George Floyd: The Memory and The Mirror

By LaDawn Sullivan

May 25th has a way of showing up whether we’re ready for it or not. It doesn’t knock politely. It doesn’t ease in. It arrives with memory in one hand and a mirror in the other.

Six years since the murder of George Floyd.

Six years since the world paused long enough to see what Black folks have always known to be true. Long enough to hear a cry that echoed far beyond one man, one street, one moment. Long enough for statements, pledges, book clubs, task forces, and the sudden discovery that racism was, in fact, real. Imagine that.

And yet here we are. The pain didn’t expire. The injustice didn’t retire. It just… adapted. Shape-shifted. Put on a suit in some places, took a seat in others, and in too many cases, picked up a microphone and started rewriting the story as if we all don’t remember what we saw with our own eyes.

Because memory is inconvenient when it demands accountability.

What’s harder to sit with is not just that the injustice continues, but that some of the very systems that promised to do better are now inching, sometimes sprinting, in the opposite direction. The quiet rollbacks. The loud denials. The strategic forgetting. The reframing of truth into something more “comfortable,” more “palatable,” more… fictional.

And for those of us doing this work - leading organizations, raising families, holding communities together with both hands and a prayer - we feel it from all sides. The expectation to keep pushing forward while watching the ground shift beneath our feet. The responsibility to be hopeful when the evidence feels… mixed at best.

As someone entrusted with stewarding resources and relationships through the BRIC Fund, I don’t have the luxury of detachment. This is not theoretical. This is not a trending topic. This is legacy work. This is survival work. This is future-building in real time.

And if I’m honest, sometimes it feels like raising a toddler. Not my child… my child knows better. I’m talking about this country.

Two hundred and fifty years old and still having public fits about sharing, equity, and being told “no.” Still testing boundaries. Still looking you dead in the eye while doing exactly what it was told not to do. And when corrected? Tears. Deflection. Blame. A full performance.

The difference is, toddlers are expected to grow up. Nations? Apparently that part is optional.

We are in a moment where democratic institutions - those things we were taught to revere as steady and sacred - are being stretched, tested, and in some cases, openly challenged. The guardrails don’t feel as sturdy. The rules seem more… negotiable. And the idea that progress is inevitable? That illusion is wearing thin.

What’s at stake is bigger than policy. Bigger than elections. Bigger than whose name is trending this week.

It’s about who we decide to be.

Not in statements. Not in strategy decks. Not in the carefully crafted language of institutions trying to stay on everybody’s good side. But in choices. Daily, consistent, sometimes inconvenient choices.

Do we tell the truth, even when it costs us something?

Do we invest in communities, not just when the spotlight is on, but when the cameras leave and the work gets quiet?

Do we protect democratic values, not just in theory, but in practice, especially when they’re tested?

Because history is not just something we inherit. It’s something we actively write. Every decision, every silence, every action becomes a sentence in a much longer story. And right now, the draft is messy.

There is a temptation in moments like this to feel helpless. To throw our hands up and say, “This is just how it is.” To retreat into our own corners and tend only to what directly affects us. I understand that impulse. Truly. Fatigue is real. Disappointment is real. The feeling of déjà vu is very real.

But so is responsibility.

Black communities, and so many other historically marginalized communities, have been sounding alarms for generations. We have marched, organized, voted, built coalitions, created solutions, and carried hope in seasons where hope felt wildly unreasonable. We have been the proverbial canary in the coal mine, not because we wanted the role, but because we didn’t have the option to ignore what was happening.

So when others are just now feeling the discomfort, the instability, the uncertainty—it’s not new. It’s just new to them.

And maybe that’s the moment we’re in. Not just a reckoning, but a recognition.

That progress is not permanent.

That justice is not self-sustaining.

That democracy, for all its ideals, requires tending—active, intentional, collective tending.

Leadership in this moment isn’t about perfection. It’s not about having all the answers wrapped up in a bow. It’s about something both simpler and harder: humility and courage.

The humility to acknowledge where we’ve fallen short. Where systems failed. Where we, individually and collectively, missed the mark or chose comfort over conviction.

And the courage to do better—not later, not when it’s convenient, not when it’s popular, but now.

To stand in truth when it would be easier to stay quiet.

To invest in equity when it would be easier to maintain the status quo.

To build something more just, even when the blueprint feels incomplete.

Six years later, George Floyd’s name still calls us to account. Not just for what happened, but for what has or hasn’t changed since.

The question isn’t whether the world is watching. It is.

The question is what we will show them. Because the legacy of this country is still being written. And whether we like it or not, all of us – everyday people, community leaders, institutions, neighbors, have a pen in our hand.

The future of human rights, here and beyond our borders, will reflect what we choose to do with it. If democracy and human rights are truly worth protecting, then this is the moment to invest your voice, your resources, and your action alongside BRIC and the communities leading the way forward.