By Annabel Gregg
Campus News and Journal & Press
Each day, we put together our all-black outfits and masks, packed our bag with hand sanitizer and water, and diligently checked organizer updates to figure out where the groups were. We spent at least an hour each day navigating the streets and the subways, following minute-to-minute updates from the Justice For George NYC Instagram account, trying to get to one of the quick-moving marching groups. Once we’d finally find them, we’d shuffled ourselves into the crowd, finding ourselves only a few feet away from the hundreds to thousands of other protesters – thousands of others just as angry, confused, and eager as we were.
Originally, we weren’t going to go.
We had been deeply disturbed by the death of George Floyd, both of us had watched the video of a man who allegedly forged a 20 dollar bill being choked to death by an officer’s knee. As the days went on, we watched protests from our small kitchen, standing and staring at the TV for hours at a time, watching images of protests happening just a few blocks from us, feeling helpless. For me, it felt like we were part of the problem – two young, completely able-bodied, privileged Americans who could easily be out on the Manhattan streets lending our voice to the cause. But we just didn’t know what to do.
Both of us have family members in my Upstate hometown of Greenwich that are in the high-risk category for COVID, so this was no easy decision. Over that weekend, after hours-long deliberations, we decided it might be best to not go, to do what we can from the apartment, so we could go home and see our family the next week.
We sat with that decision for a few days. It didn’t sit right. We kept coming back to the idea that we should be out there and we could be out there, that this issue of fighting racial injustice and showing solidarity with the movement was worth fighting for and worth risking our health for. We kept watching the protests from the safety of our home, our resentment towards ourselves heightening.
After days of long deliberations, we eventually decided it was time. We called our families and told them we probably wouldn’t be home for a little while, just to make sure that if we got the virus, we wouldn’t be spreading it to our loved ones. We decided it was time to use our voices, lend a hand to the movement, and show solid solidarity.
Reflecting upon about a week of protesting, I can safely say deciding to protest was the right decision to make. Being a part of this moment – doing everything we could to be a part of this moment – was eye-opening and important. Each day we marched, protested, chanted, listened, kneeled, screamed, held hands, smiled, held back tears.
There were parts that were scary. I’ve never seen more police than I have the past few days. As we walked down 8th avenue one day, we marched by one of the local police precincts. Each street entrance for the next five blocks or so was blocked off by at least forty officers packed behind a metal barrier fence, watching us with intimidation as we silently marched past. Walking by Port Authority on another day, I found myself staring directly at each of the officers lined up outside the building entrance, catching the eyes of some. My nerves instantly spiked when we’d make eye contact, but I’d hold steady. I was never the one to look away first. I never felt like these people were there to actually protect us.
There were parts that made us angry. I’ve never been angrier at the police system than I am now. One day, during a larger march, we found ourselves only a few feet away from officers guarding Trump Tower outside Columbus Circle. We didn’t say a thing – our parents had already warned us not to confront the police. But many others did. The march came to a complete stop as we all watched at least fifty or sixty officers stand guard out front the building, this symbol of the system we were protesting against. A young man right next to us started yelling, pouring his heart out to the nearest policeman. “You should be ashamed of yourselves!” he cried. The cop turned to his nearby partner and laughed, both of them shaking their heads. I can remember few times where I have been filled with that much immediate anger, watching that officer stand in full riot gear laugh behind a metal barrier, as a protester begs him to empathize with this genuine movement.
There were parts where we felt brave. One night we found ourselves at the front of the pack, hundreds of young people trailing close behind us as we took over the streets of the West Side. We ended up in front of the Museum of Natural History, which shockingly was lined with dozens of armored officers. Before we knew it, we were kneeling alongside the hundreds of protesters, taking over all of 81st Street, facing the line of officers head-on. We all stared silently at the police, lowered to the ground, fists in the air. Curfew was coming. We could hear their radios buzzing with other officers’ commentary. But these cops didn’t laugh or smile. They just stood there, watching us. After a few minutes of solitary silence, we sang a somber Happy Birthday to Breonna Taylor, a woman shot by police in her own home a few months ago, who would have been 27 that day. Then, collectively, we stood up, turned away from the line of officers, and left.
Finally, there were parts where we felt hopeful. I have never felt such a strong sense of unity than I have in the past week. Thousands of people of every race, of every age, of every gender, found their place in this movement and in these demonstrations, standing in solidarity with Black Americans and empathizing with their struggle for justice. There were people over 80 risking their lives to march beside us, and parents pushing their kids in strollers. Everyone felt a need to be a part of this movement. I believe this will go down as a historic moment of American unity. I saw dozens of individuals with backpacks full of supplies, donning signs advertising “Ask me for water!” or “I have masks and hand sanitizer!” to give to their fellow marchers. We walked past a mom-and-pop pizza place in Downtown Manhattan, whose employees stood on the sidewalk with over 20 stacked pizza boxes, handing out free pizza to hungry demonstrators. We saw families with cars pull over on street corners to hand out cold water and snacks to hot protesters. We walked in-between thin spaces through lines of cars trapped on busy streets, who honked their horns and cheered for us in solidarity despite having to wait an hour stuck in traffic. We danced and clapped in rhythm with thousands of others through Union Square, following John Batiste and his band of a dozen or so musicians as they bopped through the narrow streets, all of us chanting songs of hope and peace together.
This was a week of action, a week of unity, and a week of change. Although this moment stemmed from racism, hatred, systemic oppression, and murder, I now know that there will be change as a result of it. Everyone is and should be looking for ways to be a part of this – whether that be protesting, supporting the protestors, donating, petitioning, engaging in civic activism, educating themselves, having tough conversations. This week made me proud of my country, and hopeful for what we can do to bring about true change. I am hopeful. I hope you are too.
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