Dear Mrs. Parks,

I know you wouldn’t be particularly fond of summer sixteen. Because the shooting of Philando Castile was completely unnecessary and inhumane. Because Alton Sterling was already pinned to the floor when he was shot and could not possibly be so stupid enough to try to take on two cops, so the killing was unreasonable. Because the flag that reads “A man was lynched by police yesterday” was alluding to the flag that the NAACP put on fifth avenue in the 20s. I passed by this flag everyday in Union Square and despite the 90-plus weather, it gave me the chills. It is a testament we don’t live in post-racial America.

I know you would be disappointed if you saw the picture of Ieshia Evans that went viral this summer. She stood facing off three Baton Rouge police, who were heavily armed and armored. But she takes a firm stand, as though in defiance, in her flowing summer dress, her gaze leveled. The scene is very reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic society, which, arguably, accurately describes our society because despite the many battles that have been fought to dismantle racism, it persists. She looks like a goddess, as though about to lay out a blanket of calmness and order over the scenery which seems out of place because of the militarization of the police.

Instead, she is arrested. Because she is engaging in peaceful protest. I was reminded of the I recently read an excerpt from Melba Pattillo Beals’ “Warriors Don’t Cry.” You and the rest of the nation knew her as one of the members of the Little Rock Nine, the nine intelligent African American students who were qualified to attend the prestigious, all-white, Central High School. But the white community and Governor Faubus were opposed to these integrationist efforts. So opposed that the nine students ended up being trapped inside the school, which was surrounded by the police and the Arkansas National Guard. President Eisenhower had to send in the Airborne Division of the US Army to Little Rock and dismantle the militarization. In one place, Melba Beals describes how the white protestors were screeching at her friend Elizabeth Eckford, as she stood surrounded by a line of soldiers, barring her from entering. She was holding books in her hands and these soldiers were holding rifles. Had you seen Ieshia Evans facing off the Louisiana State Police, you would no doubt be reminded of this image of Elizabeth Eckford. Had Elizabeth Eckford been photographed at that instant, her stand would’ve invoked the same feelings of admiration and fear that Ieshia Evans’ did. This juxtaposition of peaceful women facing off against the rugged military personnel is both timeless and powerful.

But I also think we had moments that would make you proud, as when Colin Kaepernick refused to stand for the National Anthem because it was written on the basis of racism, because he, too, is tired of the shootings and the social injustice experienced by African Americans. His stance harkens to the statement you once made when you made your stand of civil disobedience. So does his method. You would have shared a twinkle, even if you wouldn’t have celebrated it so visibly. Because as much as your narrative has been erased, the fact of the matter is, that stand on the bus was just one of your many. Just as these deaths have been one of many. Just as these protests have been one of many. You were not the “accidental matriarch;” you were the youthfully spirited individual who embodied a lifetime of resistance. Eleven years after your death, twenty-five individuals taking a college class on Black Power and Civil Rights are in awe of your life story, the story that wasn’t told, the story that has now become a part of our lives. You need not worry. Your memorable words “I had been pushed as far as I could stand,” still resonate.