Silvery flakes drift down from the afternoon sky leaving a cold terrain for the group of protestors. I held my sign in one hand and my father's hand in the other. My father, grandfather, and I walk down the snow covered street with other African Americans from our town with similar signs. My father told me we were marching for freedom, and I didn't ask more questions. I didn't complain about the gradually loss of feeling in my hands and legs or the fact that we weren't making any progress or the fact that I missed home, we had traveled far to get to Colorado. We were here for freedom; ever since my father was denied his right to vote, along with the other awful laws passed to weaken our voice in society, my father and his followers planned this freedom march. My little brother even helped decorate the signs, even thought he didn't fully understand. I stared up towards the sky as the snow came to a slow stop. I thought about my father and wondered if he would ever be remebered for all he has done. I wonder if I will continue his work if he is killed; maybe for all he has done for our people's rights, a holiday will be created in his honor.
"Come on Yolanda, we have to get out of here now! The police are coming!" my father shouts, pulling me from my thoughts.
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Pulled From My Thoughts
Historical FictionThis story is a short chaptered story that allows the reader to step into the perspective of kids in Colorado from different times. Hope you enjoy!
