One day, as I was taking my morning walk in town, I came upon a group people circling around a young African American girl. The mob was screaming and yelling nasty words and curses at the girl. Being defensless, the girl was crying and kicking and screaming as they beat her. She was bleeding from the mouth and her upper eye was bruised. For a minute, I was speechless. Once I regained the ability to speak, I screamed. "Help! Help, please!" No one heard me. I could do nothing more. I walked away.
The day after, I awoke and walked to the kitchen in my pajamas. I got out a bowl and a spoon, and poured myself some cereal. I went out on the porch and got the newspaper. Once back inside, I sat down and picked up the paper. The headline: "African American Girl beaten to Death." Oh my God. I coughed up some cereal as I looked at the picture. There was the mob, surrounding her. And who was that girl off to the side, screaming? If you had been there, wouldn't you be doing something about it? Yes, you would have. The girl in the picture was me. Me, calling for help. I replayed the scene in my head. What had happened after I yelled for help? I walked away. Why, I asked myself. Why did you give up? That girl might be alive now if you hadn't.
And who took that picture anyway? Who had the nerve to come snap a photo of a defensless little girl and run away? If you were to ask me, that person was just as guilty as the mob.
And so was I.