Inside The Revolution: Black Lives Matter
It is June 2nd, 2020 and I am preparing to walk from the East Village to Foley Square to stand with the Black Lives Matter movement upon the wake of the recent police murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis, Minnesota and participate in the protest against police brutality and the systemic racism that has plagued America since its birth. As I begin to walk, I trail behind a group of white women with signs that read “Black Lives Matter” and “silence is violence.” “Are you guys heading to Foley Square?” I asked loudly through my surgical mask. “Yes, we are, are you by yourself?” they asked me.
I was. I was heading to my first protest for Black Lives Matter, I was meeting others, and I was alone. “I’m gonna walk behind you ladies, 6 feet of course” I joked. They smiled and continued to walk ahead. The anxiety of attending the protest on my own was building with my every step towards Foley. “It was the middle of the day”, I kept repeating that to myself every time the thought of being confronted by aggressive NYPD officers crept into my mind; who I knew didn't care if I was a small 5 '2, 21 year-old woman. I was still a Black woman.
I asked myself: “What am I going to do if I get arrested?”, “What am I going to do if I get tear gassed?”, and “What am I going to do if I am forced to watch one of my fellow protestors be confronted with violence?” “It’s the middle of the day, Grace,”
As soon as I get near the square, I start to blast the lyrics of Kendrick Lamar, Donald Glover, and Beyoncé Knowles, my modern-day social justice anthems, which reminds me of the reason I am attending this protest. What scares me more than being alone at protest is the thought of my Black children having to go protest these same issues 30 years from now. What scares me is every moment I see my young, intellectual, Black brother get into his car to drive to work. I worry he might get pulled over and it will be the last time I see him. What scares me more is the violence and pure unadulterated hate I am seeing in our society towards black trans women, and suddenly I was no longer scared.
The protest is more like an organized school event. Smiling diverse faces hand out snacks, kits of masks, gloves, hand sanitizer, and granola bars, helpful information on what to do in the presence of aggressive officers, and flowers. Looking around the first thing I notice is that this is not a majority Black event. Most of the faces I see holding signs that read “500 + years of oppression isn't enough? This ends now.” and “Trayvon just wore a hoodie #blacklivesmatter” are white, Asian, Hispanic, and other people of color. There is also a strong presence of members of the LGBTQ+ community.
This is why I was afraid to come to by myself? This? Here is a gathering of people, thousands of them, to advocate against police brutality and the corrupt and racist justice system/police force in our country, and to demand sociopolitical change. We as Americans are so desperate to see, to be silent no longer, and not to be complicit in the murders of our brothers and sisters.
The energy at the park is unlike anything I have ever felt. Chanting began, kneeling began, praying for peace began, I could overhear people looking at each other and whispering, “isn’t this the best thing you’ve ever been to?”
The crowd seemed like a family, it’s a surreal experience to feel so bonded to strangers, and to see so many people rise to the occasion and decide, “this is not how our country treats its own citizens. This is not the America that I accept.”
My friend and her boyfriend finally arrived and joined me. At that point I had been clutching flowers that had been handed to me in my glove covered fist. “Who are the flowers for?” My friend asked, “Breonna Taylor” I replied.
We began to walk the streets of Manhattan, and, as we marched, my friend pulled out a mirror with the words “Racist” and “Killer” written on it. “Would you like to hold this mirror in the face of the NYPD?”, she says, “I’d be honored”.
It feels like a movie since the city is still not even in phase one of reopening from Covid-19. Up to the demonstrations New York City seemed like a ghost town. But, in this moment, it felt as if the city had shut down for us. Cars and cabs were pulling over and people got out of them to join us, to pass out water, extending their black/brown/white fists in the air. In addition, cars honked their horns to show solidarity with the protesters, and people sat on their balconies banging pots and pans, holding signs that read “Defund, Demilitarize”, a message I strongly support. Everyone chanted things like “Black lives matter here” and “say their names”, repeating the names of so many lost lives taken from us and our families: “Sandra Bland”, “George Floyd”, “Ahmaud Arbery” “Breonna Taylor”. Marching in solidarity, as I looked around, I saw very few police officers.
Suddenly, it made sense, how this is all going so peacefully.
My three-person protest crew had managed to make our way to the font, right behind the protest martials and their megaphones. This felt eerily comfortable. Both of my parents are peaceful protestors, social justice activists, and are deeply dedicated to their faith, standing here feels like a natural progression from the very cloth I was cut out of.
This is a revolution: the system must change. Governments in America—at the federal, state, county, and city/town levels—only work if the people who are governed believe they are being properly served. And, let me tell you, we are not being properly served. Beyoncé performs at the Super Bowl, and there is an outrage. Colin Kaepernick kneels for Black people, and there is an outrage, Barack Obama wears a tan suit, and there is an outrage.
There is no way that Black Americans can protest without pushback from the opposition. We all saw the unfortunate abuse of power that took place in Lafayette Square on Monday June, 1st, in Washington D.C. Peaceful protestors using their first amendment right to peaceably assemble and then were aggressively pushed and tear-gassed at Trump's request so he can awkwardly hold a Bible.
"What do we want? Justice. When do we want it? Now. And if we don’t get it? We will shut it down."
Article By Grace O’Connell-Joshua, Contributing Editor, PhotoBook Magazine.
Instagram: @gracejoshua13
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Grace O’Connell-Joshua, who is a Visual Communications graduate from The Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising in Los Angeles, is pursuing a BS in Fashion Media at LIM College in New York City. Grace is currently a fashion stylist for Nordstrom and has styled freelance for magazines and other retailers. As a student, she did a public relations internship with NSA Agency, and she is a first generation American. Grace is passionate about social justice, politics, journalism and luxury fashion. She’s from Chicago and she plans to have a career in fashion journalism, creative direction and fashion styling.
