Actionless Thoughts

Liz drums her fingers on the steering wheel as I hop in. “Ready to go see Nana?” she asks, pulling out of my driveway.

I give her a smile. “Yeah, I’m excited for our painting or cooking lessons. Maybe we can make a pizza. I could really go for some right now.” The houses in my neighborhood pass by as we make small talk, catching up on family stuff. Who’s doing what right now, what we’re doing over the summer, possible jobs. The usual. 

“I feel like it’s weird that we’re just talking about normal stuff, you know? There’s so much going on.”

Liz shrugs, “yeah, true. But not many people care about Corona any more. But Black Lives Matter is a pretty big deal. Oh! We’ll see the damage from the protests on our way to Nana’s.”

“Huh, yeah I guess we will.” I’m interested to see the damage. Last night on the news, I heard stuff about the Apple store getting broken into and a furniture store getting caught on fire. I wanted to see it in person, make everything more real to me. Lately, I feel like I’ve been living on the outskirts of my life. Nothing seems real anymore. Except this, the injustice, is extremely real. And unfair. I remember the pained look on my mom’s face when I asked her if I could go to a protest. I had seen videos of people marching through the streets with signs. The power had made me shiver. I didn’t just want to be watching it, I wanted to be a part of it. Because it mattered. But my mom didn’t want to put me in danger, and I could understand that. 

But I still thought that it was unfair that even walking outside on a normal day is dangerous to people of color and minorities. 

Liz’s singing to a song on the radio pulls me out of my thoughts. I see boarded up windows everywhere, to prevent more damage from future protests. We don’t drive by the Apple store or the furniture store, but I can imagine the mess. “D said that there was going to be another protest tonight.” D, our grandfather, seemed like the type of person who would protest. He’s a bit old, however, but I’d expect his support for the movement. 

“No way. I kinda wish I could go, but my parents said no. So I put some of those links to donate in my instagram story. I just want to do my part somehow.” Liz looks over at me with a sheepish grin, almost looking embarrassed about her parents’ concerns.

“Well, I mean, that’s definitely something. Good job, Liz,” I say, giving her an awkward thumbs-up. She laughs, and I do too. We continue the ride to our grandparents’ house in comfortable companionship, while I continue to ponder the injustice in our world. 

The next weekend, my friend visits me from where she had moved almost a year ago: Virginia. We were best friends in middle school, but then her parents got better jobs up in Virginia and they moved. We still kept in touch, and from time to time, she would visit. She’s the kind of friend that you don’t need to go do something together to feel entertained. Oftentimes, we walk around my neighborhood at night, talking. 

I realize now how much I take for granted that I’m not scared or worried because of my privilege. I’m able to enjoy a walk with my friend in the dark, in my own neighborhood, and not have to be wary of others or my surroundings because of my skin color. 

I have to wonder if we’ll talk about the protests and inequality on our walks, since we normally talk about whatever is on our minds. When we do go on our walk, however, it doesn’t come up. I’m not sure if I’m too afraid to mention it because I don’t want to find out my friend disagrees, or if I don’t want to possibly have to argue with her. Whatever the reason, we don’t talk about it. 

Later that night, on my bed, we’re both going through our social medias next to each other. We can see each other's screens, and I see a post on her screen with links to several petitions. 

My friend tilts her screen towards me and says, “do you agree with everything that’s happening?”

I skim my eyes over the post and reply, “I do, do you?” She nods. I breathe out a sigh of relief. “I was scared to talk about it in case you didn’t agree.” 

My friend laughs, “I can’t imagine anyone cruel or stupid enough to not support. Like, how can anyone be against a movement for equality that’s long overdue?” I shrug, unable to give a reason. What she said reminds me of my brother. 

The other night, my brother and I were in the car together to grab food. He kept looking at his phone and sighing. I finally asked what the problem was, and he said, “my friends are just venting about the whole “cop” thing, saying all cops are bad, and they keep talking, even when I told them to text each other, not the groupchat.”

“Well, what do you think about the “all cops are bad” thing?” I was nervous to hear his response. I saw him bow up in his seat before he responded:

“Obviously all cops aren’t bad! They’re just generalizing a group of people, and sure, there are some bad ones, but it’s unfair to say all of them are bad people. I mean, some of them even quietly protest with the people. I don’t get why the phrase had to be so general.”

“Yeah, but even the “good” ones are kind of bad in their own way.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“They support a corrupt system. One that is prejudiced against minorities and people of color.” I said it calmly, because I didn’t want to rile him up more than he already was.

“Then who would protect us, if we didn’t have cops? Would everyone just run free? Would that be better than no cops at all?” He shot me a glance then, like he was daring me to disagree.

“Ben, you say they protect us, and you’re right, but it’s only us, in most cases. Just the whites, or the rich, the privileged. No one else. It’s not fair, and something has to change.” He had just shaken his head, unsure of what to say.

I get pulled back to the present when my friend gets up to go to the bathroom. While she’s there, I think about how I’m helping. I’m not doing much to support, other than doing it in spirit. I sigh. My mom doesn’t think it’s safe for me to protest, I’ve already signed a bunch of petitions, though that doesn’t feel like much, and I’ve tried to reason with my brother. Not a lot of impact, but maybe I can find a way to help.

As it turns out, the way that I can help finds me. I open my email and see one from mom at the top. “BLM Writing Contest” is the subject. I open it and click on the link. There’s a competition for writers about the movement, and the winner gets to choose the organization the reward money goes to. It’s time to do my part.