33 Years Later

If you would have told me 11 years ago that this is where I would be––back in South Carolina, renting a place, with a dog, single, with a doctorate degree, working where I work––I would have told you that you were crazy. But here I am living the dream or something like it. 

Turning 33 means a lot but at the same time not so much. I’m fairly certain no one takes me seriously and most of my friends have become to the “while it’s convenient” type of people where they say you matter but you really don’t. I feel like I used to live a non-stop adventure but thanks to the pandemic, I’ve been forced to stay put and that has shown me what my life is really like. There’s a lot of people that say, “I wish I could live like you.” But they only say that because see me jet setting off to some foreign or exotic place––globetrotting in some unknown part of the universe and a tinge of envy takes over. But then they go back to their lives and I return to mine.

I always thought once I turn 30 my life is gonna be so put together. Whatever I was in 20s would be put to rest and I would finally start to live the life I always imagined I would. But then I turned 30 and then 31 and then 32. Somehow the coming together thing became a pipe dream, and I was just out here trying to survive.

Last summer, it was announced by a group of activists in Columbia, South Carolina that they would recreate the Million Man March and march on the state capital. The thing is, no one really knew how serious they were and no one really expected that it could be pulled off especially in the timeframe they were shooting for, chief among them, the city's own Mayor. They had a lot of things going against them––the weather had been problematic; rain and thunderstorms had been sporadic in the days leading up to the scheduled date, a protest that resulted in police cars being set on fire left a bad taste in the police’s mouths, a rogue set of protestors were more interested in the destructive side of things, and here we were in the middle of a pandemic. But then one Saturday morning I found myself at Martin Luther King Jr. Park.

Hundreds of people littered the fields of the park. Most of the men were wearing two and three piece suits, some with fedoras, others without, the ladies wore sundresses and everyone seemed to be on one accord. I had my camera and  I was more interested in looks on their faces. They were both proud and astounded––it was incredible.

And then a girl revealed a painting, she was young, late teens, early twenties, she had a look of determination on her face––stoic and reserved. The painting was of George Floyd and his daughter. It was in the likeness of a video that was widely circulated in the days after this death. In the painting, Gianna, George’s daughter is sitting on his shoulders and he is wearing a hat with the same words she uttered in the video, “my daddy changed the world.” Before the march started I made my way over to the starting point and was met with a barrage of photographers and videographers, some from the media others who were just like me––regular people who wanted to memorialize the day.

Then it started. The march was marching. At first it was hard to judge what was happening––the crowd was moving and the horde of photographers were trying to keep pace while also trying to capture the moment while also trying not to run into one another. It took some getting used to but once we’d found our stride, everything seemed to fall into place.

As we got onto the main road and really into the march, that’s when things began to change for me. At some point  I got caught up in the moment and before I knew it dropped my camera into my bag, turned around, threw my fist into the air and allowed myself to be part of the movement. As we approached the statehouse, I stood up on the flatbed truck, the crowd marched past us and filed onto the statehouse grounds. Dozens of people marched past us, I stood there on the flatbed, next to the girl with the painting, both our fists jutting into the heavens. There we stood, enduring, lost in our own revelry. People looked up at us, the anguish and grief etched in their faces. The energy was unbelievable and it was in that moment that I really understood the power of voices––why it's so important why voices can never be silenced. Voices matter. I left that day knowing that not only was I part of history, but that I allowed my voice to be heard.

Am I happy with the place I’m at in life––how do you know when you’re happy with where you are? Some say that breeds contentment and that is actually the real killer––becoming too content with the way things are. Maybe that’s what happened to me, maybe I got too content with the way things are.

So my goal for this year is to actually do something meaningful. I’m not really sure what that looks like or how its going to play out but in order for me to be okay with the life I’ve been given, I have to do something with it. Life was never meant to be lived without cause––so whatever happens, however it happens, I will live my life this year––on my own terms. And last year was messy but at least one good thing came out it––I finished by doctorate, so at least I have that in my arsenal to start.

Let’s see where it’ll take us.