This is America

Before, I was proud to say I was an American. I stood up strong in front of others, both my feet planted into the floor, and I looked around, embracing my country. Now, I am embarrassed. 

It was a normal Sunday morning, the sounds of the church bells ringing mixed with the sound of traffic. Police sirens could be heard in the distance, slowly fading away as they got closer and closer to their destination. 

Remember, this was America. 

It was the busiest time in New York, making it hard to get to work because of tourists cluttering the sidewalks. I realized that there were several more people than usual, all looking towards the same direction. 

Then I realized the sound of the police sirens were getting louder and louder as I made my way through the crowd. I could see police gathering together, looking down, with their arms extended with a gun on the opposite end. As I made it to the front, I realized the police weren’t nearing their destination, they were nearing a murder scene, as the murderers. 

Remember, this was America. 

A black man. Barely having the ability to breathe due to two policemen pinning him against a wall with a gun pointed alarmingly close to his chest. A black girl. Sitting inside the cop car wondering what was happening to her dad with a birthday crown on her head. Death was her only birthday gift that day.

Remember, this was America. 

Few days later, on a Wednesday afternoon, I was heading towards the train station, the weight of my backpack on my shoulders, creating a slouch. The city is consumed in red and blue flashing lights from police cars racing all directions. The sound of the sirens replacing what was once silence. 

A few police cars were lined up against the train station, more arriving with guns strapped to their chest. I joined the crowd that surrounded the police and found myself staring into the eyes of a pleading black woman. 

Remember, this was America. 

The policemen kneeled on her back, making the woman withstand the weight of four overly sized men. She yelled out for help, using her last breaths. No one spoke up, worrying they would replace the woman. 

Her husband was beside her, with the hands of a policeman grasping his neck until he turned pale. Today, I pray they got married in heaven peacefully. 

Remember, this was America. 

It was now the end of the week, several textbooks in one arm and a backpack on the other made me hunch my back lower than my grandma. I took the same route I always do to avoid crowds of people tossing me around from here to there as I go home. 

The dark alleyway was normally empty and you could hear your voice echo throughout the entire area. Replacing my voice this time, the sirens of police cars echoed loudly, bouncing off the walls and entering my ears for what seemed like the hundredth time. 

People started to fill the alleyway to investigate what was going on but without a voice. I entered the scene and saw a black boy brutally beat, laying on the burning concrete floor. Dust covered his face in layers and bruises were lodged into his neck. The police resumed his work and started to beat the boy again. His mom standing near him, restrained in hand-cuffs, unable to help her own son. Later, I found out she buried him alone. 

Remember, this was America. 

It's 2024 now, four years after the tragic death of an innocent black man that was protested all around the world. The girl is now a woman with the same birthday crown on her head. Except instead of sitting in a cop car, she is sitting on her dad’s grave. She is not weeping, in fact, she is smiling. 

Her dad’s death was a universal lesson worldwide. She knows he saved America from drowning in racism. Police sirens are now rarely heard in the distance. The only sounds are the synchronized voices of people protesting.  

Remember, this is America. 

The woman and man that were brutally killed in public were now resting peacefully under the earth, as people on the ground protected them. We became their voices, the ones they were limited to. 

Remember, this is America. 

The boy murdered in his own front yard was now protected below his backyard. Mother nature embracing his little body just like how his own mother had. His mother is now running for president. 

Remember, this is America. 

It was a Sunday morning, the same church bells ringing into our ears and the songs of birds chirping as they flew from tree to tree. I was walking to work, as I had my earphones plugged into my ears listening to the news. 

Frida Freeman elected for president 

The son’s mother. 

Remember, this is America. 

It was now a Wednesday afternoon, a backpack on my shoulder with only a few papers in it. The line for the train station was organized into a zigzag and as the train neared to a stop, people started to slowly fill the train.

Remember, this is America. 

It is now the end of the week. A friday. I took the normal route home, the alleyway starting to dim from the sunset as my shadow disappeared on me. I made it home. 

As days went on, I stood taller and taller as I walked the streets of New York. I could finally call this place my home. Somewhere that didn’t look like and feel like living in hell. Where equal rights were justified and where black lives mattered. After four years of work to justify something that should already be justified, racism had disappeared from the face of the Earth. The two men, the woman, and the little boy had inspired the world to come together and prevent future incidents. America itself had transformed and finally embraced its name as the United States.