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NPR Ed
'I'm Willing To Fight For America': 5 Student Activists On Protesting For Change
Anya Kamanetz
Jeffrey Pierre
Sequoia Carrillo
Elissa Nadworny
June 19, 2020
Peaceful, student-led protests have been a powerful force for change throughout American history.
In 1925, for example, students at Fisk University staged a 10-week
protest to speak out against the school's president, who didn't want
students starting a chapter of the N.A.A.C.P. In 1940, almost 2,000
students protested after New York University decided to pull a black
player from its football roster to accommodate the University of
Missouri's segregationists.
And campus-based protests, including against racism, were a major lever of social change in the 1960s.
But during one of the largest protest movements of our generation, campuses nationwide have been shut down due to COVID-19.
So what does student activism look like today? It's happening online
and in the streets; with art and tech skills. NPR Ed spoke to five high
school and college students fighting in different ways for black lives,
an end to police brutality and structural racism.
When he was growing up, Julian Dowell says, his mom was a big advocate
for reading up on racism in American history. "In the eighth grade I
was reading Cornel West. Michelle Alexander's The New Jim Crow had just
come out," he says. "So when Trayvon Martin occurred, I was actually
kind of in my school mobilizing people around me, like, yo, we're gonna
do a day where we're all going to wear our hood up."
Today Dowell is a junior Georgetown University, studying
African-American studies and thinking about adding economics. But his
biggest interest is understanding augmented reality technology — and
finding a way to use it as a tool to protest and speak out.
"Even in this moment, you see a lot of rallying cries behind George
Floyd. But mind you, Breonna Taylor's death was, what, three months
ago? So it was really important for me as a black man to say how can I
amplify this quotable of, 'say her name,' " he says. "More often than
not, black women don't don't receive that opportunity."
Before he visited the newly named Black Lives Matter Plaza in
Washington, D.C., he created an app that allowed people in the plaza to
use their phone to find a mural of Breonna Taylor, shot by police in
her home in Louisville, Ky. When you click on the image, you hear
Taylor's mother speaking about her.
"I wanted people to say her name. I wanted people to hear her mother's
voice," he says. "I didn't want to dehumanize her in the way that her
death had. I want to humanize or I want to memorialize her."
At the same time Dowell is wrestling with the idea of what it means to
be a student activist, he's also asking himself: "What are the limits
of the virtual world?"
It was really important for me as a black man to say how can I amplify
this quotable of, 'say her name.' More often than not, black women
don't don't receive that opportunity.
Julian Dowell, 20, Washington, D.C.
There have been instances of social media influencers using the Black
Lives Matter protest movement as a photo opportunity. There are posts
of influencers posting in front of looted stores or coming to a march
with hair and makeup done only to take a picture. Social capital, he
says, is a real thing and many people want to be on the right side of
history.
The solution, he says, is nuanced and complicated and won't be solved
in just talking about the issue of systemic racism and performative
activism. Another thing Dowell is fighting for when he protests is
making sure the right people have access.
"Lean into technology companies. Give black and brown communities
access to resources. Give them access to free Code Academy. Send them
links to free code camps. Make sure there's pipelines for opportunities
for students," he says, to find access to workshops that teach people
computer coding and developing apps.
Aaron Narraph Fernando, 19, New York City
Aaron Narraph Fernando, born and raised in Queens, New York, is a
rising junior at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan,
where he studies law and society. He's also running unopposed for a
local Democratic Party position called County Committee. And in his
spare time he's been making waves in New York City politics armed with
just a Google Doc and a Twitter account.
"A few weeks ago, even before the George Floyd protests started, I
started looking into fundraising numbers for state-level candidates. I
was curious to see how challengers were doing against their incumbents
in terms of fundraising. And I started noticing that a lot of these
so-called progressive Democrats were taking a lot of money from these
very conservative police unions and other law enforcement things like
correction officers' unions and the court officer unions. So I started
making a list of all the different law enforcement unions and also how
much money they had given to different New York City Democrats this
cycle."
While contributions from unions to Democratic politicians might have
raised few eyebrows in the past, Fernando and other activists saw this
money, and the influence it brings, as standing in the way of measures
like the recently passed repeal of Section 50-a, a law shielding the
personnel records of police officers. He started making a list of law
enforcement unions' political contributions to New York City Democrats.
"And I wasn't really sure what to do with the list until the George
Floyd protest really started. And we started seeing more and more
people be aware of the very aggressive role that police take in our
communities. And a lot of people started to ask me how they could take
action if they couldn't go out and protest in the streets."
"I tweeted out, I asked people if this is a good time to drop my
spreadsheet showing which New York City officials are taking money from
law enforcement. And I got like 800 'likes' in like an hour. So I was
like, OK. People really care about this. They're really engaged right
now. They really want to get involved and know how they can make a
difference. So I posted my spreadsheet."
Then, something surprising happened. Politicians started responding to public pressure.
"Aravella Simotas, an assembly member in Astoria [donated her law
enforcement contributions to racial justice organizations] under
pressure from her primary challenger. Then all the dominoes
fell...Today we've had 19 different elected officials in New York City
say they're going to donate their money to anti-racist causes. And so
far, we've had almost $60,000 in law enforcement contributions donated
to anti-racist causes. And I think we'll see more and more in the
coming weeks."
Fernando is quick to say that he thinks direct action in the streets is
the most powerful way to make change, and to downplay his own
contribution.
"I'm not the first person to talk about the power that this money can
have. People in criminal justice spaces have known about this for a
long time. I'm just somebody who compiled that data to an easily
accessible spreadsheet." And sometimes that is all you need.
Kinsale Hueston, 20, Los Angeles
After organizing on campus for two years, Kinsale Hueston has had to
get creative. As a student at Yale University, her approach to
amplifying marginalized voices is generally through art — she's a
nationally recognized poet. And as COVID-19 took hold in the Navajo
Nation, she found that her Instagram posts and reposts were getting a
lot of attention: "It's made me really happy to see friends of mine who
have never really shared anything about native issues — or anything
like that before — amplifying what I've been sharing."
Hueston is an enrolled member of the Navajo Nation who mostly grew up
in California. In high school, protest movements around the missing and
murdered indigenous women's movement as well as the Dakota Access
Pipeline, "helped [her] get involved at the local level, especially
with the urban native community in L.A."
Because people have been kicked off campus and they have to go online
in this specific scenario, they're looking for these opportunities to
learn.
Kinsale Hueston, 20, Los Angeles,
She started using social media back then to educate and raise awareness
on these issues, but she says this time is different: "Usually what I
face is like not a lot of reposts, not a lot of response. But now
because people have been kicked off campus and they have to go online
in this specific scenario, they're looking for these opportunities to
learn."
And her approach is working. She's gained almost 12,000 Instagram
followers in the past 30 days. She posts primarily about the high rates
of COVID-19 on the Navajo reservation, but she recognizes that there is
another huge movement rippling through the country right now. Both, she
says, focused on the same thing: "You can't put one issue over the
other because that's what, you know, the white state wants us to do.
They want us to fight like this. And instead we have to be good
relatives to each other and listen to each other and address the needs
of all of our communities right now."
She had one final message: Don't forget the artists.
"There are so many incredible black singers, visual artists, writers
who are making such incredible work to bring joy right now. And I think
that's also such an important part of movements, is the healing and the
beauty that can come out of it. I think art is so important because it
allows us to see the future that we want to manifest and work towards."
Amiri Nash, 18, Washington, D.C.
Amiri Nash, who will be starting as a freshman at Brown University, has
been watching people "perform Internet activism." They'll re-post
something, comment or change their profile picture to a black screen,
but "have a false sense of engagement with the cause and the movement
and the idea."
So Nash and a friend, Lexi Brown, started a project called Sign of
Justice, an organization that creates signs with scan codes, to post in
public places that are predominantly white. (One sign, for example,
says, "A man was lynched by police. What are you doing about it? Text
'Floyd' to 55156. Use your privilege for good.")
"It brings conversations to communities and it really gets you out of
your house and doing something," Nash said. One of the best parts: "You
can do it while social distancing."
Right now, I'm hopeful ... I've been seeing so many people go to
protests and hang signs and spread awareness. But also I don't want the
hope to block the very real reality that none of this really matters
unless ... we get real systemic change.
Amiri Nash, 18, Washington, D.C.
The signs have QR codes with resources, including a link to donate to
the Black Lives Matter movement. Before the police involved with George
Floyd's murder had been charged, a sign displayed a number that you
could text that would automatically sign a petition to get them
charged. The signs are traveling across the world — through England,
Germany, the Netherlands and Canada.
The signs are another way to fight for change and an acknowledgment
that protesting could be a luxury during a pandemic. "There are still
some people that have immunocompromised systems that aren't able to
protest, or people that just have COVID fears in general, which is
completely valid," he says.
Millions of people around the world — from New Zealand to Iran — have
taken to the streets, and while Nash is positive about the visibility
of these demonstrations, he says it's too soon to celebrate.
"Right now, I'm hopeful because I've seen so many people get involved.
I've been seeing so many people go to protests and hang signs and
spread awareness. But also I don't want the hope to block the very real
reality that none of this really matters unless we hold everyone
accountable, unless we get real systemic change, unless the police
officers who murdered George Floyd and Breonna Taylor are actually
convicted and spend time in jail."
Ayesha Chaudhry, 16, Mason, Ohio
As an immigrant from Pakistan, Ayesha Chaudhry has a unique perspective on America's racial divisions.
"I'm so, so, so grateful for the life that America has provided me. But
it's because I'm so grateful for that life that I'm willing to fight
for America and willing to fight for American citizens' liberties and
making sure that they're, you know, living in a place that they love."
After George Floyd's death, she teamed up with some of her best friends
— all teenage girls who met in AP government class — to organize the
Black Lives Matter march in the Republican-leaning Cincinnati suburb of
Mason, Ohio. The peaceful protest was four blocks long, and honored
other victims of police killings, as well as the recent murder of a
black transgender woman, Riah Milton, in nearby Liberty Township during
an attempted robbery.
Chaudhry said the turnout, and all aspects of the day, left her feeling full of gratitude.
"A lot of people doubted the organizers. We are all young girls. I kept
telling people that I know Mason [residents] had it in them. And I was
just — I was really grateful to be proven right."
Ayesha Chaudhry, 16, Mason, Ohio
In her spare time, Chaudhry runs a nonprofit media company that
presents makeup looks for all skin tones, and she does makeovers and
photo shoots for underrepresented people, such as gay couples. She has
an Instagram feed, a Youtube channel, and a podcast, too, all under the
name "Your local brown girl media." But her dream job, she says, is to
be a lawyer for the ACLU.
She says there's something big that people get wrong about this current
wave of youth and student activists — that they're somehow anti-America.
"I think the teenagers of today, despite how aggressive their rhetoric
is, love this country. I know I do. And they love it to the point of
invention. They love it to the point of inventing a new system that
works for the country that they love so much."
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