These movements aren't about anger. We're not angrily saying

Host: The evening light fell heavy over the city square — warm gold against murals and protest signs, the air thick with that peculiar mix of exhaustion and hope. A small crowd still lingered from the day’s march, scattered now into smaller circles, their voices blending softly into the hum of dusk. The ground still vibrated faintly from the earlier chants, the echoes of “Black Lives Matter” not fading, but reshaping into something quieter, deeper — something closer to prayer than protest.

Near the edge of the square, Jack and Jeeny sat on the concrete steps of a monument, shoes dusty, faces flushed with the kind of tired that carries pride in it. Between them, a half-empty bottle of water and a cardboard sign lay on the ground, its paint beginning to run:
“We are not asking. We are declaring.”

Jeeny broke the silence, her voice steady and luminous — not loud, but full of conviction that didn’t need volume:

“These movements aren’t about anger. We’re not angrily saying ‘Black Lives Matter.’ We’re declaring it. It’s a declaration. We want to be seen as robust, full human beings that have anger and have joy. We want to be able to just freely have that joy. Like everybody else does.” — Tarana Burke

Jack: (quietly) “A declaration. Not a demand. That’s powerful.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because declarations don’t ask for permission — they announce existence. It’s saying: we’re here. Fully. Without apology.”

Jack: “It’s the difference between rebellion and recognition.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger starts revolutions, but declaration sustains them. It’s saying, we’ve earned the right to be more than our pain.”

Host: The light flickered against the murals — faces painted across brick: Martin, Malcolm, Audre, Breonna. The colors glowed richer in the low sun, as if evening itself bowed to the stories they told.

Jack: “You know, people still twist it. They call it rage. They call it unrest.”

Jeeny: “Because they don’t know how to see Black joy. They’re comfortable with Black struggle — it fits their narrative of pity and power. But joy? Joy disrupts the hierarchy.”

Jack: “Joy is defiance.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it says, even after centuries of being told you don’t deserve peace, you create it anyway. That’s rebellion wrapped in radiance.”

Host: A gentle breeze moved through the square, stirring the discarded signs. The smell of asphalt, sweat, and sun-warmed paint hung in the air. A nearby saxophonist began to play — soft, improvisational, free.

Jack: “You ever notice how protests sound like symphonies? Voices rising, falling, harmonizing — like people building their own rhythm out of resistance.”

Jeeny: “Because protest isn’t chaos. It’s choreography. Every voice knows when to shout and when to sing.”

Jack: “And this — what Tarana said — it’s the chorus line of that dance. Not anger, but affirmation.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s saying: we exist in joy, in grief, in humor, in love. We’re not characters in someone else’s tragedy — we’re authors of our own humanity.”

Host: The sky turned amber, the last light of day painting the monument in bronze. The engraved words on its surface — “For the People” — caught the glow like fire.

Jack: “It’s interesting — declarations used to belong to governments. Declarations of independence, of intent, of war. But now — they belong to people. To those who’ve had their existence footnoted.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The oppressed have become the authors of their own manifestos. It’s not rebellion anymore — it’s restoration.”

Jack: “And joy’s the proof of survival.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because anger can be taken from you, but joy — joy is chosen. It’s what’s left after the fire when you decide to rebuild.”

Host: A streetlight flickered on, and the first notes of night began to hum through the city — the sound of footsteps, laughter, and quiet conversations rising like a hymn.

Jack: “You think people ever really understood what ‘Black Lives Matter’ meant?”

Jeeny: “Not all. Some heard ‘matter’ and thought it meant ‘more.’ But it was never a hierarchy. It was an equation — the balance long overdue.”

Jack: “So the declaration isn’t about superiority. It’s about equity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the world catching up to a truth that’s been waiting for centuries.”

Jack: “And when Tarana says, ‘we want to be seen as robust,’ she’s talking about wholeness.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because humanity isn’t one-dimensional. It’s not just pain. It’s laughter, creativity, tenderness, rage — all of it sacred.”

Jack: “That’s what gets me — she’s not rejecting anger. She’s expanding it. Making room for joy beside it.”

Jeeny: “Because real freedom isn’t the absence of struggle — it’s the right to dance through it.”

Host: The saxophone drifted closer now — an old jazz standard reimagined, bent and beautiful. A few of the remaining protestors started humming along. It didn’t sound sad. It sounded alive.

Jack: “You know, people underestimate joy. They treat it like an accessory, something optional.”

Jeeny: “But for Black folks, joy is oxygen. You can’t breathe without it. Generations have survived on the ability to laugh through grief, to love through loss.”

Jack: “So joy isn’t denial. It’s resistance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every smile is a small act of revolution.”

Host: The city lights shimmered, the square now a mosaic of reflection — concrete, rain puddles, neon. Jack leaned back, watching the glow on Jeeny’s face — tired but luminous, like a flame that refused to die.

Jack: “When she says ‘we’re declaring it,’ it hits different. It’s not shouting for visibility — it’s standing tall in identity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s the language of reclamation. Not ‘let us be,’ but ‘we already are.’”

Jack: “That’s power — not borrowed, not begged. Earned.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The declaration is selfhood without compromise. That’s why it threatens people — because it doesn’t ask.”

Jack: “It’s the same energy as every great movement: women saying ‘me too,’ queer folks saying ‘we exist,’ workers saying ‘we matter.’ It’s the human condition rediscovering its dignity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every declaration is a reminder that humanity isn’t granted by others — it’s born with us.”

Host: The rain began lightly, more mist than storm — soft droplets settling on signs and shoulders alike. No one ran. They simply lifted their faces to it, eyes open, as if even the rain had come to listen.

Jack: “You think people will get tired? Of fighting, of declaring?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But declarations echo. Once spoken, they live forever. Words like that don’t fade — they seed.”

Jack: “And what grows from them?”

Jeeny: “Freedom. Not the kind written into laws — the kind you feel in your skin, in your laughter, in the way you walk through a world that finally sees you.”

Jack: “And until then?”

Jeeny: “Until then, we keep declaring. Not because we’re angry — but because we’re alive.”

Host: The saxophone fell silent, and the square was quiet again — only rain, and breathing, and the faint hum of traffic somewhere far away.

And in that sacred stillness, Tarana Burke’s words lingered like a heartbeat beneath the city’s pulse —

that justice is not rage, but recognition,
that to be seen fully — with both fury and joy — is to reclaim the soul of humanity,
and that declaration, not permission,
is the first sound of freedom.

Host: The lights dimmed.
The rain softened.
And beneath it all —
the rhythm of joy, steady and unstoppable,
kept playing on.