I never knew her name, nor her age, although she couldn’t have been much older than 18. Our encounter was memorialized in a single photograph, capturing the yellows, greens, and reds of her kente cloth, and the geometry of her flowing dreadlocks. Her legs were covered in a thin film of hair, obscuring dark bruises and scars. There was sadness in her eyes, fear in her lips, but fierce tightness in her upraised fist.
In her other hand, she held a rough hand-drawn sign on white paper, stapled to a rigid cardboard spine. In haste, she neglected to fill in all her bubble letters with equal darkness, and left smudges of black sharpie around the corners. Accompanying the words “BLACK POWER” lay an inverted exclamation point. By her side was a half-empty bottle of water, a crumpled granola bar wrapper, and two lifeless cigarette butts.
A crowd surrounded her, some holding up images of the late Heather Heyer, and some proudly waving “Black Lives Matter” signs in the swampy heat. Volunteers held hot burritos and chilled water bottles in their outstretched hands, promising a long and stressful day ahead. An anti-fascist sprinted through the background. His hockey pads, black skateboarding helmet, and bandana blurred together in a black streak across the frame.
As reporters threw questions at her and as counter-protesters snapped her photo, she sat in the same position, heavily breathing, but never talking. I watched her for several minutes, wishing I could talk to her, but knowing that I would never receive a response. In the background, I heard poets and speakers imploring the audience for love, unity, and compassion. I heard raucous jeers and poignant songs about hate, loss, and understanding. But at the heart of Freedom Plaza, she chose silence in a tornado of rhetoric, and stillness in a swath of mayhem.
When I remember August 12, 2018—the one year anniversary of the terror at Charlottesville—I keep remembering this woman who never spoke, who never moved, but who told me so much. While I look at this single image from the rally, I remember the sounds, smells, and sights that surrounded me. I remember feeling a strong sense of community, people who were just as willing to protest hate as I was. Yet this woman challenged everything I witnessed, with her concept of “POWER” as a stark silence that deliberately created a wall between us.
Her silence told a story of generations of suffering, suppressed expression, and a struggle to create change in a country working against her. Her youthfulness told the story of a young adult, fearful and inexperienced, but with the intense desire to ignite change and social contemplation. And her resistance to convention showed deep thought and purpose to her protest. Instead of telling everyone what was already obvious, she chose to tell what was hidden—her inner alienation with our country and her deep love for her race. Sometimes, it isn’t my place to join in a movement, or pretend I have a place in arguing about a deeply rooted societal issue. But I can understand struggle, register pain, and relay messages to other people until her silent messages speak louder than the crowd.