CLEVELAND — The three young street medics stand under a tree, watching carefully as a member of the Westboro Baptist Church rants through a bullhorn about gays and God. Nearby, a group of communists calls for revolution. Both groups are surrounded by a cordon of police and crowds of gawkers.
Members of the media circle the area with cameras, looking for the best angles. As the crowds grows restless, the police swing into action, pushing through and dividing the crowd shouting: "Move back, move back!"
But the three medics aren't looking at the action. They're looking for people who need help.
This is Public Square in Cleveland, a center for protests just outside the Republican National Convention. So far there have been few arrests and few injuries. But the Rust Belt Street Medics are there, just in case, walking alongside marchers and circling among demonstrators.
More than 100 of them, volunteers all, are working in Cleveland during the RNC, dispensing everything from water to herbal tinctures. They all have at least 20 hours of training provided by a street medic organization, but some are also veterans of many past protests or are local medical students.
They each wear the street medic badge, a square of white cloth pinned to their shirts and on their backpacks, filled with first aid supplies. A red circle with white letters reads "Street Medic, RNC 2016", surrounding the emergency medicine symbol – the star of life – and a snake wrapped around an arm leading to a raised fist.
Each medic approached by The Cincinnati Enquirer politely refuse to talk. Most said they were busy — because they were.
Leah Wolfe speaks on their behalf. She's a co-coordinator of the street medics in Cleveland who lives northeast of Cleveland.
Street medics date back to civil rights demonstrations in the 1960s, predating the practice of emergency medicine as we know it. They're now a common site at large protests, including the various incarnations of the Occupy movement that sprang up in 2011.
The medics stay among activists, demonstrators and marchers, to help when emergency medical personnel may not be ready at hand. The medics make sure the activists can make their case, whether they're hit by tear gas or the hot sun's rays.
"When you're sustaining a social justice movement, you want people to be able to walk those three miles, even if they're not used to it," Wolfe said.
One street medic sits outside the Church Street wellness center — the hub for RNC street medics, to greet any who arrive needing help. She takes a good long look at an approaching reporter, and she's got his number. He's sweating (good), flushed (bad), so definitely in need of water and some electrolytes.
"Do you want some electrolytes?" she asks, and it's not a question. She makes sure he drinks the briny water.
The wellness center is a haven for the medics and anyone else needing care, physical, psychologically or otherwise, during the RNC. A warm yellow light from tall stained-glass windows bathes the interior of the wellness center, a former church undergoing renovations. Inside the space water, a tiny kitchen, food, basic medicine and a tall silver container of hot tea with the label "Calm in the streets, quick on your feet."
A street medic named Tom (he declined to give his last name) is from St. Louis, and has served as a street medic in several places, most recently the Ferguson protests. He rifles through his medic bag, explaining what he's carrying: Among other things, bandages, mask, candy for those with low blood sugar, eyewash and a liquid to take away the sting of tear gas.
"It's always a balance between what you think you're going to need and what you can carry," he said.
Outside on the grass in front of the old church, a dozen medics eat tacos before an evening meeting. It's a cool, shady spot as the sun sets. Wolfe studied public heath, specifically disaster preparedness and a population's resiliency. Events like the Cleveland demonstrations are practice, a proving ground for those who can help when there aren't other options.
"I consider this kind of event as training for a real disaster," she said.
Meanwhile, not even two miles away, her fellow medics are walking the streets in the heat, watching -- always watching.
It has been relatively quiet at the Republican National Convention, but you just never know.
Jeremy Fugleberg writes for The Cincinnati Enquirer. Follow on Twitter: @jayfug
