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Written by DANNY WICENTOWSKI

Standing ten feet tall each and weighing a combined 24 tons, thousands of agpoles lie planted across Art Hill in Forest Park. If set end to end, the rows would stretch eleven miles, a re ection of the country’s long and terrible road through twenty years of war.

It’s a journey that’s only recently concluded with the U.S. formally leaving Afghanistan, though not without adding yet more loss, and more ags. Among the forest of ags is one representing Wentzville-born Lance Cpl. of the Marine Corps Jared Schmitz, one of thirteen U.S. service members killed on August 26 during a suicide bombing attack on the Kabul airport in Afghanistan.

This is the third such Flags of Valor event, which has been held every five years at Art Hill since the terrorist attacks of September , . n , on the fifteenth anniversary, the organizers needed only , ags.

This year required 7,582.

But in this forest of ags, among the faces of twenty-somethings staring out from small photos clipped with dog tags, there is the sound of children.

In one row, a little boy, impeccably dressed in a newsboy cap and vest, blows several piercing notes on his recorder as his mother, Krystal, snaps photos of the four-year-old from her spot on the grass.

He’s too young, of course, to know much about war or what the ags around him mean. But when he’s older, when he does understand, she wants him to be able to see himself in this place.

“I just want him to look back on this and see this as something he’s a part of,” she says. “I don’t know what he’s going to be when he grows up, you know? He might want to join the Army. This is something he can look back on and know what it was to experience this, and the people who lost their lives.” he ag memorial goes beyond just military service members. At the foot of the Grand Basin, the ags represent the first responders who perished in the 2001 attacks.

Nearby, a woman named Laurie watches her two grandsons, ages one and four, take turns gleefully blasting a stream of water from the pressurized hose of a fire truck parked onsite.

“I just told them that we’re lucky to have people who fight for our country,” she says, describing what she told the two boys as they walked through the ags toward the firefighters and their truck. “They don’t understand a whole lot yet, because they’re so little, but they will someday.”

At the top of Art Hill, in the shadow of the statue of King Louis IX, event volunteers Katy Kruze and Debbie Gui assist visitors with finding specific ags at which to pay respects.

The feeling of walking through the rows can be a kind of out-ofbody experience, Kruze says. She mentions that she had helped one man locate si ags, all young men he had known and who had died in Afghanistan.

“ ou see the ags, and there’s just no words,” Kruze offers. “To

stand amongst them, and to just hear dog tags in the wind, it’s ... .”

Next to her, Gui nods her head. She interjects to note that family members of Jared Schmitz, whose remains were escorted by thousands of people after arriving in St. Louis on September 8, have made multiple visits to his ag.

Gui’s own son, an Army combat engineer, has only recently completed his service with the military and returned home to continue his life. She can’t help but think about how many people his age didn’t get the chance.

“It hits close to home, to think about that,” she says. “To think that he wasn’t, but he could have been, a ag.

Near the western edge of Art Hill, the man whom she and Kruze helped locate si ags is still working through the list. James Presson had spent 30 years as a police officer in t. eters before signing on as a civilian contractor with the U.S. Department of Defense. He deployed to Afghanistan in 2010, eventually spending two years working and fighting alongside soldiers decades younger than him.

“I had the privilege of being boots on the ground with them,” he says.

“I was a civilian contractor, but I served two years with the Army. wore a uniform, carried a ri e. just looked like the next guy — except I was 51.”

On his visit to Art Hill last week, Presson wears the same dustcolored rucksack he carried in Afghanistan. The bag is stenciled with “JIMMY K,” an abbreviated nickname commended to him by a member of the 101st Airborne shortly after he arrived.

Though Presson was an outsider, the unit accepted him as their own. But on November 1, 2010, a suicide bomber attacked the unit after their return from a patrol. The blast instantly killed Army Pfc. Andrew Meari and wounded Sgt. Jonathan Curtis. In the ensuing firefight, resson says he and others struggled to cover ground on an embankment to reach Curtis and additional casualties.

Pulling out his phone, Presson retrieves a photo he took of Curtis’ ag and dog tags earlier that afternoon. Curtis had been 24, three years older than Meari.

“ urtis, he’s the one gave first aid to,” Presson recalls. “I thought that he was still breathing and showing signs of consciousness. I really thought that he was OK, and we patched him up and he got inside. I didn’t even know till later that he had died.

“It just broke my heart,” he adds, “because I thought we did something.”

Presson grew up already knowing the devastation of losing someone in war. His father perished in Vietnam in 1966, and over the years he says he came to lean on the veterans in his life for understanding and support. Now, walking through the ags on Art Hill with a list of six names, he’s hoping to provide similar support for the families of the young men he served with.

But he knows that nothing can replace a loved one. In St. Louis, the family of Jared Schmitz is hurting in ways he knows too well.

“With Jared coming home this week, my anxiety level was so high, because you know how the parents feel. I’ve been there when the knock comes on the door,” he says.

With the evening sun sending golden rays of light through Forest Park, Presson reaches out to a nearby ag, smoothing the fabric and folding it over in his fingers. It does him good, he says, every time he touches a ag and thinks about what it means, and the soldiers carried in its fibers.

“It warms my heart that there’s people who want to know, who want to come out and see this themselves and to be able to tell their grandkids about it,” he says. “I think that’s the part we have to learn, as far as healing. You do have to talk about it. Otherwise, you stay angry.” n

Written by DANNY WICENTOWSKI

Four years after taking the helm of the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department, Chief John Hayden announced last week that he will retire in February — a decision that’s now thrust the city, and its new mayor, into a familiar set of circumstances.

In 2017, it was a different newly elected mayor, Lyda Krewson, launching a national search to replace then-Chief Sam Dotson, who announced his resignation after meeting with Krewson during her first full day on the job. The circumstances strongly suggested the new mayor had leaned on the chief to leave or be fired.

That’s not how Hayden is going out. During a press conference on September 8, Mayor Tishaura Jones praised Hayden for “his willingness to work across administrations” and said he had acted as “an ally in our efforts to reimagine and improve public safety.”

Jones said she had been “a little bit” surprised when Hayden told her that he would retire on the day of his 35th anniversary with the department on February 23, 2022.

The search for a replacement begins immediately, Jones said, and will include candidates both from within the department and far outside it.

“We will look nationwide, as well as locally, for our next police chief,” she continued. “They will have to be forward thinking and ready to collaborate with communities across the city and across this region. They will guide officers to focus on violent crimes and partner with community members to ensure responsive community policing and engagement efforts.”

Under Hayden, Jones’ administration touted the launch of a Cops and Clinicians program that diverts emergency calls related to mental health issues to behavioral health professionals instead of police.

The ideal chief would continue those policies, Jones said, and also work to identify policing issues that could be “better solved with behavioral health and civilian intervention.”

Jones said her administration would engage in two listening sessions in October, while a survey available on the city’s website will collect suggestions from residents before an as-yet-to-be scheduled town hall.

The process is broadly similar to the effort Krewson launched before picking Hayden in 2017, choosing the veteran commander of the city’s North Patrol division. The search had similarly featured a town hall, where six candidates faced a crowd of community members with questions about how they would police St. Louis.

Protesters at that town hall repeatedly shouted down Lt. Colonel Lawrence O’Toole, the then-interim St. Louis police chief who led the department’s response to protests that summer. His officers had arrested hundreds of people during demonstrations, leading to dozens of lawsuits and even criminal charges against a group of white officers accused of brutally beating a Black undercover cop they thought was a protester. (In 2020, O’Toole filed a discrimination complaint alleging he was passed over for the permanent role as chief because he is white.)

Although Hayden had not been chief during the 2017 protests, he had worked the streets as a commander and presided over protest details at the time.

Asked during the press conference what lessons he drew from the challenges he faced as chief in 2017 after O’Toole, Hayden responded by pointing out that, unlike his predecessor, his officers’ conduct during the last four years had not sparked any national outrage or a stream of lawsuits.

“It’s about accountability,” he added. “I think we’ve learned that. I think that, to the people in my administration, [they know] that was very important to me, and I think it shows.”

Picking a new chief can be messy business, and it’s no small boon to St. Louis that Hayden appears to be leaving on good terms. Meanwhile, in St. Louis County, the fight over the role of police chief triggered an explosive discrimination lawsuit from a prospective candidate, Lt. Col. Troy Doyle, who alleged earlier this year that County Executive Sam Page blocked his elevation to chief because he is Black.

In July, the candidate who did get the job in the county, Mary Barton, tendered her own resignation after serving just fifteen months as chief. She’s filed a discrimination complaint of her own.

As for Hayden, he appeared at last week’s press conference alongside Jones and Public Safety Director (and former St. Louis police chief) Dan Isom.

Hayden called his four years as chief “an honor of a lifetime.”

Referring to Jones and Isom, he said, “I want them to know that I’m extremely appreciative of them allowing me to be a part of this administration. This decision was carefully and prayerfully considered by myself and my family. We all believe that it is time for me to pass the proverbial torch.” n

Written by MADYSON DIXON

Last month, House of Goods was beginning preparations for the Afghan refugees arriving in St. Louis when thieves threw a wrench into its operations. Workers arrived on the morning of August 18 ready to organize donations and deliver furniture and other home goods to those in need only to find the catalytic converters stolen from the organization’s two delivery trucks.

House of Goods is a nonprofit affiliated with the Islamic Foundation of Greater St. Louis, organized to help refugees get settled in. Although many of those who receive donations are Muslim, it isn’t a requirement. House of Goods opens its doors to anyone in need.

Lisa Grozdanic, the Islamic Foundation of Greater St. Louis’ task manager and outreach coordinator, manages all of the House of Goods donations and deliveries. Grozdanic says this is the third time the nonprofit’s two moving trucks have been hit. With the trucks temporarily inoperable, volunteers were only able to pick up smaller items, such as clothes and food, rather than the larger items, like furniture.

The timing could not have been worse. Four Afghan families have already been placed with more expected to be arriving soon. Refugees typically hear about the service through word of mouth or through other organizations that House of Goods is associated with. This makes being prepared even more important.

“Right now, with the Afghans coming and us collecting donations, we’re so packed, and we have so many pickups that we’ve had to cancel or put on hold,” Grozdanic says. “We’re so packed, and then when they stole the catalytic converter it was like everything was happening at the same time.”

With House of Goods unable to make large deliveries, donations started piling up at the intake center within a week. But both trucks have since been repaired. Grozdanic says this was done partially through donations and partially through the Islamic Foundation of Greater St. Louis.

“The amount of donations we’ve received, thank God people have been very generous. So we’re trying to keep up by putting all the items away and at the same time collecting. Right now, since we haven’t had a truck, it’s been work,” Grozdanic says. “Right now, the most help you can give is your hands.”

House of Goods accepts donations from 8 a.m. to noon Monday-Thursday and on Saturdays. If interested in volunteering, call House of Goods at 314-8333300. n

Written by JENNA JONES

Leading with her activist roots, Missouri Representative Cori Bush began a chant last week on the steps of the Old Courthouse.

“When reproductive freedom is under attack, what do we do?” Bush asked the crowd.

“Stand up, fight back!” the crowd chorused back to her.

More than 100 people gathered on the steps and around the Old Courthouse to listen to Bush, St. Louis Mayor Tishaura Jones and other local leaders speak out against the six-week abortion ban in Texas and the copycat laws that are expected to follow.

The Texas ban took affect on September 1, after the U.S. Supreme Court declined to act by a midnight deadline. The Court later voted 5-4 not block the law as opponents mounted a legal challenge. Abortion rights groups have fought the Texas ban, not only for its six-week deadline effectively banning abortion before most people know they are pregnant, but also for the way its structure, which allows citizens to sue anyone who helps someone obtain an abortion. Opponents have called that aspect an “abortion bounty.”

Since the law passed, St. Louis-area clinics have said they’re preparing for an influx of patients from Texas. The organizations are also preparing for the possibility that Missouri’s Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals will uphold the eight-week abortion ban Missouri passed in 2019. At last week’s rally, speakers pledged they would not let reproductive freedom be taken away without a fight.

“Let me be crystal clear, this is not just a Texas problem, it’s everybody’s problem,” Reproductive Health Services of Planned Parenthood’s St. Louis Region President and CEO Yamelsie Rodríguez told the crowd. “We don’t have to guess what a post-Roe world looks like. That day has already arrived if you’re a patient with a low income, if you live in one of the 90 percent of counties without an abortion provider, and now, almost certainly, if you are a patient who lives in Texas. Now is the time to get loud.”

The rally drew a diverse group. Many held pink and purple signs that advocated to protect reproductive rights. There were mothers and their children, men and women, a protestor dressed up in a red cloak as a nod to the show The Handmaid’s Tale, and college students. The protest chants were backed up by passing cars honking along in solidarity.

Ashton Otte felt attending the rally was the best way to show her support for the fight against abortion bans. She said showing up and putting public pressure on legislators is the most important thing you can do besides vote.

“So much of this legislation and decision making about people’s bodies happens in offices behind closed doors,” Otte says. “So to show up in person in large numbers, it really shows that we are real people being affected by these completely deranged bills and we won’t stay silent about it.”

There were about five anti-abortion protesters who largely remained silent but began shouting at speaker Cora Faith Walker, a former state representative who now works as St. Louis County Executive Sam Page’s chief police officer. One man joined the pro-lifers early on, carrying two baby dolls and shouting “Black babies matter” throughout the speeches. He left after crowd members told him to quiet down.

Rodríguez said Planned Parenthood has never backed down from a fight before and they weren’t going to now. Jones and Bush also promised to do everything in their power to fight against the abortion bans.

Jones said St. Louis “will not idly sit by” as Texans come to the area for care and “our city continues to face attacks from Jefferson City politicians who think they know better than we do about how to raise our families and make our own healthcare decisions.”

Bush told the crowd she would continue to fight on the national level, pledging her support to the cause. She even shared her own abortion story, something she said she had never told anyone until that moment.

The congresswoman then called on her colleagues to help her end the filibuster, pass legislation that would guarantee a woman’s right to choose in the event Roe v. Wade was overturned and expand the Supreme Court to “restore ideological balance.”

Hours later, the United States Justice Department announced a lawsuit against Texas, describing the ban as unconstitutional.

The rally ended the way it began, with another chant — this one begun by Walker. “We are unstoppable, another world is possible” could be heard down the street as the crowd dispersed, still carrying their pink and purple signs. n