By Sarah Portlock
Deloris Gillespie wants one minute to talk, just one minute. But it’s 9 pm on the dot and it’s time to end the two-hour community meeting, and she has already had her turn to speak.
Earlier, Gillespie, an older black woman, railed about the gentrifying masses to her Prospect Heights neighborhood who, with their strollers en masse, won’t move to the side and let her pass on the sidewalk. The 30-person audience was comprised mostly of the accused gentrifiers and listened with rapt attention, even while shifting in their seats and exchanging glances with each other.
The question now presented to the meeting moderator was if she could speak again. The moderator had asked if anyone had any last-minute questions. Gillespie raised her hand. But was she overstepping her bounds? The tension was tight.
“Just one minute. I’m just getting warm,” she pleaded.
The moderator kept a straight face. “P.S. 9 has graciously stayed open late for us,” she started. Our two hours are up, she said. The meeting must end.
“One minute,” Gillespie, who rose to stand, responded.
The 300-seat auditorium was silent. The two women stared at each other. Thirty seconds passed.
“Ok-.” The moderator glanced again at the clock in the back of the vast room, her smart boxy blazer twisting around her petite frame as she turned. “You have one minute.”
Gillespie launched into a rallying cry about her upstairs neighbor who robs her and people on the street in the mornings. “He preys on the elderly,” she starts. “He wears clothes like he’s going to work,” and she pointed to her khakis. “But he doesn’t, he robs you and then he goes home.” She pauses and moves her gaze to the moderator again. The moderator is studying Gillespie’s every word.
Gillespie stops talking
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