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here’s something eerie about the industrial part of New Jersey. It looks like a graveyard of machinery, cranes jutting into the sky in haphazard ways and abandoned junk yards filled with rusted cars. The buildings look like they could collapse at any moment, saved by the numerous families crammed inside holding them up. 

As I watch from the incredibly smudged window of the train, I can’t help but wonder if this is what all of the world will look like one day. With time, will waging wars and human neglect cause everything to look as desolate as the slouching buildings and torn billboards of New Jersey?

The thought is quickly put on the back-burner as the train leaves Jersey in its dust. I return to my comic book; curious how Red Hood will get himself out of trouble this time. Before I know it, we’ve arrived at Penn Station, and I’ve rushed off the train and into the bustling city. I search the faces of people rushing past me, holding my suitcase as closely as I can.  I still bump shoulders with men in suits who think I’ll move for them.

As I find my uncle and we make our way to his apartment, I realize that something has changed since the last time I was here. The city still holds all of the charm and interest I’ve always felt, but something in me doesn’t feel the same. I’m more aware of the people around us, how aloof they are. Some bury with their noses in novels, others play on their phones, and a few even stare at nothing. They turn their noses up at the foul smelling bundles of blankets that shake cups for change.

It’s always been like this; New York has never been a perfect place, so why do I feel so different? I don’t find the answer to my question until the next day, when we go see the Whitney Museum’s Incomplete History of Protest. I’ve always been an empathetic person, but seeing struggle up close and so blatantly displayed hits me like a ton of bricks. One piece is a simple black flag with bold white lettering. It reads: “A man was lynched by police yesterday.”

I stare at the flag; it stands still as there’s no wind inside the building. I come to the conclusion that this is the most heartbreaking piece here. It’s only from two years ago, and it’s still relevant as I’m standing here. I know why things feel different now. The last time I was in New York, I hadn’t known that people of color were being slaughtered by police every day. Now everyone who has social media – including me – knows, and it’s made the city tense.

I’ve been to the protests, I’ve cried for justice, and I feel for the people that I’ll never truly understand. When I wear a Black Lives Matter shirt, I’m not in danger. Sure, the people in my town won’t like it, but they won’t attack me. I’m still one of them, pale as the moon. I won’t be lynched by police for walking home from the store.

The men in suits who run the city are on edge, knowing that the people aren’t going to stand for mistreatment anymore. It’s trickled down the ladder and it’s changing things. The city that I once loved is changing and morphing into a battleground where people are fighting for the right to live – and I will stand with them.