The Crossroads of King and Calhoun
It was a Sunday in Charleston a clear and cool day where the light felt honest, illuminating the cracks in the sidewalk and the complexities of our shared life with equal intensity. I found myself at the corner of King and Calhoun, a spot usually reserved for the casual drift of tourists and the quiet hum of a city at rest. But today, the silence was being actively and intentionally broken.
I stood for a while with the group; Silence Is Not an Option. They are a small but vibrant assembly, holding signs that acted as paper anchors in a turbulent sea. "Bring Back DEI," one read. "Melt ICE," said another. There is something profoundly human about the act of standing in a public space to say, "This matters to me." It is an exercise in hope, which, as any student of history knows, is often the most difficult work.
The weight of my camera was familiar in my hands. I tried to capture the day, the way the sunlight caught a hand-painted letter, the defiance in a smile. But the air wasn't just filled with solidarity. Between the friendly honks and the cheers, there were threats. At one point, a car of young men drove by, their voices jagged and ugly as they shouted vulgarities at us.
It is easy to think of history as something that happened to other people in other times, something safely pressed between the pages of a textbook. But standing there, with the memory of Alex Pretti and Renee Good hanging in the collective consciousness like a bruise, you realize that history is a living, breathing, and often dangerous thing. We are currently the ones holding the pen, and the ink is our actions.
Later, I made my way to a strategy meeting for Indivisible Charleston. The energy shifted from the public square to the tactical room. Mayra Rivera-Vazquez was there, speaking about her run for Congress in District 1. She spoke with a conviction that was hard to ignore, emphasizing the need to hold the current administration accountable and to represent the tired and the oppressed in our own backyards.
I’ll be honest: I don’t know yet if Mrs. Mayra has the answers, or if any one person can truly shoulder the weight of our collective expectations. But I am encouraged that she is trying. In a world that often feels like it's designed to make us cynical, the act of trying is a radical choice.
When the history of this era is finally written, I don't want to be a footnote of indifference. I hope these photos serve as a record, not just of what happened on a street corner in South Carolina, but of where I chose to stand. Because in the end, we are the sum of the things we refuse to stay silent about.