History Is Happening In Manhattan

The fight had been ugly.

I hadn't argued with my mother like that in years, but this was important to me, and I wasn't going to go down without a fight.

"I don't feel comfortable letting you go at all, especially not by yourself!"

"Your fears shouldn't be the same as mine!"

But that's over, and she won. Or at least she thought she had. I'm going to go anyway. I always was.

I shoved the last of my things in my small gym bag and zipped it closed with a sigh.

She thought I wouldn't even want to do it, too many people. Too loud. It can be hard to explain to her how my anxiety works when every time I talk to her, she somehow gets the impression that I'm "Being rude" or "Talking back".

She knows that I was, and still am, to some extent, a very loud, confident, and outgoing kid. I don't know what goes on in her head, but I'm willing to do anything I can to show that I can change the Goddamn world.

I hoist my bag over my shoulder with a huff.

Good, It's not too heavy—the perfect weight for if I have to... run.

I pause by my window. Am I seriously doing this? It could be dangerous... maybe... mom was right?

With that thought, I opened the window and climbed on to the fire escape.

It was quiet out, a little too quiet for New York, even the Bronx. I could either take a bus and hope that it wasn't too crowded or take my bike and hope it didn't get stolen.

The fire escape was rusty, and it felt like I was going to fall through it at any moment. I had to be quiet. I lived on the fifth floor, so I needed to make sure that nobody saw me go past their bedroom windows. I hoped the other people in my apartment complex had their curtains closed. I figured it would be best if I just went by as quickly as possible without stopping to check.

When I got to the bottom, I climbed down the ladder a bit and jumped, landing on the front of my feet, so dropping from that high wouldn't hurt, and catch myself by placing a hand on the floor when I fall.

A bit of subtle anxiety started to form in my stomach—a mix of nervousness and exhilaration. I stood up and brushed myself off, then turned around and looked up to see exactly how high it was. I reached up and concluded I was just tall enough to grab the bottom ladder if I jumped, thank God, I did NOT want to have to sneak threw the front door on my way back.

I turned on my heel and started down the sidewalk, passing a group of smoking middle school kids that were watching me and talking to one another loudly.

I made sure not to make eye contact and got hit in the face with the stench of weed as I walked by. I scrunched up my nose, trying to get out of the zone of the smell. It was strange, I should have been used to it, considering the smell ominously haunted every staircase in my Bronx public high school, but I guess my immunity had faded since quarantine started. Which meant I'd have to get used to the smell all over when school started up again.

I sighed and dug in my bag for my mask and MetroCard as I drew nearer to the bus stop. It would be a few stops on the 10, and then three or so blocks to get into the place in the city where one of the protests were happening.

I put my hood over my head and pulled the drawstrings to cover my hair. Before cutting it, it would have been too big and curly to fit under a hood, so I suppose it was a good thing I cut my hair before quarantine started.

I sat at the bus stop for a good few minutes, bouncing my leg in anticipation until I took out my phone and headphones and opened TikTok. The first thing I saw was a girl in tears. Fuck, I can't watch this, not now. It feels like everything is going to explode out of me, all the fear and exhaustion and anger. But she looks so desperate, and she's begging to be heard. So I do all I feel I can, and listen.

I feel a lump in my throat that I struggle to swallow. I tilt my head back slightly. Still focusing on the video, I turn my phone off right after it's done. I take a shaky breath and remind myself why I'm doing this.

Another black man had gone missing yesterday, right after a protest.

I look up. A cool breeze broke through the heat of the night, one that felt like a breath of fresh air.

Hell, I could be next. Another missing person of color who was trying to get their voice heard. With that thought, I take my phone out to text a friend about what I'm doing.

Are you sure that's a good idea?

                                                                                                                      Probably not

                                                                                              but I feel like I have to ya know?

I guess

OK man, just send me your location

and for fucks sake dude don't get killed               

                                                                                                               [: Location Sent :]  

I check to see if the bus is coming, and a cop car pulls around the corner—my breath hitches in my throat. I slowly take my hood off, deciding I'd keep it that way until I got where I was going.

"Great." I say aloud after it passes, and laugh at myself, "Great fucking timing." I probably overreacted. It was just because I was thinking about that stuff. I wouldn't have been that startled on an average day. It was just because I was thinking. That's all.

After some time the bus pulled up. I pulled my mask over my face and made my way to the far back. I sat down and closed my eyes, leaning my head against the back wall.

There are almost no people on the bus, except for a woman that seemed to be in her 40s, sitting centered, applying lipstick.

It's strange, the thought of how fucked up the world is right now, and people were calmly going about there lives. But what else were they supposed to do? Spend every second of every day trying to change the world when they had their own problems to deal with?

God, I hate it here. Genuinely, I really fucking hate it here. I want nothing more than to pick up and leave, go somewhere where I don't have to spend every fucking day of my life worrying about the safety myself and my family and just... people in general.

Someplace like, I don't know, New Zealand. I hear it's nice there, or at least Canada. Canada has to at least be better than this.

For a moment I finally felt like I was able to think, the sound of passing cars and the movement of the bus calmed me down a bit.

Maybe I should have bought goggles. I think milk can cause an infection when poured in eyes after tear gas. Why was water bad to use again?

I was able to get lost in my thoughts, they weren't the best thoughts, but I felt weirdly calm, yet scared at the same time. I had to admit I was scared. The suppression of my fear was leading to an empty feeling.

Damn it, I couldn't let myself fall into this now. Why does it show up at the worst time? Every damn time.

I felt it seep into my bones and pull my shoulders down. I felt it dig into my guts and press down on my lungs.

With a heavy sigh, I pulled my phone back out. I needed something, anything to bring me back to the now invisible passion that had caused me to climb threw the window not long ago. Looking threw it and trying my fairly fucking hardest to bring the anger out from under whatever was actively and unconsciously trying to suppress it.

I was feeling oh so slightly better when the view outside the window started to look familiar. As the bus came to a stop I hoped of, scrunching my face, the wind seemed to be blowing faster than before.

The cool air nearly felt like it was somehow urging me along as I headed towards where I knew the protest would be. I heard noise and music coming from a street a few blocks ahead, and before I knew it my discomfort turned into anticipation.

I was nearly running now, but I slowed as I turned the corner to see what was happening before me.

My eyes widened, way down the city street were what looked like thousands of people, marching threw the darkness, chanting and singing. I was so far away from it, but my feet dragged me down the street, and into the chaos.

The commotion on the streets was similar to what I've seen online, yet different. There were no fires, for one. But there were people playing music as I'd never heard it before. There was singing, and people chanting and dancing. People held up signs and talked among one another. People, just people, black and white, and in between.

In the near distance, I could see someone holding up a large sign that said "Black Trans Lives Matter. Tony McDade. Riah Milton. Dominique Fells. Tasha Williams. Say their names."

I couldn't help but stare in awe at the sight. People, put down, ignored beaten, and killed for who they were. Being remembered, being spoken about. By people who cared.

I could feel my face light up, a glowing sensation of pride in me.

Sure, I was just one person, going to protest in a crowd of thousands. But if everyone thought that way. If everyone thought, "I'm just one person, what could I do?"

We would have no one. It was crazy, how every complete normal person here was working to help something bigger than themselves. Every person here was helping to hold up a collapsing building, they could leave at any time they wanted, I suppose, but the fewer people tried, the more likely it would be to fall.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was apart of something bigger than myself.

Over the time I spent there, I would rotate from being near the front of the protest, holding my fist in the air and being as loud as I could chanting and shouting, and at times my feet would get tired, and I would linger on the side of the street watching people go by, and letting the coolness of the night wash over me in a gentle and calming fashion.

I hear a man above the crowd speak in a booming voice, and I look up. He's standing on a white car. A woman is yelling at him to get off, but others around him were cheering him on. He sounded like he was preaching, talking about the future, the past, and his sister who had passed away a few months ago.

Standing a few feet away and looking up at him a distance from the gathered crowd, I was able to hear the story of his little sister. She was sick, her symptoms were making him throw up constantly. The doctor had chalked it up to the stomach flu, saying that it wasn't all that big a deal. But it wasn't, and she died from a stroke. She was misdiagnosed and had diabetes. The doctors were white, and they acted annoyed every time she went back to them, insisting that something must be wrong. She was 23

Diabetes. People shouldn't be dying from diabetes. Not that fucking young. I feel the anger bubble up inside of me again.

And then I hear the sirens. I turn to look down the street, there were a lot more people then there were before. And cop cars were pulling up on the street ahead. It all happened so fast after that. 

The crowd grew louder. And I fond myself sprinting towards the front. I saw the officers holding the barricades, people were yelling in their faces. Throwing things at them. There was a fire in the corner of my eye. I almost laughed at how chaotic everything was. Then I saw the tear gas.

What the hell? We weren't rioting. We werent doing anything. Yeah, ok, someone started a fucking trash fire and stood on a car. But why in the hell did we deserve to be tear-gassed because of that?

I was shaken from my thoughts by the screaming and scattering of people. I was frozen for a good few moments before I turned on my heal and booked it down the crowded street as fast as I could.

I had to hold my shirt over my face and mouth as the gas began seeping into my mask and making me cough. I kept hearing the shots of the tear gas behind us.

At one point I turned to see what was happening behind me. There was so much gas in the air. I accidentally took a deep breath and I started coughing heavily.

People where speeding passed me, turning down corners to getaway.

"We've got to go!"

"Wait whats happening?"

"They're sending more police cars this way, they're gonna try to block us in we have to go now!"

I heard two people talking, and my heart jumped in my chest. The fear felt more real than ever, I started running.

Something Ive noticed, your body adamantly makes you push yourself faster, no matter how slow you normally are, when your running in fear. I heard one scream and turned to where it was coming from. A girl, about my age, was holding tear gas. Crying and with, dirt and suet on her face and in her curly hair. She let out an angry scream that cut into my heart, threw it like a football towards the police and turned to run.

She fell on the ground the second she turned to run. People speed past her as another police car on the other side of the street began to come into view.

For a moment, I turned to run in her direction, But someone else got to her first. They helped her up and half-carried her as they ran off.

I felt my face get hot, why did I feel embarrassed for attempting to help her?

I looked around, then took off. Running along the sidewalk I came across a narrow ally way that lead to another street. I ran down that way, then down the road in the opposite direction.

I crossed the street on that Side. Luckily the police were mainly focused on that one street. Pulling my hood back up over my head, I walked off, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

I was lost for a while. Just speed walking straight down the road. Not stopping to check my phone or wash out my eyes until, of course, it got unbearable. Then I stopped on the front steps of a building and pored water in my eyes, trying to flush them out. Afterwards I only had little bit of water left. I hoped I wouldn't get thirsty on my way back.

Then I just sat there, breathing heavily. Rubbing my legs and trying to catch my breath. I couldnt tell if I was crying because of the gas or because I was kind of traumatized.

I laugh at myself almost manically. It echoed down the near-empty street. I pull out my phone. Its 4:30 am. The screen brightness hurt my eyes. How in the hell was I gonna get a ride at this time?

A few minutes and a phone call from my worried friends later, I was on a train home, trying not to fall asleep. People on the train were looking at me weird, probably thinking "Why is that kid so sweaty?" or "Why does that kid low-key look like he just got back from hiding a body?" or "Why is some random kid on the subway at 4 in the fucking morning?" and honestly, I just didn't give a fuck anymore.

When I get to my stop I had to put all my effort into dragging myself out of my chair and up the stairs. I almost take the elevator. But I'm not that tired. I will never be that tried. I try to convince myself that I made the right choice while dragging myself up the stairs by reminding myself those fucking elevators always smelled like piss and old people. And then I walked home.

When I got to my apartment I almost couldnt pull myself up the ladder, but I was able to make it up by swinging my feet onto the bottom bar and climbing up.

When I get into my room the first thing I want to do is collapse and fall asleep. But I knew I had to clean up and cover my tracks first.

I put but the bag and my things away (by simply shoving them in my closet), quietly sneaking into the bathroom to wash up and change (which felt fucking amazing) and turning the AC in my room on.

Laying in bed at five in the morning I couldn't believe what happened. I wanted to make as much of a difference as a could, but did I do anything? Was it worth it? Going up against a whole system..? I dont know. I have no idea how this is going to end. For anybody.

I turned on my side and curled up.

There was one thing I could count on. So long as people stood up. So long as we kept pushing for change, there was hope.

As long as we keep fucking fighting. We'll have stories to tell, so people know we fought. So they know, far in the future form now, we didn't. and we wouldn't sit and take it. And they can never take that away.

"I may not live to see our glory.

But I will gladly join the fight.

And when our children tell our story.

They'll tell the story of tonight.

They'll tell the story of tonight."