FANTA DIOP

11TH GRADE

I can still remember the first protest I attended. My mom took me to a march after the murder of Trayvon Martin in 2012. At the time I couldn’t comprehend why we were all gathered and why everyone was so angry for someone we didn’t know. I’ve recently come to realize that deep down, they did know him. He looked like their sons, brothers, husbands, fathers…That’s what compelled them to leave their houses and march for him. Screaming his name through the streets, hoping that justice would be served. That his story would never be forgotten. They all shared a common feeling, an everlasting fear that someday they would be right back where they started except they yelled a new name this time. I never thought that I would be in the same position. Standing with the same scared people. The only thing that changed was me. It’s been 8 years since my first protest. Now that I’m older, I understand. The fear that my mom felt every day for her children, the reason why she didn't let us outside, the reason why she was always so paranoid: Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner, Amadou Diallo, Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Riah Milton, Dominique Fells--the list goes on, and she didn’t want our names to be next. 

So, when the protests following George Floyd’s murder began I knew I had to be there. I was aware that I couldn’t donate. I knew I didn’t have a large enough platform to raise awareness, but I could photograph. I could be there and use my camera to amplify their story. I could document my experience and the experience of others while protesting for justice. That’s exactly what I did, I went nearly every day. I stood alongside thousands of people who were determined to make a lasting change, determined to bring justice to those who didn’t have a voice of their own and determined to put an end to the system of fear and oppression that countless people are silenced by.