservience and prayer. So there I was on both knees, wobbly, and I could see the pure black reflective glass of the station ahead. I could see what was behind me too. But I couldn’t see in. The police were able to watch me clear as crystal through their mirrored doors and big cameras above. I felt incredibly susceptible to danger.
Time clicked on…. I thought this is going to be grueling. And it was. I tried to focus on my breath and this requires the utmost patience. Because I could see what was behind me by looking at the reflective glass, little vignettes lit my imagination. I saw my photographer hiding between cars, like a detective, and I found that ironic, almost funny. Across the street, I could see a man walk down his porch stairs, and walk back up. Was he going to come over? I saw other people on the street, looking for long instances, but they never approached my cape directly. Why?
Eventually, a white male pedestrian passed by and punched his fist into the air. I kept returning to my breath, a prayer for calm. After an hour, I decided to move closer to the top of the steps, but not all the way. So I crawled up on my knees two flights more. I waited there for a while, creating more stories in my mind about what the cops might be thinking or saying inside the station. Two big police cars drove by at a crawl. I’d hoped they would step out and begin a conversation.
After some time, I finally made my way to the top step. Deep inside, I felt like an 11 year old trying to get an adult to see me, daring them, by moving closer. I put myself right at their door. Now I could kneel with one foot in front of me. What a fu*#king relief. Would the police come out now? Nothing happened. I waited. I was still and I felt the rise and fall of my chest. Nothing happened. With a long sigh, I watched palm fronds reflected in the glass undulate across the sky with ease, rhythm, and rootedness. As I gazed into the singsong sway of their movement, I thought, at least there was this.