Booker, a Chicago college student documenting the 1970s anti-war protests, purchases a camera with used film containing photographs that shockingly resemble him. With only an address and no recollection of his childhood, he embarks on a cross country road trip to find out who he is.
The muffled sounds of angry protesters echo in the distance as I brace for what I’m about to encounter. I take steady steps towards the park and the sun beats heavily onto the back of my neck. The tender redness on my skin prickles against the goosebumps caused by the wind.
A young girl with a poster runs towards me, accidentally aiming straight for my waist, and only looking up to stare in fear, and then continue running. I look ahead and see the police with their bulletproof shields pushing all of the frustrated people out of the way.
I feel as though I’m a horse amongst a bloody civil war, trying to enter the madness in hopes of making a difference. The police aren’t the enemy, they’re just doing their job. Or so I think.
“Peace is the answer! Stop sending innocent Americans off to war!” A teenage girl with rich brown skin and red war paint lined across her cheeks, marking her strength for standing up in what she believes in, shouts at the top of her lungs. She stumbles while trying to raise her fist in the air; a mob of people barely miss running her over.
I, Booker Finch, have no plans of getting arrested. I just want to get a good story. Then again, those things could be synonymous.