Opinion | They don’t really care about us
Micaela Bastianelli, Assistant Features Editor
After the ruthless murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and many more of my Black brothers and sisters by the hands of the police, I decided to take my activism to the streets. As a mixed Black woman with three Black siblings, a Black mother, a Black stepfather, Black friends and a Black boyfriend, I saw myself and everyone close to me in each individual that was lost. I cried for days out of fear and hopelessness.
When Sule Murray, a senior at Chapman, announced he would be hosting a June 6 protest from Chapman’s campus to the center of the Orange Plaza, I knew I would be attending. The morning of the protest, my friends and I sat down to create our posters: “Black Lives Matter.”
Reality smacked me full force in the gut. On a flimsy piece of poster paper, I had to inform people in the year 2020 that my life matters. That my family’s lives matter. Once again on the verge of tears, I pulled myself together.
When we arrived at the Attallah Piazza on campus, I was pleasantly surprised to see so many Chapman students of various races and backgrounds in attendance. Before the march to the Orange Plaza began, a handful of students graced the stage and delivered heartfelt speeches. It was the first time I ever felt I belonged on Chapman’s campus. That I belonged in the city of Orange. That we belonged.
A group of a few hundred, we began to walk down the bustling streets of Orange, belting chants over the roaring cars. “No justice, no peace, no racist police.” “Black lives, they matter here.” “Hey hey, ho ho, these racist cops have got to go.” Initially, the moment felt empowering. I stood tall and marched with pride as I fought for the justice and equality of my people.
But of course, that feeling didn’t last long.
As we continued, we approached a restaurant: The Filling Station. At this moment, I physically felt my heart sink into the depths of my stomach. As we held our posters high, pleading for every human with a soul to hear our cries and listen to our messages, every person seated outside on that restaurant’s patio pretended we didn’t exist. They continued to eat their lunches and laugh with their friends, enjoying the privilege of not having to beg for their humanity – not even a single glance in our direction. My voice grew shaky and weaker than before.
Proceeding past The Filling Station, we filled the streets of the entrance into the Orange Plaza. People walking on the sidewalks halted in their tracks to gawk at us, suggesting that our presence was nothing more than an annoyance, like a fly you keep shooing that won’t go away. Others chose to pull their phones out to videotape us, like one does at a zoo when you come across exotic animals you’ve never seen before.
I stopped chanting. My poster was no longer held high above my head. Yet again, I broke down into tears with a heavier feeling of hopelessness. In the year 2020, our Black lives still don’t matter. The value of our lives is equal to the exotic animals in those zoo cages, and the murderous police and white supremacist groups still freely existing in America continue to prove it.
From the words of Michael Jackson, “All I want to say is that they don’t really care about us.”