I’m Doing My Own Protest
Tags: Equality, Social Justice, Activism, LGBTQ, BlackLivesMatter

James Finn gave me the honor of choosing Prism & Pen’s current prompt for fiction, poetry, and even nonfiction.

It felt right. I closed my eyes, and in my mind, I walked to the front of our conference room with everyone’s eyes on me. Picking the prompt is nice, but it’s not usually that big of a deal. This time it was. It meant everything to me.

Honestly, fear and anxiety bubbled up in my stomach until they reached my chest. With a heavy heart and a determined pen, I began to scribble down some ideas. I didn’t know how “safe” our prompt had to be. There’s no way of escaping the heavy, importance of what’s going on outside our doors.

Toni Morrison protested by helping black writers get their books out to the people. Once she got to a point where she could efficiently help, she bent down to reach for the hand of another black woman so she could pull her up. This was her way of protesting.

Protesting isn’t always what you’re seeing on your social media feeds and news channels. Sometimes it’s boycotting a certain brand or business. You don’t have to go out into the sea of people if you’re scared, chronically ill/disabled, or just can’t. There are so many ways you can protest without physically being in the sea of people. Here are just a few things you can do:

Donate to the bail funds being set up for protestors Buy from black-owned businesses Help the families who have lost loved ones in these senseless murders and the aftermath of them Donate to Black Lives Matter Use your time and skills to help the protestors in other ways

Photo by Heather Mount on Unsplash

I am protesting by writing.

My pen and my voice are my weapons. It’s such a hard subject for me to write on. I have nightmares of my own about being shot by police or losing anyone else I love the same way. My anxiety creeps up my neck like a spider when I go outside of my bubble consisting of home, dialysis center, and CVS.

Sometimes I have to physically push my computer away from me. I might have to leap from my chair and shove it out of my way. I have emergency dog meetings where I lay or sit on the floor and just let them attack me with love. I dart outside where I can breathe as long as I don’t step foot out of our little neighborhood just outside the city. The quiet brings me peace wrapped in a beautiful bow.

I talk to my girlfriend in some form most of the day. Her words calm me, even when she isn’t trying to. She reminds me that we’ll get through this. She reiterates that we have each other, so neither one of us is alone in this. She can’t physically hold me, but sometimes I swear I can feel her presence. That’s just how connected we are.

No matter how far I go, I always come back and write some more.

How can I not? My class was the class that got suspended for wearing Black Lives Matter shirts or accessories to school. I was in high school when BLM surfaced and it rocked my small town, mostly white, high school. It hung in the air.

“Don’t you dare say All Lives Matter,” lingered in the hallways, classrooms, gym, and lunchroom. I remember things changing so vividly. Teachers pulled back from talking about their views. Instead, they listened to us carefully. They had to. We were one N-word or MAGA hat away from violent chaos.

I remember being in P.E. during my freshman year. This white girl that was on the more masculine side like me said that Trayvon Martin and Mike Brown deserved it. A tornado of emotions took control of my body. I froze, because fear was the emotion that stood out the most. I had to make a decision. I had to choose to swallow my anger — my grief, to keep my education.

Honestly, she scared me but not because I was scared of her hitting me. Actually, she regularly got made fun after I beat her up for bullying a friend of mine that I’d seen get bullied since I met him in 4th grade. I scared her because I was the only one that she knew would actually retaliate against her antics.

She scared me because of the consequences.

She scared me because if it came down to it, I could ruin my life if I gave in to the anger she ignited — and she knew it. We both did. Her racism had the power to ruin my life if I let it. I didn’t. I swallowed more than my pride and chose my education. I clung to it with everything I had.

Racism isn’t always white only signs, white people calling the cops just for kicks, the KKK and burning crosses, or what’s going on today. It can be just like what I experienced in school. It lurks in every aspect of life.

My protest starts with my pen.

I will be writing my own collection of poetry, fiction, and even nonfiction if I can stomach it. There will be heavy topics. Don’t expect easy reads. I aim to make you feel and force you to think. If you rather stay ignorant to such a blatantly cruel, grotesque part of our country, you can stop reading my pieces right now.

-B