In the past few years, three very distinct events stand out to me as some of the most tragic acts of violence in recent U.S. history. These events infuriated me to my core, causing me to rant aggressively at my parents, condemn the mainstream media, email my senators and representatives, and lose faith in what I always thought would become the most tolerant and tenacious generation of Americans so far.

The first one was the Charleston church shooting, where Dylan Roof, a 21-year-old admitted drug user, walked into a historic black church in South Carolina and murdered nine people with a Rhodesia badge on his chest.

The second one was the Orlando shooting, where 29-year-old Omar Mateen murdered 49 innocent lives and wounded 53 others at the Florida Pulse night club.

The third one was the death of Tamir Rice, a 12-year-old African American boy who was shot by police officer Timothy Loehmann while holding an Airsoft replica and was administered zero first aid by either of the two officers present.

12-years-old.

Initially, I believed I did not have the right to speak on the discrimination against blacks in this country, because I am not black. I could not possibly know what that life is like as a 16-year-old privileged Asian American teenage girl, and, as far as I know, I could be underestimating their difficult reality. As much as I love to bring awareness to the struggles of Asian Americans, I make an effort to remind myself that the injustices toward my race is nothing compared to those systematically implemented toward African Americans, and that the history of injustices toward African Americans is far more extensive and gruesome than those toward Asian Americans.

But Tamir Rice hit me the hardest. That one really provoked me to start having something to say about what was going on.

I have nothing, other than just sadness. Sadness that we once again have to peer into the abyss of the depraved violence that we do to each other and the nexus of a gaping racial wound that will not heal yet we perpetuate by pretending it doesn't exist. What blows my mind is when I see the disparity of both action and reaction when between when America is convinced foreigners are going to kill us and us killing ourselves. In the last decade, America has invaded two countries, tortured people, spent thousands of American lives and trillions of dollars, and sent unmanned drones over multiple countries just to keep Americans safe. However, when put into a broader perspective, what Al-Qaeda, ISIS, and all of these organizations that have been deemed a threat to America physically and ideologically have done is nothing compared to the damage we can apparently do to ourselves on a regular basis.

Also, it's not that black lives are more important than white lives, or Asian lives, or Hispanic lives. But all lives don't have the same uniquely fraught history with law enforcement that black people have. Sometimes I wonder if the mantra had been established as "Black Lives Matter, too," then maybe it would have changed the reception of this movement entirely. But it wouldn't, because the intention is still the same, and it's been clarified over and over again after every single tragedy.

If you really, truly believe in "All Lives Matter," shouldn't you be out there protesting? Alton Sterling was a life, a loss that should upset you. Where's the outrage? I thought all lives mattered to you! Doesn't Alton Sterling's, or Philando Castile's, or Delrawn Small's, or Tamir Rice's, or Michael Brown's, or Trayvon Martin's life matter to you?

Continue to strengthen the movement, continue to change minds, and continue to develop the conversation. If you're tired of hearing about it, imagine how exhausting it is to live it.