Iam not, you might have guessed, a natural protester. Yet in the spring of 2020, I planned to attend a Black Lives Matter march on West Liberty Avenue. The timing ended up conflicting with a family commitment, so I volunteered to hang out at the staging area and tidy it up after the march left.

The McDonald’s parking lot was a festive atmosphere, and I was clearly not the only first-timer. It felt as if a real mass movement might be blossoming. After all, even I had responded to the sense that something had to be done by doing something.

In the days and weeks that followed, rioters ransacked Downtown businesses and burned police cars and a crowd clashed with officers in East Liberty. It placed our peaceful South Hills march in a different light.

Chasing the high

Were we pathetic and pe

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