“All right, I got you.” He turns on the news, and I can finally function again.

The turnout for the protest is bigger than any of us could have anticipated; tens of thousands of demonstrators converge on the Manhattan streets. They carry signs letting us know where they hail from. Many of the people are from the outer boroughs, but a great number of them are from out of state.

The victims’ families—including Davis Brown—march alongside my mom and other top members of See Us. The front line of the protest is a who’s who of Black leadership. It’s not only Black people marching—people from all backgrounds are joined together and demand an end to police brutality. The energy of the crowd is electrifying and sends goose bumps down my arms.

The CNN reporter goes over to a group of counterprotesters, a small but seriously vocal group who shout slurs and accusations at the crowd. They accuse the crowd of being antiwhite and anticops. They vow to stop us from ruining “their” country. Their faces are red with ire at what they feel is an attack on law enforcement. The reporter tries to remain professional, but it’s clear she’s taken aback by the aggressive tone of the counterprotesters.

The reporter asks the cameraman to pan out so the people at home can get a sense of just how large the crowd has gotten. He’s right, the crowd’s grown and so has the police presence. We’ve had many heated protests, but none on this scale. The protest makes its way to in front of the Thirty-Second Precinct on 135th Street, where the officers who shot Davis Brown work. The roar of the crowd grows to a deafening pitch, and my mom is given the microphone. She calmly takes center stage.

She doesn’t just settle for naming general groups—she calls out specific people in the police department and in the mayor’s office. She warns them the crowd is not there to ask for equality but to demand it. She eloquently gives voice to the rage and frustration of the demonstrators. She points out that the time for asking is over. The crowd goes crazy. She demands that they take instead of waiting to be given the equal protection they were promised. The crowd was already pumped up, but by the time my mom is done, a new kind of fire has been ignited.

I put the TV on mute and turn my back to the screen. I find myself hugging my knees to my chest. I bury my face and form a ball.

“What’s wrong?” Devonte asks.