Through the Lens: Capturing the 2020 Huntington Beach Riot

Abstract

In this post, I reflect on my experiences photographing a 2020 Black Lives Matter protest in Huntington Beach, California — a day that began with hope and spiraled into chaos. As a queer Black man, my camera captured more than just faces; it documented the clash between those demanding justice and those resisting change. These images reveal a struggle for visibility, the weight of fear, and the urgency for progress. Now, in 2025, I question how much has truly changed. The fight for racial justice, LGBTQ+ rights, and social equity continues, but with a stronger sense of intersectionality binding our movements together. Despite persistent opposition, I remain committed to showing up, camera in hand, to ensure these moments of resistance are seen and remembered. This post underscores the power of collective action and the importance of staying vigilant in the ongoing fight for justice.

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I remember standing on the corner of Main Street and Olive Avenue, camera in hand, experiencing the intensity and emotion of my very first protest. Huntington Beach, with its sun-drenched streets and laid-back surf culture, seemed like an unlikely backdrop for chaos. But on that day, it became a battleground between those calling for justice and those fearing change. As a Queer Black man, I’ve often found myself in spaces where I am both visible and invisible, navigating a world that doesn’t always acknowledge my existence. That day, standing in the crowd with my camera, I was capturing more than just faces and signs. I was documenting a moment of reckoning, a moment where the fight for Black lives reached a city not accustomed to people like me taking up space. The atmosphere was charged with hope as protesters carried signs that read “Black Lives Matter,” “I Can’t Breathe,” and “Abolish the Prison Industrial Complex.” Parents, elders, and youth united with a shared purpose. For a fleeting moment, change felt possible, palpable even. 

As I moved through the crowd, I captured moments of resilience and unity. The raised fists, the powerful expressions — this photo (see image above) is just one glimpse of the energy that filled Huntington Beach that day. The chants of “No justice, no peace” filled the air, blending with the sound of footsteps marching in unison. Strangers shared encouraging words, handed out water bottles, and passed masks to anyone who needed one. There was a sense of solidarity that I had never felt before. It was empowering to be part of something larger, something that held the promise of change. The warmth of the sun, the determination in people’s eyes, and the collective rhythm of our voices made it feel like we were making history. This was my first protest, and I was ready to stand alongside others who believed in justice and equality. But as the protest continued, a noticeable shift began to take place. Counter-protesters arrived, waving Blue Lives Matter flags and wearing American flag bandanas wrapped tightly around their faces. They formed a line on the other side of the street, their presence was a stark contrast to the hopeful energy of our march. The atmosphere grew tense, subtle at first but with the side glances, tightened shoulders, and hushed warnings. The optimism I had felt earlier started to feel fragile — like it could shatter at any moment. The divide between the two groups was becoming clearer. I realized that this was no longer just a peaceful protest. It was transforming into something more dangerous, something that could spiral out of control. 

The tension escalated. Shouts turned into arguments, and arguments turned into confrontations. Police officers arrived, their presence amplifying the unease. I heard the crackle of police radios and saw officers donning riot gear, shields in hand. The sight of tear gas canisters being readied sent a wave of fear through me. My heart pounded as I realized how quickly things were unraveling. This was my first protest, and the fear I felt was overwhelming. My camera, which had felt like a tool of empowerment earlier, now seemed like a burden. Instead of documenting the chaos, I decided to remove myself. My survival, my ability to continue sharing these stories, depended on knowing when to step back. 

I turned away, my legs shaky as I walked away from the growing chaos. Behind me, I could hear the shouting intensify, the tear gas canisters popping, and the sounds of people scattering. A wave of guilt washed over me. I wasn’t there to capture what happened next, to document the violence or the resilience of those who stayed. But I knew I had to protect myself. That moment taught me an important lesson: Being part of the fight for justice doesn’t always mean standing in the middle of danger. Sometimes, it means preserving your ability to show up another day, to continue bearing witness and sharing what you’ve experienced.

Looking back on that protest in 2020, I think about how much has changed and how much hasn’t. The fight for racial justice, LGBTQ+ rights, and social equity continues. Injustice and oppression haven’t disappeared, but neither has the spirit of resistance. What gives me hope now is the growing sense of intersectionality in our movements. More people are recognizing that fighting for Black lives also means fighting for queer, immigrant, and trans lives. These struggles are connected, woven together by a shared demand for dignity, respect, and justice. My role in these movements has evolved. I no longer plan to capture photos at protests. Instead, I want to focus on sharing stories, amplifying voices, and ensuring these experiences are remembered and understood. 

My first protest experience in Huntington Beach stays with me. It was a turning point in my understanding of activism, solidarity, and the power of storytelling. While I stepped away from the chaos that day, I didn’t step away from the cause. I remain committed to showing up in ways that feel authentic and sustainable for me. Whether it’s through writing, speaking, or supporting others, I know there are many ways to contribute to the fight for justice. Our stories matter. Our voices matter. And sharing these stories can be just as powerful as capturing a moment on camera.

In 2025, I carry the lessons of that first protest with me. I remember the hope, the fear, and the determination I felt. I remember the faces of those who stood beside me, as well as the faces of those who stood against us. I think about the resilience it takes to keep fighting, even when progress feels slow or impossible. The fight for justice is long, and the road is difficult. But we keep going because we know that change is worth it. We keep showing up, we keep telling our stories, and we keep refusing to be erased. In 2025 and beyond, I will continue to share these stories, witness these moments, and stand in solidarity with those who believe in a better, more just world.

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About the Author 

Glen Edward is a Program Coordinator for New Student Programs and a PhD student in Higher Education at the University of Pittsburgh. In his role, Glen supports first-year students and New Student Ambassadors (NSAs), fostering confidence, community, and leadership skills. His research focuses on the intersection of higher education and political sociology, exploring how institutions can create unbiased environments that encourage Queer students and Students of Color to engage in civic participation and voting. Glen aims to bridge gaps in student support and promote inclusive, democratic campus cultures. With a background in theatre, communication, and higher education, Glen brings creativity and intentionality to his work