 On August 9, 2014, twelve shots were fired in Ferguson, Missouri. They sparked an outcry that was heard throughout all of cyberspace, gaining ground on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, and a whole slew of social media websites. Everyday people became journalists, documenters, and witnesses to what was soon to ignite the whole country. Now, five months later, major cities all over the U.S. are organizing protests, vigils and memorials dedicated to Michael Brown, the eighteen year old who was fatally shot and killed by Officer Darren Wilson of the St. Louis police department. Protests of “Hands up, don’t shoot!” and “No justice, no peace!” have been heard even in different countries, where people have protested in solidarity with Ferguson. Some say Mike Brown’s death is what started everything, but his death, much like Trayvon Martin’s and now Eric Garner’s, was only a catalyst; The issues people are protesting have never gone away. These deep-seated grievances—unequal power dynamics, police brutality, and the systematic oppression of black people in America—have plagued the U.S. since its very beginnings and have once again been brought to the forefront.
Since the summer, I and many of the young people I know have kept up with Ferguson every step of the way. Even before mainstream media caught up, we were aware of the situation and saw people record the tear gas, the militarized police, and the grand jury’s decision of “no indictment”. Â Today people from every city stand together as the national spotlight shines on Ferguson, and Boston is no different.
 I attended a Candlelight Vigil held on the steps of Boston University’s Marsh Chapel. I hadn’t ever protested before, only seen others in Ferguson, and still others march and walk in other cities. This was a small thing I could do to pay my respects to Mike Brown, and aid in amplifying the voices of black people all over America.
It was biting cold. Snow fell so lightly that I didn’t notice it until I looked up at the dark sky and spotted the flecks of white falling almost imperceptibly to the ground. On our way there, police lights flashed near the curb where the vigil was taking place, and policemen waited a little ways away from where everyone else was standing. I wondered if they were there for protection, or if they were there because they were nervous something would happen. I glanced at them, bemused and a bit tentative. I kept walking with my group of friends, toward where people were already gathering.
It was windy and wet, but everyone had their candles lit. A woman came up to us and offered us small white candles. With no matches, we asked others with lit candles to lend us some fire. The mood was solemn, but very peaceful. The chill in the air made us shiver, but we we held on to the small flames in our hands, shielding them from the wind.
After a while, a woman came up to the podium at the top of the steps. She didn’t introduce herself, but began to speak, her voice steady in the night. “138 days ago,” she said, “a black man by the name of Eric Garner was choked to death by a white NewYork police officer. 154 days ago, a black woman by the name of Marlene Pinnock was pummeled nearly to death on a highway in California by a white police officer.
“Just ten days ago,” she said pausing for a moment. “Within seconds of arriving at the scene, a white police officer shot and killed twelve-year-old Tamir Rice. The officer failed to report that the ‘gun’ Tamir held was ‘probably fake.” She named people who had been brutalized or killed by white police officers, every syllable ringing in the huge space in front of the chapel: “Too many black lives lost by excessive police force.”
Everyone was quiet. We were all still as the night. The wind threatened our candles and put some out, but we’d turn to each other, even to strangers, to find a light again. At one point, as others took to the podium and honored the memory of Mike Brown and so many other lives lost, I felt connected to everyone who was standing there with me, and to everyone who was standing with me all over the world.
 I am not black. I am not subject to the deeply ingrained, systematically racist blockades in our society that plague black people every day of their lives. All I can do is stand with them, and let voices that are too often silenced be heard. My job is to recognize my privilege as a white person, and not make this about me. This is about black people’s lives.
The woman who spoke first ended the vigil by guiding us in a chant: “Hands up!” she shouted. “Don’t shoot!” we replied, our voices combining. “Don’t shoot!”
She pointed us to long white banners on either side of the stairs, where we could write small messages and sign our names. It would be sent to Mike Brown’s family in Ferguson.
The woman asked us to leave the chapel in silence in a gesture of respect for Mike Brown. As I walked away, my candle light dying in the wind, it echoed in my head. Black lives matter. A statement so simple, so seemingly rational, yet disrespected and trampled on every day. But we have to keep going. Their voices must be heard. For a hundred days, a thousand days, or even a thousand years, the voices of black people must be heard.
And we need to listen.