Dre Harris is the bravest person I know. Facing the mirrored horrors of Nazis with metal poles and state-employed pigs who must have heard his screams, Dre survives. He tells his story. He tells his story knowing that a vicious beating is only the beginning of their attack and that rotting hearts beat in all in the institutions around him.

Mark is the bravest person I know. He is the first person to step out from the park as we march to defend the public housing complex from the fascists. I go ahead to do reconnaissance. I remember to glance furtively past the corner before crossing the alley. It is clear. I run to the mall, searching for the cordon of police I saw just moments before. There aren’t many of them. We are many. We continue to march. Mark walks with long open strides. The bullhorn is comfortable in his hand. His shirt is bright and red and his fist is raised into the hot sun.

Tamara is the bravest person I know. Whatever happens today, she must walk this road to work tomorrow and maybe back home in the dark. She grabs a vuvuzela and intermittently blasts it toward the line of riot police as she screams “no racist police!” with as much force as she can. She presses forward into the street, one of the first to defy the wall of police. Stares down the corner where the nazis are expected to appear any minute. She blasts the vuvuzela again.

The residents of Friendship Court public housing are the bravest people I know. The Nazis are coming and they prepare to defend themselves. Worried the march might draw police to the complex, they ask us to march on. They say, #WeGotThis.