Signs held high we march the streets our shouts echo off the downtown buildings as thousands of us fight for what has been taken from us. My sign is a mere piece of cardboard I had ripped off a cereal box with three letters scribbled in black sharpie that I haphazardly made before telling my mother I was heading to my friend’s house.

For she would’ve said what all parents say when their child wants to protest, “It’s too dangerous.”

But it’s not.

Every single one of us has a mask on, many carry backpacks full of granola bars and waters. Some even carry first aid kits. It is peaceful, but it is still a protest.

I walk alongside a man in his mid-thirties, his own head held high as he leads the crowd through the streets.

It is peaceful, but it is still a protest.

There is no violence, the only weapons being our hunger for justice.

It is peaceful, but it is still a protest.

Ahead of us red and blue lights shine. There are no sirens, they do not want us to know they are here. They do not want us to run when we see, and of the leaders continue on, so will the crowd.

I look to the man on my right, my eyes asking all the questions I don’t dare to say out loud, but he just keeps walking. He does not intend on stopping despite the lights flashing ahead of us. He does not plan on giving up, yet he would not judge me if I were to.

I keep going with him and as the police cars line up in the middle row come within twenty feet of us, and with more than half the crowd still behind us, their signs being lowered as they realize what will happen, he looks down to me and says so quietly I almost don’t hear him, “My name is Marcus.”

And then the pepper spray hits.

The officers go for me and Marcus first, assuming we are the leaders even though we just happened to be at the front of the crowd. I am not a leader, I’m just a kid.

My sign is ripped out of my hands and thrown to the side as the officers restrain me.

I hadn’t even said a word and yet they are treating me as if I am a murderer.

It was peaceful, and yet it was a still a protest, so I suppose it must be worthy of whatever one would call this.