PATRICK- It was an unsettling morning — in two ways. First, it was light out, but the sky was slathered in an absolute, lifeless white like God was too preoccupied with an unexpected guest to put the color back on. Second, because all the people who stood in the streets, black against gray concrete against white sky, had only a fourth hue on their mind: red. I did too. There was no way to avoid the thought of losing such a young life. The image ricocheted in the walls of my mind, taking on different innocent faces and names and ringing ceaselessly like a chant — hands up don’t shoot! I put the chalk that was in my hand to the concrete and in vibrant orange wrote: “RIP Mike Mike so young.” That was my art. That was the only thought I had in mind and the only thought I could share with this world.
I am young too. I’m fourteen years old, but I was marched to the epiphany that there's a chance I am facing the last years of my life, so I wrote his name down one more time — orange on gray — and watched it transform slowly into my name and the names of millions who it could have been. “What’s this all about?” a stranger spoke as he approached me, snapping me out of my reflections. His voice was blue from grief, and he explained to me in a sullen voice that the way to make change happen was not through vandalism or meaningless words that could be washed clear by the rain, but through making a message that lasts; to make things better, we need to consolidate in mourning, not engage in criminal activities. So I joined the huddled mass of people chanting on the street with a sign that read in blue, “Am I next?”. That was the only thought I had in mind and the only thought I could share with this world.
It was in the midst of the people that I began to understand the spectrum of ideology in this movement. That the people, from those grieving in blue chants to those breaking into stores and homes with red aggression, were all only one voice screaming desperately for whatever chance they had at justice or hope or change. They were all as afraid as I was with the same question, “Am I next?”, ringing in their heads. And as I walked back home at the end of the night and took in all the color, the white, the orange, the red, and the blue, I realized that the difference between life and death, whether in Florida or Missouri or the rest of the states, was color, and we sure as hell could not be black. That is the only thought I now have in mind and the only thought I can share with this world.
I am young too. I’m fourteen years old, but I was marched to the epiphany that there's a chance I am facing the last years of my life, so I wrote his name down one more time — orange on gray — and watched it transform slowly into my name and the names of millions who it could have been. “What’s this all about?” a stranger spoke as he approached me, snapping me out of my reflections. His voice was blue from grief, and he explained to me in a sullen voice that the way to make change happen was not through vandalism or meaningless words that could be washed clear by the rain, but through making a message that lasts; to make things better, we need to consolidate in mourning, not engage in criminal activities. So I joined the huddled mass of people chanting on the street with a sign that read in blue, “Am I next?”. That was the only thought I had in mind and the only thought I could share with this world.
It was in the midst of the people that I began to understand the spectrum of ideology in this movement. That the people, from those grieving in blue chants to those breaking into stores and homes with red aggression, were all only one voice screaming desperately for whatever chance they had at justice or hope or change. They were all as afraid as I was with the same question, “Am I next?”, ringing in their heads. And as I walked back home at the end of the night and took in all the color, the white, the orange, the red, and the blue, I realized that the difference between life and death, whether in Florida or Missouri or the rest of the states, was color, and we sure as hell could not be black. That is the only thought I now have in mind and the only thought I can share with this world.
Patrick is a student at Cornell University and is currently majoring in computer science.
