When the pandemic hit and I was forced to suddenly leave college and live with my parents for a bit, it was a bittersweet feeling. On one hand, I was sad to leave my friends at college, but being an only child, I was also excited to go home and see my parents. However, when I got home, it wasn’t the joyous reunion that I expected. I had to Uber home alone and quarantine in the basement for three days before I got tested, and then three more days waiting for my test results. I got to talk to my parents socially distanced outside, but I couldn’t give them the warm hug that I usually do when they pick me up from the airport.

Luckily, I tested negative and was able to spend time with my parents a week later. We went mountain biking, hiking, and played board games inside in isolation from the rest of our friends. It wasn’t too bad, as my parents and I are used to spending a lot of time together and we have the same hobbies. It felt like my childhood again, simply spending all day with my parents. However, these happy times were abruptly cut short when George Floyd was brutally murdered by police.

This sparked many discussions about racial justice between my parents and I, and I learned that they were prominent activists in L.A. during the Rodney King Riots. After talking to them about our values and how I was raised, they hesitantly agreed to let me go to D.C. and join the protests against racial injustice. In actuality, they didn’t agree, I said “I’m 20 years old and I have a car, you can’t stop me” and they sighed in realization. I’m normally not one to disagree with my parent’s judgment, but racial equality and justice is something that I hold very dear to my heart and I couldn’t bring myself to stay home.

My parents came around, realizing that this is exactly how they raised me: to stand up against injustice and show compassion to strangers. I guess their inner activist also came out, because they gave me protesting tips from when they were in Los Angeles. Though some of them were outdated, I appreciated all the advice they gave me. One dark but humorous exchange I remember was when they told me to carry cash and put it in a sandwich bag so that it didn’t get wet when the police used water cannons against us. I sadly replied, “Oh they don’t use water cannons anymore, they use tear gas” as I started to pack baking soda in a spray bottle, a natural remedy for the effects of tear gas. I grabbed the lunch that my mom packed for me, my skateboard, said “I love you” and headed out the door.

I met up with a group in D.C., right outside of the White House. We were face to face with the national guard, a wall of men in riot gear with big guns. They looked like they were about to go to war, and I remember telling my friend that if something went down, just grab my hand and run. Tensions rose. Another line of national guard unloaded from an army truck, and they created a wall on the other side of the block. They put their shields up. They had barricaded us in. Nobody could leave. I started to panic, and I texted my parents telling them what was happening. They replied “I know, we’re watching it live on television. Stick with the crowd and don’t try to be a hero.”

Eventually, the guards stood down. I guess they didn’t want more heat from the media after they tear gassed peaceful protesters in the exact same spot yesterday. This moment was when I became severely disillusioned with America. Why were my parents watching me on TV, scared that the military would hurt me for protesting the murder of a Black man by the police? Is this the land of the free? Or the prison of the brave?

[submitted on 11/19/2020]