Civil Disobedienc


Civil disobedience. It’s too strong of a word. It shouldn’t be disobedience, but rather, a protest. A petition to end what’s wrong in the world. On September 7, 2016, I experienced the bond of “privileged white kids.” I felt the intensity of chants! Of passion and the feeling of coming together! For once, the oddity and separation we all felt in high school subsided. For once, whether you were  jock, a popular, a drama nerd – it didn’t matter. We came together.

What? What if I hadn’t initiated that first walkout? No one would’ve followed me out. My best friend wouldn’t have gotten the guy. The march would still go on – it doesn’t wait for me. But, by God, I’m thankful I took that deep break to walk out of a class that only spoke of shut downs and of privilege. What if? I wouldn’t have felt the coming together – oh, I’ve never felt like a part of something as much as when I sat on my lawn chair in city hall. I wouldn’t have felt the bridge move when every step I took – the stampede of two thousand students who all had the same goal as me.

So what we didn’t succeed? We thrived! The message was there. My attendance helped the protest little to none, but I see things new. I see the girl quiet in the corner as the girl who yelled the loudest. I see that speech and debate kid as a person going places with a passion like a wildfire.  I see my peers as people with the same passion as me. As the kids tirelessly marching miles, riding bikes, voices croaked, yelling for something greater that we all ever knew it.  


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