If I close my eyes I can see it: Soldiers marching on an American city, clashing with protestors over liberty and justice.
The streets thicken with tension. Shouts echoing off buildings. A young man—barely more than a boy—taunts one of the soldiers guarding a government building. The soldier’s jaw tightens. The young man throws a piece of trash that hits the soldier square in the chest.
More soldiers arrive. The crowd grows thicker. They’ve been simmering for months—furious about being ruled by a dictator, a wealthy tyrant who's never walked in the shoes of regular Americans. Never marched on these streets for the right to live. Never had to go hungry for the night so his kids could have something to eat in the morning. Never fought in a war but ordered brave soldiers to descend against his own people.
Someone throws a rock, knocking down one of the soldiers. The tension goes from thickening to bursting open. And these two young men—a soldier and a protestor, both patriots in their own way—are pitted against each other by forces beyond them, leading to a bloody altercation.
That was March 5 of 1770—an incident forever known to history as the Boston Massacre, one of several protests against King George III leading up to the creation of the United States of America as a nation of people who refused to be ruled by a dictator, tyrant, or king, no matter how rich or powerful he sees himself.