A tear-gas canister skidded across the worn concrete and stopped at my feet. “I did not wear the right shoes for this,” I thought. There was no time for me to react as the yellowish fumes cloaked the air around me. My eyes felt as though they were on fire, my mask trapping the fumes in my nose and mouth. I pulled my mask off, but the effects had already begun to take over.
I fell to my knees as tears fell from my eyes. A reaction to the tear gas? Or an emotional response to experiencing police brutality for the very first time? For days, violent clashes between Black Lives Matter protestors and the Denver police plagued downtown Denver in late May 2020, leaving the streets littered with battered traffic cones, abandoned masks, rubber bullets, and tear-gas canisters.
Growing up in the south, I was no stranger to the realities of the institutionalized racism and discrimination our minority communities face on a regular basis. My small town of McKinney Texas was good to me in a lot of ways – the summer rains that I still yearn for to this day, the abundance of sweet honeysuckle come spring, and the love and support I felt from the only community I had ever known. But as that small town country girl grew, so did my awareness of the lingering effects of slavery and centuries of oppression that were haunting the lives of people I grew up alongside. I moved to Colorado in 2018 in hopes of leaving behind racist ideologies that I naively believed were only found in pockets of the deep south.
On May 25th, 2020, that belief was shattered when three officers took the life of George Floyd in broad daylight in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The killing of George Floyd sparked a historical moment in the fight for equality that gained widespread international support. It was evident that the struggles of racism and police brutality were not specific to the small Texas town I was raised in.
Worldwide protests against police brutality forced citizens and governments to confront histories of systematic racism. Cries for help to end the justifications of white supremacy were heard around the world and Denver residents responded. Just two days after the death of George Floyd, thousands of protestors flooded the streets of downtown Denver.
As the crowd wove in and out of my sleepy Capitol Hill neighborhood, hoisting signs made from old moving boxes reading “No Justice. No Peace” and “Black Lives Matter,” I grabbed my backpack, scurried down my steps and found myself right in the middle of what would soon be one of the largest protests in Colorado history.
After hours of marching through the streets of Denver, protesters began to settle near and around the city’s Capitol building. Mothers and fathers sat quietly with their children as demonstrators pleaded for change. Volunteers with water and hand sanitizer shifted through the crowd. Men fell to their knees in tears, begging for a safer life. The evening was coming to an emotional but peaceful end for all of us.
To our surprise, Denver police officers in riot gear, holding guns loaded with rubber bullets and tear-gas, began to approach the gathered protestors from behind. Without warning, officers began throwing metal canisters into the crowd. Echoes of rubber bullets and screams permeated the gas-filled air as demonstrators choked on the toxic fumes while scrambling to find their loved ones.
I felt like what I was witnessing deserved to be captured. Over the course of the final days of the protests, pockets that previously filled with eyewash, Band-Aids, and extra masks were stuffed to the brim with rolls of 35mm film. I have always been a lover of photography. Although I have no formal training and the viewfinder on my Nikon has never worked, the only thing I could do was cry as I shuffled through the developed photos I had taken. It took me back to the days of protesting when the images were shot, reminding me of how profoundly transformative it was for me, for everyone, to have bonded with this community in times of conflict and mourning.
I attended every protest for the next two weeks, observing the ebb and flow of emotions felt by fellow protestors. A movement fueled by unbelievable sadness and solidarity turned into an explosive expression of anger and hurt until finally settling into a celebration of culture and community. African dance circles began popping up all around Civic Center Park, volunteers were seen passing out essential items to the homeless population who were caught in the crossfire, and the air that was once consumed with toxic gas was soon replaced with rhythmic melodies and burning sage. I decided to divert from my new protest morning routine and shoved my 1973 Nikon film camera into my backpack before setting out for the Capitol yet again in the hope of making sense of what I was witnessing.
This little girl from Texas had finally begun to understand the importance of blending the love and support she felt in that sleepy southern town and the frustrations that grew from opening her eyes to the racial injustices of the world.
The marriage between compassion and action is essential to true change, especially for those of us who are navigating this movement as an ally. I hope these photos encourage activists to keep pushing forward on this long journey towards racial equality. I also hope that these images resonate with those who have misconceptions surrounding these protests and those who have chosen to participate. Defenders of equality look like our children, they look like our mothers, our fathers, our educators, our neighbors, our friends. They look like me. And they look like you.