Silence = Death

the gentle laborer shall no longer suffer

Tuesday, 24 March, 1987

Cries of protest rumble throughout the jungle called Manhattan, drowning out the repetitive clicks and whirs of my bike tires propelling me towards the chaos. The towering museums of capitalism block any visuals and allow only for the distant sounds to slip through the atmosphere and warn the citizens circling through upper New York City, and I am left clueless because of them. I have no idea what the protest is advocating for, but I am intent on finding out, so I veer away from my original route and stick my bike tires to the road towards my new destination.

I have an hour before my job at the retro diner near my house begins, but I'm usually out and about in order to exercise long ahead of when I need to be there. Now that I hear the rally outside and really have no plans as to where I'm supposed to go before my shift starts, I might as well attend and find out what's going on. If the cause is good enough, I may join myself.

My bike curves around the corner of a building and onto a new street, where I can feel myself getting closer to the scene. The noise is amplified with each foot of ground that I cover, and my anticipation builds with each second, my heart trembling within my rib cage, and my breath quick and empty. The music of war draws deafeningly near, and finally I discover the images to accompany it when I turn onto Wall Street.

My eyes adjust to the crowd of about two hundred fifty people -- young people, with hopes and dreams and fire in their souls who will not be stepped on any longer by the greedy capitalists on Wall Street. They're demanding something from them, and to achieve what they wish, they have to come together from all different backgrounds. People of every color, every gender, every financial situation, they're all gathered here to fight for what they believe in. I wish I could help them in some way, but first I need to know what they're so passionate about.

My mother always reminds me to stay out of heated affairs like demonstrations because of how unfairly I would be treated in comparison to the white people there, but I'm already too interested in the protest to leave it alone without knowing what it's for. Merely asking what's going on isn't too dangerous, is it? I can ask one of the protesters then make my way to the diner. Simple as that.

I retrace my steps a bit until I'm no longer on Wall Street, then propping my bike on a building so that it won't be taken by the flood of pandemonium on the other road (who knows what's going to happen once they retreat? It might be a stampede for all I know, as I've never been to a protest before because of my mother's advice, so it's better to be safe than sorry). I make my way back to the riot, and the scene is as alive as it was fifteen seconds prior.

"We die; they do nothing!" the protesters chant in fortified unison, a chant that makes me wary of the matter at hand yet more and more curious nevertheless. Who is being killed? And by whom? How has this not made the news? Why is no one talking about it?

I spot a guy at random in the back of the crowd, pumping his fist and shouting at the people within the walls of their headquarters, whom I approach and ask, "What's this protest about?"

He and another guy clad in a black leather jacket both turn around to answer the question, not sure whom I was addressing. The second one looks to the first to answer, though. They must be friends, as he watches for the first guy's reply even though he knows the answer already.

"Didn't you hear the battle cry?" the first one questions. I detect a classic Brooklyn accent mixed with a classic gay accent, although the border between the two is a bit blurry.

"I can't say that I did."

"Act up, fight back, fight AIDS?" he pushes, brow tilted in a way that makes me a bit nervous for not knowing.