When I wake up on Christmas Day—the day of the protest—there’s a really bad taste in my mouth. My eyes flicker open around 3:00 AM, and I think maybe someone’s going to climb through my window in the middle of the night and off me, and instead of getting up I just remain in bed, thinking about what’ll happen today. Either something or nothing at all.

In the kitchen, Mama has tea made and she’s on the phone with Auntie Nicola, and they’re talking about the protest happening today. I watch her squeeze lemon into a mug.

“Morning. Merry Christmas,” she says after she tells Auntie Nicola she’ll call back later. Nothing feels merry. Mama kisses my forehead and wipes the sleep from my eyes. “Feeling okay?” She gives me such a bittersweet look.

“Just got this gut feeling that something bad is going to happen. I got this gut feeling that this’ll never end.”

She reaches for my hand and squeezes.

“I made some tea over there,” she says with a hole in her voice as she points to the kitchen table, Tyler’s pictures still scattered across it. It’s become her morning routine to look at them and grieve and cry and pray to God to deliver the world from hate.

“Thanks.” I breathe out. “Anything that’ll help.”

I pour some tea into a little glass and take a sip. Mama puts the back of her hand to my forehead before she moves it to my cheek. “Making sure you don’t have a stress cold,” she says. “I think I’m coming down with one.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Nervous ’bout the protest?” she asks. “I can see so much worry in your eyes, boy.” Her voice cracks, and I wish I could wedge myself inside it.

“Kind of,” I reply after a pause. “I think it’s important that I’m there.”

She shakes her head. Once upon a time, Mama would’ve exploded, saying, No—you’re not going to that. These streets ain’t never been safe, and they most certainly ain’t safe for you now. I done lost one; I ain’t losing two. But now—now, she just gives me a small, warm smile and opens her arms.

We hug and she kisses my hairline and I’m nodding and tearing up against her chest.

“We can’t not get involved with this,” I say.

“I know, baby,” she responds.

“If we stay quiet, if we don’t fight back, if we let them silence us, we’re sending them a signal that they can keep doing this mess.”

She clears her throat and blinks. Her gaze then falls to the floor, and I can see the gears in her mind starting to turn as she remains quiet.

Feeling a chill strike up my spine, I add, “We can’t give them this, Ma.”

She exhales. “I’m proud of you.” She grabs the teapot from the table, pours some more in her little white mug, and picks up one of the photos of Tyler, gazing at it with regret in her blinking eyes.

Mama and I move to the living room and flip on the news. People are already starting to gather for the protest. I see a blend of people, and signs, and all sorts of flags. It’s all so overwhelming, and I can’t really think straight.

On the news, there’re clips of police squad cars with their blinking headlights and military tanks rolling past protestors on both sides of the road, and the anchorman talks about how this is all supposed to be a “peaceful protest.”

There’ve been so many protests throughout history, and a lot of them didn’t end peacefully. I don’t know if this one will. Seeing all these cops with their weapons has me nervous. Yes, I’m willing to die for this cause, but the fact that there’s even a chance that I’ll die, become a hashtag, be remembered briefly, and then be completely forgotten and marked as a statistic fucking terrifies me.

The news anchorman, who has the whitest button-up to match his skin, hair long gone, is describing the protestors—the ones who are advocates for justice, the ones who want the best for the world, the ones who want to do the right thing. His words cause an uneasy pang in my stomach. Violent tendencies. Angry. Thugs.

The screen flashes a glimpse of angry white folks screaming so loud the veins in their necks show, and they are screaming messed-up stuff, like “RID OUR STREETS OF THE THUGS!” And everybody knows that that’s a fucked-up code for KILL THE BLACKS.

“When will they see that it’s not okay to kill us?” I can feel the shaking in my hands.

Mama purses her lips. “Honey, I wish I knew. The racism in their hearts is like seeds that sprout roots. Racism can always be uprooted, though.” She places a hand on her chest, like she’s feeling her heart giving out—or in, a little too much.

I put a fist up to my open mouth. “I have to go.”

As I turn to head to my room to get changed, she grabs my elbow and pulls me back. “You need to come back alive. No fighting. No talking back to the police. Keep your hands up high in the air. Go with nothing in your pockets. Keep your mouth shut, and the likelihood of surviving is solid enough,” she says, tears flooding her eyes.

Her words are fucking tough and make me uncomfortable as shit. But they’re necessary and important. And I’m hoping G-mo’s, Ivy’s, and Faith’s mothers told them the same thing mine just told me.

The smell of the honey in the tea turns my stomach some more. Or maybe it’s what Mama said, but I think she’s definitely right. The best way to ensure your survival at a protest is to act like you’re invisible, even when you’re not.

She releases me and folds her arms.

Back in my room, I flip through the messages and tags on my phone. One message from Ivy says: Where u at? Another text from Faith says: Let me know when u are ready. I’ll pick u up.

I dig into my closet to find something to wear. I scroll through a few hangers of plaid shirts and polos, and Mama knocks on my door, creaking it open to peek her head through.

“I’m going with you,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

We exchange nods and sad smiles. She’s changed into black boots, a black T-shirt, and black jeans, and she put a pair of black sunglasses on top of her head, as if she’s the newest Black Panther.

I put on black, too. A black hoodie. Some black shoes. And the darkest jeans I can find in my dresser drawers. The hoodie and jeans are both a couple sizes bigger than I usually like, but they make me feel powerful, in control, and whole.

I text Faith that I’ll meet her at the protest, and that Mama is going to take me.

It’s all so damn shocking to me as we pull up to the protest. We can’t even park or get close enough to the front of Sojo High because there’re so many people walking and standing, even sitting, in the street.

So Mama parks all the way around the corner, and we weave our way through the crowd until I find Ivy and G-mo. The two of them greet me with huge hugs.

“Shit’s been going down,” G-mo says, putting a hand on my shoulder, and then he hugs Mama.

“For real, though. They brought out the dogs on one dude because he crossed the boundary,” Ivy says, pointing ahead of us at an orange line drawn on the ground with spray paint or something. “And they was about to throw tear gas.”

I look around, seeing so many strangers, Sojo High students, police officers, other people draped in Confederate and American flags on the other side of the line. Lots of people holding up signs. And I’m scanning everywhere, wondering if all hell is about to break loose, trying to convince myself that this isn’t a fucked-up scene from some dystopian movie.

There’re huge police lines, vans, and cones on every corner, containing us in a single space. Like animals or criminals. At the ends of each road are SWAT trucks and huge military tanks, as if they’re a symbol to prevent us from escaping oppression.

There are newsmen and newswomen here in fancy suits, with microphones glued to their hands and pressed up against the mouths of Sojo High students. Half of Sojo High is out joining this fight, this desperate plea for justice and safety—basic human rights.

“Everyone stay close by,” I say, leading the way deeper into the crowd to the front line of the protest. I start to see people I recognize, even some from Johntae’s party.

“Aye-yo! There goes Faith!” G-mo shouts, pointing her out as she comes from an alley across the way.

Faith runs over and throws her arms around me, her braids scratching the side of my face. She passes us bullhorns and large white signs.

As we move to the front of the protest, I see the posters up close. Some have my brother’s name on them, and also a list of other names. Some of them say: TYLER’S FREE! Because, I realize, it’s all about how he’s free. It’s not just about how he died. It’s about how he broke free in such a fucked-up way. It’s about how he lived.

Ivy’s sign, held up high in the sky, says: STAY WOKE.

G-mo’s sign says: I AM A HUMAN BEING. I AM YOU.

The sign that I hold up says in big, bold, black letters: MY LIFE MATTERS!

There’s a cacophonous blare of voices that has me flinching.

Everything is so loud and suffocating.

I turn my head and see Ms. Tanner waving us down. When she finally gets over to us, she hugs everyone, even my mom.

I give yet another scan of the crowd to see all types of people: black, white, Asian, Latino, young, and old. And I see Albert Sharp. He stands surrounded by news reporters, by protestors, but when he sees Mama and me, he steps right toward us and first takes Mama’s hands, then my own. His palms are warm and dry. Everyone nearby turns to look at us, and I can feel realization sweeping over the crowd—realization of who we are, that we’re Tyler Johnson’s family.

“I’m glad you came,” Mr. Sharp says, his voice just as deep and slow as molasses as it was on the news. “I know this is a difficult time for you. But we will get justice. For you, and for your son,” he says to Mama.

She’s nodding slowly, eyes tearing up. “Thank you.”

He nods at me with a small smile. “You’ve got a great young man here,” he says. “Contacted me about getting this protest set up.”

Mama looks at me with surprise, but I shrug, embarrassed. “I felt like I couldn’t just sit there. I had to do something.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for the pain you’re feeling.”

Mr. Sharp tells us that God’s going to come through in the end, that he always does, that he’s going to push us right out of this messy tunnel in our lives. He even stops to pray for us, asking the Lord for mercy and grace and peace and justice. Everyone around circles us, including Ivy and G-mo and Faith, their hands reaching in to touch us while we pray—and whether they believe in God or not, whether they’re praying with us or not, I know they’re reaching in so that we’ll know we’re not alone. We’ll know there’re people who want justice for Tyler, too. That they’re hurting also. It’s enough to make the pain bubble up, and tears leak from my eyes. Faith keeps her hand on my shoulder the whole time.

When Albert Sharp finishes his prayer, we stand in a straight line, holding hands, megaphones in front of our faces. And we start chanting. Our chant is simple, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to join in, to become one powerful roar of voices, wanting and needing so desperately to be heard.

“Sterling Point P-D, stop brutality! Sterling Point P-D, stop brutality!” We chant this on a loop, getting louder each time, until our voices crack and dry. And we all do a rally wave–like effect, where one person starts to raise their hands in the air and shout, “Don’t shoot me!” and then everyone else follows.

As the sun beams and blinds me, I put a hand over my eyes like a visor and look across the way, but I can’t quite hide from the hate. There’s a line of angry police officers wearing bulletproof vests and helmets, with plastic shields in one hand and rifles in the other. Some cops are holding leashes attached to equally pissed Rottweilers with foamy mouths and spiky collars. They got all this military gear. For a while, I just take in everything I see, listening to Mama and Ivy and G-mo and Faith shout the chants beside me.

I hear another kind of screaming. I look back over at the line of police officers, and I see a few of them on top of a protestor, one of them with his knee in the protestor’s back as he lies sprawled on the ground. A black kid who just keeps repeating that his phone isn’t a gun, but they don’t even give a shit. They slap on the cuffs anyway.

A phone isn’t dangerous, I tell myself, and neither is black skin.

Ivy clears her throat. “Listen up, ladies and gentlemen,” she shouts into the megaphone. All the chaos and noise comes down to a whisper. “We are here today for a few different reasons! To fight for our homie Tyler Johnson. To take a stand against police brutality and demand change and justice for all. We’re here to say we’ve had enough. No more. We shouldn’t be afraid of the people who’re supposed to protect us. We just shouldn’t have to be. Peace and equality shouldn’t be this hard.”

The crowd cheers and applauds, and I feel Faith’s arm loop with mine as she rests her head on my shoulder, her hand on my chest as if she needs to feel my heartbeat, to know that I am not going to combust from all the feelings pent up inside me.

Ivy slips out her phone and reads something off the screen. “Our lives matter! Oscar Grant mattered! Freddie Gray mattered! Michael Brown mattered! Jordan Davis mattered! Eric Garner mattered! Tarika Wilson mattered! Dontre Hamilton mattered! Sandra Bland mattered! Trayvon Martin mattered! Tanisha Anderson mattered! Yvette Smith mattered! Tamir Rice mattered! Alton Sterling mattered! Philando Castile mattered! Jordan Edwards mattered! Don’t forget—Emmett Till mattered!”

The last one sticks and makes me feel nauseous: “Tyler Johnson mattered!” I raise my fist, all clenched and tight. Ivy, G-mo, Faith, Mama, and a bunch of others put their fists in the air, too. And we look like an ocean of multicolored fists. The fist in the air originated as a symbol of black power and pride, but it’s also a symbol of solidarity and unity, and I think the fact that so many protestors showed up says a lot about how we stand as a people, and about how we can bring change. Together.

I look to my left when I see something move out the corner of my eye. I notice a kid wearing a white T-shirt with #TYLERJOHNSONWASHERE written in thick black Sharpie breaking away from the crowd and walking closer and closer to the cops. The dogs are barking, and the boy—a white boy I recognize from Ms. Tanner’s class—stomps his feet hard on the ground to send the dogs jumping back. It only makes them more pissed.

I think to myself, I don’t know what he’s about to do, but it’s not going to be good.

It feels like the world is moving slower as the boy crosses over the cutoff line, entering into dangerous territory.

Suddenly, the line of police officers breaks and disperses into our crowd. I hear a few bangs and pops. Rubber bullets hail down on my skin like sharp droplets from the sky.

Bodies fall over, crying out.

Rage and hate in the eyes of the people who’re supposed to be protecting us.

People run in all directions, and I lose Faith, Ivy, G-mo, and Mama in the crowd. I spin around, looking for Mama, trying to find her in the mess of faces blurring by, cringing in pain. I run down the block, away from the chaos, and stand there, looking at it all with my hands on my head.

My lungs feel tight.

Feet heavy.

I hear the shattering of glass. I turn to my left and see a group of people with ski masks on and bats in hand busting the windows out of nearby cars and school buses and news vans.

No, I say to myself. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.

Faith comes running toward me. She links arms with me.

“What do you wanna do?” she says. “Join the riot? If these pigs want to play dirty, we can, too. Two can play that game.”

What the hell, Faith? No. I try to remind myself that I don’t believe in violence. But a part of me wants to say fuck everything, fuck everybody, fuck the peace. If they want to do this, then we can get ugly back. And sometimes, anger is the only way to really get people to pay attention—to listen.

But I know this isn’t how I want to remember Tyler. The rage built up in me isn’t going to bring him back. I shake my head at Faith, and she nods, like she respects my decision. And we stand there and watch as the protest falls apart around us.

Some guys hop on top of cars and news vans, vandalizing and stomping on them. The shattering of glass plays on loop until there’s no more unbroken glass in sight. The protestors don’t leave Sojo Truth High intact either. The entrance door has dents in it, and its glass window is shattered. Some of the classroom windows have been beaten in as well.

I watch someone light a trash can on fire and throw it across the way toward the police cars, and suddenly it bursts into flames, creating a line of fire. Someone even tries setting a parked school bus on fire as a small crowd of people cheers, but they can’t get it to work right. Instead, they just kick it, throw rocks at the windows, and destroy the seats on the inside.

I see a flash of Mama’s face and run into the crowd to grab her arm. She’s with Ivy and G-mo. I see dark purple lumps on her arm. She’s been shot with rubber bullets.

I pull her over to the side where Faith is standing.

I collapse on the ground beside her. “Ma, Ma, Ma. You okay?” My heart is beating so fast inside my chest right now.

She nods and flinches when I try pulling her up, holding her arm.

“You sure?”

She lifts herself off the ground, moving her arm around. “I’m good.” I brush her back and shoulders to remove all the dirt and rubble. She tries to get back out to the protest with everyone else.

I grab her arm again. “Where’re you going? We should head home before this gets worse.”

“Hell no,” she snaps. “Tyler got a shot to the chest and two in the stomach and died. I’m gonna stay here and make my voice heard.”

And that’s exactly what she does.

The entire street becomes a panorama of oranges and reds and yellows. Fire everywhere. Rocks and bottles and cans fly through the air, and I can’t keep up. We all try to stick together in a small group to protect one another from harm, but we’re also shouting, “No justice, no peace!” and “We’re so tired of this shit, man!” The muscles in my neck are starting to get sore from screaming. I can’t believe we even have to do this.

People are suddenly wearing gas masks now. Others are using their shirts to cover their noses and mouths. I look behind me, and police are rushing toward us with firework cannons.

Boom! They fire into the crowd.

Boom! They fire again.

Smoke funnels everywhere on impact. I choke, and my eyes burn and water. And this anger inside my chest wants to come out. It’s choking me and I can’t breathe between these tears.

Fire trucks arrive, and the cops start spraying people with water. The ground becomes slick, and people slip and slide in the street.

Protestors are getting in their cars and moving to different areas, escaping the riot before the police start shooting real bullets.

Mama grabs me and we run to the car. Ivy, G-mo, and Faith follow behind. We all wheeze and wheeze for oxygen until we get away from the scene and can breathe in clean air.

Before, when I heard about black and brown kids getting killed by the police, I didn’t think protesting was worth it, that it would do anything at all. I used to think that protests were stupid because they wouldn’t change anything, especially not a racist’s mind. But now I see: This is only the beginning of a long fight. It’s my turn to speak up and resist.