The Protest Sign Speaks by Oliver Bankier (13, California)

I hang in the school hallway, 
just for the month 
until the sixth graders finish their self portraits. 
The chants of No justice; No peace 
have faded. No more inquisitive glances. 
I’m part of the background now. 
The bored kid in the hallway
would rather look at the maps of California drawn in history class. 
Hanging on the wall opposite me is the new math problem.
The first person to answer it will get a Starburst. 
The kids used me like a piece of clothing.
As soon as my colors fade, I’m discarded and forgotten. ​

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I was carried out of the school right after lunch for the BLM march.
A kid grabbed me and ran to the front of the line.
I could make a difference. 
We walked 6 blocks to the bridge over the highway. 
Cars zoomed by, feet stomped, hair and hoodies flapped in the wind like wings 
I passed from kid to kid, the cars slowing down to get a look at me. 
Cheers from bystanders, honking from the cars. 
I was in my element. 
But, just 30 minutes later, we walked back.
A teacher took me, stashed me in the break room. 

The kids feel a sense of completion, 
As if they’ve fixed what’s wrong in the world. 
Little do they know
they’ve blown out a candle next to a raging inferno.
They don’t see the man strangled to death by the police,
They don’t see the woman shot in her own home,
They don’t see protesters getting beaten down and gassed. 
None of them have been taught about the Black Panthers 
They spend one day a year on the Civil Rights Movement.
In eighth grade, they will read Frederick Douglas. 
They have barely scratched the surface. 

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