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I was 18 the first time I was called an activist. This was a big deal to me because, in my own little world, it has always been one of my biggest dreams to be part of something so powerful, so influential and earn that title from others. To be considered an activist always seemed considerably distant from my reach. In my mind, it struck me as an exclusive, card-carrying social club where only the most diligent of the socially active would be allowed in and accepted. Thinking of myself as an activist seemed remarkably unconvincing until it simply wasn’t anymore. Growing up, I spent the majority of my childhood and adolescence in two small Georgia towns: Fayetteville and Peachtree City. I, a young Black woman, roamed in predominantly white spaces, driving around towns of small, family-owned, decorated shops and dodging trails paved for golf carts driven by white, upper-class families. Although my experience was not significantly diverse until I entered high school, I’ve always seen and recognized the importance and the value of differences in others from all backgrounds, and it was easy to see and accept the contrast in them whenever I left my bubble. Throughout my youth, I knew holding these values close to my heart were extremely important in order to simply be a kind person, but I never knew exactly how much they would affect me growing into the young adult that I am today. I am no stranger to empathy, as it is something I have possessed an overwhelming amount of since I was a child. My family can attest that I was always rescuing stray neighborhood cats and creating a positive kind of trouble at school by speaking my mind for what was right for myself and others. When Trayvon Martin was unjustly murdered, I was ten years old. As a young child, I couldn’t process why the world had gone up in flames. At ten years old, I had to learn why I couldn’t stay out after the streetlights came on, walk to the neighborhood convenience store and why the “But Mom, my other friends’ parents let them do it!” argument was no longer effective. At ten years old, I had to learn that carelessly strolling in the wrong areas could get me killed. At 12 years old, I witnessed the world harbor a similar rage with the death of Michael Brown, and at 12 years old, I had to learn this was going to keep happening. As I grew physically and intellectually, I acquired a strong passion for social justice, and that passion grew stronger with each passing day. Between then and now, I have watched the lives of people who look just like me come and go with a temporary public eruption of anger to follow. Each outrage, each speech, each protest and chant being more intense than the last without proper consequences given to the murderer to match. I’ve seen this on television, the internet, and in books for years. Looking in the mirror, I often wondered where society fit me in and exactly how much I was truly valued in these white spaces I called home. Additionally, it became apparent to me how the murders of the very Black women I resemble never get the same attention in the media. Black women carry a very similar burden to our Black men, yet still fight to be included and protected by a cause that is supposed to embody us conjointly when we proclaim “Black Lives Matter.” This creates an extremely heavy weight to be carried, but a weight often carried with such grace by Black women everywhere. Alas, I digress. Watching people of any and all causes organize spaces for their voices to be heard in big cities across the nation was never foreign to the American people. It’s so common and such a crucial part of our history that it’s something we all learned about as early as elementary school. Revolution is, and always will be, in our blood. When you think about it, Americans have obtained almost all the rights we have today by protesting. We, the people, have watched this happen many times throughout history, whether it be our fellow workers, our strong women, our beautiful LGBTQ+ community, and our people of color. The only difference is that Black and Brown people are still fighting an ancient problem in a modern world. I never thought I’d live through something quite as massive as what transpired after the tragic murder of George Perry Floyd Jr. I always imagined protests being reserved for people of giant cities; modern people who work in big buildings and finally decide to abandon them in order to storm the wide, shiny streets and walkways leading to state buildings to fight federal laws and injustice. Living in my tiny bubble town, I never expected to see something like this in my city. Even though I longed to be part of something so powerful, I had never attended a protest until the death of George Floyd. The week following the sad day of May [ 16 ]