An Open Letter from a Radical Millennial
“Say his name — George Floyd…
“Say her name — Breonna Taylor…
“Say his name — Ahmaud Arbery…”
The chants went on like this, the ensanguined well of names never running dry.
I arrived, clad in denim bell bottoms, my oversized pink-hued sunglasses (Steinem style, of course) perched on top of my black mask — a delicate meshing of 1969 and 2020, in more ways than one.
The protestors — a bit over a hundred of them — had claimed their spots, wrapping the length of the curb, marching repeatedly in the cyclical square of the intersection; a young man balanced on the city’s “welcome” sign, megaphone in-hand.
“No Trump, no KKK, no fascist USA,” he chanted from the sign, a friend standing alongside and pumping his fist in harmony with the words. The man with the megaphone stood firm, his fist held as high as his arm would allow.
The echo of the crowd was ferocious, loaded with angst, sadness, and the overwhelming desire for overdue change, drowned out only by the honks of passing cars. Some travelers passed going the whole 45 miles per hour the speed limit allotted, a quick burst of acknowledgement escaping their horns; some slowed down, one in line with the other, a symphonic chorus of horns, fists skyward with purpose (some offered a peace sign or an enthusiastic thumbs up); one pulled over and passed out bottles of water to the protestors, “Fuck the Police” by NWA announcing their arrival through their car’s vibrating speakers.
Traffic slowed for a moment and I allowed my arms to rest, setting my hastily written sign down on the grass next to me, balanced against my left leg. I turned my head to give my hair a forgiving break from the zephyr quickly picking up pace, only to be stopped by the sight of a lone Muslim man centered on the ground in the middle of a prayer. He rose from the damp earth, wiped the lingering blades of grass from his clothes, and silently rejoined the increasing herd of protestors.
Just behind the Muslim man, a young black man with gentle eyes and a smile I could feel through his fabric mask hoisted a case of water upon his shoulder and made his rounds offering the bottles to protestors; I genially declined, but thanked him nonetheless. Crossing paths with him was a hispanic woman clutching an industrial sized bottle of hand sanitizer, her voice a barely audible rasp offering the sanitizer to the crowd.
“I came from a different event across town,” I overheard her say to someone as she placed a dollop of the solution in their cupped hands. “But I figured I’d see how you guys were doing over here.”
Then a long, continuous, triumphant honk drew me back to the street; I remembered the sign still resting against my leg, the corner of it enveloped in the extra fabric of my bell bottoms. I lifted the poster board high over my head to be met with the gaze of a teary-eyed elderly woman — one who had clearly witnessed the scene before her too many times. She leaned her frail body out of the passenger window, her dangling peace sign earrings catching a gust of wind, and slowly pierced the air with a trembling fist. She held it there for a long moment, looked at every single pair of eyes she could make contact with, gave a solitary nod of affirmation and encouragement, and then she was gone.
My eyes focused across the street, a break in traffic allowing me to read a sign a good distance away; a solitary man stood with his arms crossed, his weight against a cement wall that also served as a barricade for the dumpsters belonging to the 7/11 behind him. The sign, plastered to the wall bolstering him, read, “We Support Our Police!” I wasn’t entirely sure who “we” was supposed to be, since he remained unaccompanied for the duration of the protest.
For a brief moment, I looked at the protest as though I was the clandestine symbol of opposition standing across from me. Although our chants included the names of innocent black lives lost at the hands of white supremacy outside of a police precinct (Ahmaud Arbery and Trayvon Martin, to name a couple), all our adversaries heard was, “We hate cops.” Our message’s clarity was completely muddled.
Activists for Black Lives Matter and allies of people of color are not solely fighting against police brutality — that is the pernicious cherry on top. It is an all-encompassing fight against systemic oppression (a term flung around incessantly on social media) and white supremacy, particularly in relation to the degradation of black lives. We know not all cops are killers; we know not all white people are racist. But we are tired of seeing black people’s names next to hashtags, and we are tired of being met with resistance to what we see as an inherent right to human life and existence.
The best part about a revolution is the uncomfortability it causes. If protests were a routine activity, they would hardly make a difference. Change arises from discomfort; marginalized voices are louder in unison. We have your attention, and we intend to make you uncomfortable. An excessive list of names of slain black people should make you uncomfortable — it should warrant change.
And, as I let my eyes wander around the protest I attended on that blustery Saturday afternoon, I saw nothing but unity and love; I saw frustration translated into action; I saw the brink of a revolution. Even our anonymous adversary, shrouded in the shadows of the convenience store, challenged us peacefully.
Since that day, the entire world has erupted in protest; all fifty states, around fifty countries, and all seven continents have stood in solidarity. As rioters and looters attempt to hide behind the protestors and soil the name of Black Lives Matter, the real freedom fighters are standing, unshakeable, fists to the sky.
The movement will not be stifled.
As civil rights activist, feminist, and lawyer Florynce Kennedy once said: “You’ve got to rattle your cage door. You’ve got to let them know that you’re in there and that you want out. Make noise. Cause trouble. You may not win right away, but you’ll sure have a lot more fun.”
And, boy, has the fun just begun.
