Every time I listen to the news I shed an internal tear for all the misery this world holds and perpetrates on the young, the old, the infirm, and the poor. And don’t forget the women and people of color and without religion or with the “wrong” religion and those who love the “wrong” person and those who have no one to love. The list is miles long. Hardly anyone is created equal and those in power let us know it.

I had gotten good at hiding the tears, masking my feelings, and carrying on as we all must or die, living the best life I may with what is given to me to do with. Of course there is the proverbial “pulling up by the bootstraps” people who have, telling people who have not must do in order to succeed. The general idea is that everyone have bootstraps to begin with, and of course that does not happen.

I shed many tears, both for myself and for others, mostly in private and even then diverting my eyes while my brain spun lies to tell me it did not need to feel. Then George Floyd was murdered in broad daylight with a knee on his neck of a smug faced man flouting his authority as though nothing and no one could touch him. I was horrified, yes, but what could I do? I shook my head, felt appalled, and mentally added his name to the long list of dead black people wrongly murdered by hate rather than any form of justice.

When the protests began surging around the country as well as right below my window in downtown Raleigh, NC I felt a measure of disquiet soon replaced by fear in the dark of the night with helicopters circling, fires, shattering windows, chanting, shouting, marching, and motorcycles squealing on the pavement. I did not want to exit my building the next morning for fear what I might see, but I had an errand to run that could not be put off. Out I went, slowly taking in the scene with every step, feeling my way really, breathing deeply to quiet my nerves, taking in the experience with my whole mind and heart.

For decades I had known this moment had to come. One day black people would rise up against the never equal justice of the system and the racist bastards that held them down. But it was not how I thought it would be. It was not a black against white war with black people violently claiming their human rights and liberty from the knee forever on their necks. It was kind, angry, fed up, but kind.

I was mesmerized by the messages on the walls and sidewalks speaking of unity and peace, about freedom and cooperation and respect, and being heard. In that moment I knew a greater anguish than I had felt in many years and I stood there feeling it, savoring it, knowing it was a necessary step I had to take towards my own freedom. Day after day I walked the downtown streets snapping pictures as I felt the weight of my heart with the weight of the messages and I could barely divert my head.

Black people were not separate from me. I too had a lifetime of silent screams streaming through my veins pleading to be heard and seen. I too have a raging desire for justice that never comes. I too have been oppressed by circumstances out of my control, by people who felt superior and above reproach due to the forgiveness of a Jesus that has nothing to do with the Jesus in the Bible. I too had been silenced time and again for discussing “uncomfortable” topics.

No, I have no idea what it is like to be black in America, but I, and millions like me have a common message, we will not be silenced forever, nor will we continue to be ignored and invalidated. The message is the connection for all people fighting oppression and for their right to basic human rights and to be heard.

I will fight to not lose this feeling, this drive. I have ever only had one life, and I will never allow people to discount my life as something I dreamed up. I am real, and I will be heard.