Images make a revolution. Grabbed in a flash, a photographer’s afterthought, these pictures catch the nation’s eye and stay there, etched forever. Will we ever forget the picture we first saw last week? That horrible sight of a young man being dragged, like a broken rag doll, to the backdoor of a police van and thrown inside like a bag of trash? We were repulsed and saddened. Down inside, we knew that feeling. We at times have felt dejected, tossed aside, dragged by life. Unloved. I sit here next to my big brown boy, trying to take it all in, trying to comprehend the immense hurt Freddy’s mama must feel. He was born only 25 years ago and already gone. Already an obituary. Where a good looking man once stood, there are now questions, assumptions, anger, tears, emptiness. There are times in my life when all I have left is my dignity. All the pretense and glamor is melted away and there I stand just trying to hold a smidgen of pride in my hands. Each time I watch that video, I feel stripped of my decency, like there’s nothing left of me but what I can salvage from the air. The double doors close behind me, a metallic thwack of hopelessness. I try to hold onto the walls slick and gripless. I drink darkness and try to breathe. My body clangs against the walls. I scream but no one hears. I die. We die. Let’s keep watching, praying, hoping beyond reason and rhyme that Baltimore, this nation, and its people, awful and beautiful, will be revived and restored. If it weren’t for our hope we would have died a long time ago. We will live again. We must.