I stood in the middle of the road, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over me. My eyes scanned the remnants of the destruction around me. At the end of the block, a barricade of police officers stood firm, while scattered cars, their parts torn apart, lay flipped over. The businesses lining the block had been battered, their windows boarded up, and the rest of the street was consumed by flames.
The street acted as a divider, a clear line between the chaos and what remained untouched. On one side, the damage was apparent; on the other, a storm waiting to strike. But I wasn’t ready to choose between the two. I shouldn’t have to. I came here for a peaceful protest, and that was what I intended to do, no matter the circumstances. Yet, in the face of all this violence, I felt strangely useless perhaps more so than I had ever expected.
Ahead of me, an officer and a protester were locked in a struggle. The protester shouted in frustration, demanding to know why he was being arrested, while the officer said nothing. The silence that followed only seemed to fuel the tension. Silence, I thought bitterly. The kind of silence that always seems to come from the wrong side.
On the sidelines, bystanders were recording, their phones raised as though they were weapons. At a time like this, when those meant to protect us were the very ones attacking, how could we possibly turn to the police for help? There was no solution in that anymore. We were left to defend ourselves.
I knew that, among all this violence, I couldn't remain the same timid person I had always been. If I wanted to be heard, I needed to shed my doubts and act with purpose, even if it meant stepping outside myself. Summoning the courage I didn’t know I had, I dropped my carefully crafted poster onto the pavement and marched forward. I passed through the standoff between the cop and protester, and yet neither side seemed to take notice of me. Was I not doing enough?
I needed to make a statement, a stronger presence. I needed to move with more force. So I marched on, every step heavy, until I found a protester waving a bullhorn. Without hesitation, I took it from their hands, unsure of how to turn it on. I fumbled with the buttons before finally managing to get a grip.
“Everybody stop!” I yelled, my voice cutting through the air. “I have something to say, and you will listen!”
To my surprise, the crowd froze. Even the officer, who had been moments away from handcuffing the protester, paused and stared at me. I had their attention. This was what I wanted, even if it meant abandoning the person I once was.
I grabbed a nearby wooden box, climbed onto it for a bit of added height, and planted my feet firmly on the ground.
“What are you people doing? This is not what this protest was about!” I cried out, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. “I’m tired of the wrong people leading us using this as an excuse to loot, as if the law no longer matters! We have the right to protest, not the right to steal. This is not what we came here to do. I didn’t come here for this!”
I was shaking now, not just from the cold air, but from the realization that this violence, this chaos it was nothing like what I had imagined. It left me stranded in the middle of the street, uncertain. My voice seemed to fall silent in the face of the uproar. Was this the only way to be heard? Must I create havoc to get their attention? I shouldn’t have to do that.
Fighting fire with fire, I thought, will only make the fire worse. This...this destruction...was getting out of hand. How had it come to this?
And then, the thought of all those who had lost their lives at the hands of police their names forever etched in our fight. Breonna Taylor. George Floyd. Regis Korchinski-Paquet. Ahmaud Arbery. They never wanted this. They never deserved to die that way. And this? This was the reason we were here in the first place.
We had tried the civil way shouting, marching, standing strong for hours, even past curfew. But it felt like nothing we did mattered. The police ignored us, treated us as though we were invisible. But we didn't stop. We kept shouting. And then, one day, after hours of chanting "take a knee," it was finally heard—by the only female officer on the shift.
That small victory a single officer hearing us, understanding us was a glimmer of hope. And now, I had to make this clear.
“To all the ignorant officers who can’t kneel to show solidarity with the people you are supposed to serve: by kneeling, you take a stance. You stand with us, not above us. But by standing, it’s clear whose side you're on.”
I paused, raising my fist to the sky. “So take a bloody knee!”
And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. The protestors fell silent, then dropped to one knee. The sight was powerful, more than any words could express. It was as if every image captured by the crowd’s cameras said more than a thousand speeches.
The officer who had been arresting the protester before my interruption stood still, his gaze fixed on me. My words seemed to have stunned him, leaving him speechless just as I had felt not long ago. And then, something unexpected happened.
A smile crept onto his face. He placed his right hand on his thigh, lowered his left knee to the ground, and raised his right hand toward the sky.
“Black lives matter!” he yelled with all his might.
The crowd erupted. It was as though the entire street shook with the roar of pride, hope, and unity.
Standing atop my little cardboard pedestal, I wiped away a tear. The change I had thought was impossible just moments ago here it was. Before me, protesters and police officers were united in a single, powerful moment. I had made it happen.
From my vantage point, I saw the fires begin to die down, the barricades on the block dissipate, and cars being righted. It was a symbol of change, not just in this street but across the entire country.
With tears in my eyes and hope in my heart, I raised my hand once more into the air and shouted, “Black lives matter!”
Please this is entirely fictional,
Thank you for stopping by.
