Part of the Change

God, I'm nervous. I'm so nervous.

I've never been to a demonstration before, and never thought I would be the kind of person to go in for all that. But the murder of George Floyd was the straw that broke this camel's back. I refuse to sit idly by any longer and watch my brothers and sisters be treated with blatant inhumanity and injustice.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against white people. I have nothing against cops either, for that matter. But if I don't at least do my part to speak out against this inexcusable crime then I can't claim to be any better than the men who perpetrated it.

The recent news coverage of the kind of stuff that's been happening at demonstrations all over the country, however, has me biting my nails. If any riots break out or if the cops get too crazy with tear gas or rubber bullets then I'm coming straight home. I'm not signing up for all that.

I grab the Black Lives Matter sign I'd made last night from the kitchen table and load it into my car.

The demonstration isn't set to start for another half hour yet, but the courthouse parking lot is already full. I have to drive a block and a half away to find a curbside parking spot on a side street.

While a large number of demonstrators have shown up early, so have a large number of counter-demonstrators, all of them white. They are lined up along the sidewalks shouting things like 'All lives matter' and 'Blue lives matter'. A few of them are even going so far as to toss the 'N word' around.

What really breaks my heart is the young woman waving a sign that says 'White Lives Matter More'. It's not the sign itself that I find so devastating, but the fact that the woman has a young child standing next to her, no older than four years. It hurts to witness the lack of morals and values she is instilling in that poor baby.

I am careful to keep my sign turned in toward my leg as I walk past these people on my way to the courthouse.

The area in front of the courthouse is packed. As I look around, I recognize several friends and neighbors.

I wave to my coworker Kayla. She waves back and gives me a thumbs-up when she sees my sign.

There is a noticeable police presence here, but as far as I can tell they are doing no more than watching and waiting with their firearms securely holstered.

From across the street someone shouts,

"You people ain't victims and you ain't innocent! If you didn't act like thugs you wouldn't be treated like thugs!" This is greeted by cheers and applause from his fellow counter-demonstrators.

Just ignore them, I tell myself as my hand involuntarily tightens around the wooden handle of my sign.

There is no announcement that the demonstration has 'officially' begun, but at two 'o' clock sharp a low chant of 'I can't breathe' starts up among those of us gathered in front of the courthouse.

The chanting grows in volume and intensity as more and more voices join in. I find myself swept up in it, chanting along without being fully aware of doing so. Here and there people are shouting out other phrases, such as 'Black lives matter' and 'Justice'.

The counter-protestors' shouts are little more than background white noise now. I can barely even hear what they're saying anymore.

As peaceful as the demonstration has been, just as I'd hoped, I still can't stop my heart from jumping into my throat when three young white men push their way through the crowd in my direction.

I'm pretty sure I've never seen two of them before, but I recognize the tall one with sandy brown hair. I don't know him, exactly, but I see him at least twice a month. I know his name is Brandon, and he makes a point of getting in my line every time he goes grocery shopping at the Kroger store I work at. He always refers to me as his favorite checker.

"Jake!" He calls out my name with a wave and a broad smile.

"Hey!" I respond, waving back. Why are they here? I don't want to jump to the conclusion that these white guys are here to cause trouble, I really don't. Yet I can feel my heart thudding in my chest as Brandon and his friends approach me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask them, attempting to keep my tone casual.

"Supporting our fellow human beings," Brandon replies, tapping the Black Lives Matter button pinned to his denim vest. "You don't think we're all like that, do you?" He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the counter-protestors across the street.

"Well, I mean, I'd hoped not," I mumble, feeling a little bit like an ass.

"Nah, man. Those guys are idiots," one of Brandon's friends tells me.

Brandon's other friend, a blond kid who doesn't look like he can be any older than nineteen or twenty, throws back his head and yells into the crowd,

"Justice for George Floyd!"

I gaze around at the massed demonstrators again, really observe them. When I had first arrived here I'd only noticed other black people, but I find myself forced to admit that perhaps that was only because that's what I was expecting. A good quarter of the crowd, maybe more, is white.

I am both humbled and somewhat abashed. I had been so worried about the bad that could possibly occur today that my mind had not been entirely open to the good.

"Thank you," I say to Brandon, doing my best to choke back tears.

"The world needs to change," he states with an easy shrug of his shoulders. "I guess not everybody can see that, but some of us can. And I want to be part of that change."

I glance down upon feeling a slight tug at my jeans. Standing there is a little white girl, maybe five or six, with her red-gold hair in braids. She drops her eyes to the ground, blushing slightly when I look at her.

"Go ahead, Sherri, ask the nice young man what you wanted to ask him," her father urges.

She glances up at me again with a shy smile.

"Um, can I hold your sign, please?"

"Sure you can," I tell her. Her father hoists her up onto his shoulders and I pass my sign to her.

Holding the handle with both hands and waving it aloft she cries out,

"Blaaaaaaaack liiiiiiiives maaaaaatterrrrrr!"

"Yes, they do," her father agrees.

I am no longer able to hold back my tears of joy and gratitude.