By Rocky Mountain Voice Editorial Board
In this ninth chapter of The COvid Chronicles, summer arrived—but sanity didn’t. Looking back at our COVID-19 history is painful. But as Spanish-American philosopher put it, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Approaching the summer solstice, Colorado entered a new phase—shaped not just by COVID-19, but by weeks of racial unrest.
Early tremors signaled what was coming. Inflation began to stir.
Ever-libertarian Gov. Jared Polis sermonized about how Coloradans needed the right “responsibility, behavior and will” to earn their freedoms back. CU Boulder, shrine of elite enlightenment, spoke solemnly of COVID safety out of one side of its mouth and pledged allegiance to the state’s racial reckoning out of the other.
And with the warmth came a renewed wave of in-your-face, do-what-we-say-and-shut-up activism—from the state Capitol to the Denver City Council to main streets in mountain towns.
The message was clear: there was a correct belief system, and you’d better fall in line.
Whether you agreed or not, your taxpayer dollars would now fund the gospel of George Floyd and the doctrine of systemic racism.
The virus lingered. The dogma spread. And the consequences still haven’t faded.
These are the COvid Chronicles for June 16-23, 2020…
COvid Chronicles catch-up
• Introducing The COvid Chronicles: How fear and force reshaped Colorado
• COvid Chronicles April 1-15, 2020: Fifteen days that changed Colorado forever
• COvid Chronicles April 16-30, 2020: From tattletales to tyranny
• COvid Chronicles May 1-7, 2020: Seven days that set the stage for open rebellion
• COvid Chronicles May 8-15, 2020: C&C made headlines. Polis made an example. Colorado made up its mind.
• COvid Chronicles May 16-23, 2020: Deaths dipped — but the definition got slippery
• COvid Chronicles May 24-31, 2020: When ‘peaceful protests’ overruled pandemic policy — and unleashed chaos
• COvid Chronicles June 1-7, 2020: Struggle sessions and Stockholm syndrome rewrite the rules
• COvid Chronicles June 8-15, 2020: Can’t visit grandma—but defund-the-police protests are doctor-approved
June 16
As Denverites settled into their new reality of government-mandated caution, another less-visible threat was creeping in—one that would quietly choke their wallets for years to come: inflation.
Five years and countless dollars later, Coloradans know the word all too well. But in the summer of 2020, inflation still sounded far-fetched to many. That changed fast.
As COVID cases declined, prices for meat, poultry, fish and eggs surged—up 8.8% from March to May and 9.5% over the year, according to the Denver Post.
Natural protein wasn’t just dinner—it was the canary in the coal mine. Overall inflation in metro Denver rose 0.5% from March to May and 1.9% over the year, far surpassing the 0.1% annual rate recorded nationally.
Denver had officially claimed the highest inflation rate of any metro area tracked by the Bureau of Labor Statistics.
The kicker? This spike happened despite plummeting costs in transportation and energy, with gas prices down a staggering 36.4% thanks to stay-at-home mandates. Retail sagged too—apparel prices dropped 5.8% with stores shuttered.
Dean Baker, senior economist at the Center for Economic and Policy Research, offered a not-so-comforting warning. “The May CPI will likely be the last one showing large pandemic-related price declines,” he said.
Speaking of mangling the free market: even though the state legislature’s session had been delayed, disrupted and condensed, Colorado lawmakers still found time to prep their post-pandemic intervention.
Senate Bill 205 passed, requiring employers with more than 15 workers to grant one hour of paid sick leave for every 30 hours worked, up to 48 hours total. And while this was branded as COVID-specific relief, the law explicitly allowed the leave to be used for mental health as well.
Then came House Bill 1414, framed as an anti–price gouging measure. It gave the state attorney general enforcement authority during public health and economic “crises.” Translation: more government control, justified by fear.
Meanwhile, the state’s once-thriving fitness industry lay gasping on the mat. The Denver Post called it a “death blow.”
Yoga studios, boutique gyms, and national chains were collapsing under the weight of restrictions and vanishing revenue. Among the casualties were Samadhi Center for Yoga and The Rebel Workout, both on South Broadway; Flex Yoga + Barre in Park Hill; Zenver in West Highland; 13 24 Hour Fitness locations across the state (10 in the Denver area alone); and three Gold’s Gyms in Colorado Springs.
It wasn’t just big box franchises—small local operations folded just as easily.
The court system wasn’t in a rush either. Though cases and deaths were declining, Colorado’s justice apparatus had effectively closed in early March and showed no urgency to reopen. On June 16, Chief Justice Nathan B. Coats announced jury trials would be delayed at least another month and a half.
“Jury pools still cannot be safely assembled in many of the judicial districts and courtrooms throughout the state,” he wrote.
On the racial justice front, community voices like Don Troike tried to inject some historical clarity into the Stapleton name-change frenzy. His Denver Post letter explained that for many residents, Stapleton meant the airport, not the man.
“I felt that the community was not only named after the old airport, but the entire theme of the community was based on its identity as a former airport — from repurposed control tower and runway remnants to murals and artifacts reflecting its history,” Troike wrote. “I also felt for all the proprietors whose business names included Stapleton. For me, the name was one step removed from the person who was former mayor.”
Weeks after millions in property damage swept across Colorado’s urban cores in the name of “justice,” it turned out the state’s most direct connection to the George Floyd riots in Minneapolis came from a 22-year-old man who left Colorado to join in the destruction.
That man, Dylan Robinson, was arrested in Breckenridge by agents with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. According to their criminal complaint, Robinson was caught on camera lighting a Molotov cocktail and setting fires inside the Minneapolis police precinct.
June 17
The cold reality of closed schools was starting to hit home for Colorado educators—and it was spoiling their summer. Denver Public Schools, facing a $65 million budget shortfall, told the teachers union it would ask educators to give up some of the pay raises promised in the contract signed after their three-day strike just a year earlier.
A pandemic-era about-face, courtesy of the same bureaucracy that had celebrated the shutdowns.
On the political stage, racial guilt was the mood of the day. During their only in-person debate ahead of the June 30 Democratic primary for U.S. Senate, former Gov. John Hickenlooper and former state House Speaker Andrew Romanoff each confessed their sins of omission.
“We didn’t go far enough and I regret that,” said Hickenlooper, reflecting on his time as Denver mayor in the 2000s—when police reform wasn’t a top priority. He would go on to win the primary and later a U.S. Senate seat.
Boulder County saw its biggest COVID spike since March, with over 100 new cases in a week. Hospitalizations and deaths stayed flat—a detail officials brushed aside while blaming parties, protests, and out-of-state travel. CU Boulder Chancellor Phil DiStefano joined in, blaming students for the spike in cases.
“We all need to live up to our responsibilities,” he wrote, “as some students are putting their own health and their own and other students’ on-campus educational opportunities in jeopardy by engaging in behaviors that imperil the health and safety of our entire community.”
The message? Fall in line or forfeit your education.
June 18
Colorado’s weather experts made sure to crush any hopes that the warm summer air might offer a return to normal life. Sunshine, after all, was no match for the virus—or the narrative.
9News meteorologist Chris Bianchi served up a bleak forecast, pointing to recent case spikes in Arizona, Florida and Texas as evidence that summer heat would do nothing to stop the spread.
“Thus far, I have not seen any substantial data to refute our hypothesis that low temperatures and specific humidity lead to increased risk of transmission,” Bianchi quoted Dr. Mohammad Sajadi, a human virology professor at the University of Maryland. Sajadi added, “At a certain point, unless strict public health measures are implemented and followed, the healthcare system still gets overwhelmed.”
Fresh off Boulder’s COVID case bump, Gov. Jared Polis—Boulderite himself—urged Coloradans not to get carried away with the good weather. The virus, he warned, was still lurking, and human behavior was the real threat.
To Polis, ever the libertarian in his own mind, the key to managing the virus came down to one thing: the people’s “responsibility,” “behavior,” and “will.”
“All that we can do to contain it is make sure that we don’t provide the social environment in which it thrives,” Polis said. “It’s simply a function of behavior. This progress is only as good as the will of the people of Colorado.”
Up in Estes Park, that “will” took on a new form—passive-aggressive scolding. According to reporter Tim Mosier of the Estes Park Trail-Gazette, notes began appearing on windshields of cars with out-of-state plates, warning visitors to take their germs elsewhere.
One note read:
“Hi! We year-round residents of Estes Park would be so happy to see you here, any other time. As it is, we are a small community with a lot of retired Sr. Citizens. We’ve been being more careful here than some other places. Having folks from all over the country come here, now, feels disrespectful. We would love to see you back, later. For now though, with all due respect, please GO THE HELL BACK TO WHEREVER YOUR OUT OF STATE LICENSE IS FROM.”
The anonymous author—or authors—made no effort to distinguish between Estes Park locals and all of Colorado, apparently fine with in-state tourism but outraged by the idea of anyone from outside Colorado’s borders crossing into the sacred boundaries of Rocky Mountain National Park.
Was this what Polis meant by personal responsibility, behavior, and will? Or just the latest example of fear-fueled tribalism masquerading as public health?
June 19
As CU Boulder continued scolding students for the crime of traveling or gathering with friends, Chancellor Phil DiStefano rolled out a new policy to address a different threat: the university’s lack of ideological compliance with anti-racist dogma.
The announcement promised “rapid and sustained progress toward true equity and inclusion that so many of you are demanding from me, our administration and each other.”
That “progress” included mandatory implicit bias training for anyone serving on a hiring committee or voting on faculty hires. The university would allocate funds specifically to hire more “diverse” employees and adjust recruitment practices to target schools that “support communities of color.”
Admissions and hiring forms were to be retooled to reflect the importance of diversity, equity and inclusion.
Every student and employee would now be required to complete bystander training. A new anti-racism section would be added to CU 101, the university’s introductory course for first-year students. And yes, the administration would also reexamine its relationship with Colorado Correctional Facilities, which manufactures and sells office furniture made by inmates.
DiStefano’s message to any students, staff or faculty concerned that this publicly funded speech code might violate their First Amendment rights? Simple: leave.
“Reconsider your ability to be a productive member of our community,” he wrote.
DiStefano added, “We have failed to foster a fully anti-racist, diverse, inclusive and welcoming culture for everyone in our campus community. Secondly, I also must acknowledge and commit to better understanding the effects of ongoing violence against Black people in our community and across the United States.”
The chancellor didn’t comment on an entirely different sort of violence that made headlines the same day: Denver District Attorney Beth McCann’s decision not to file charges against a police officer who shot and killed William DeBose.
According to police, DeBose was approached for speeding, fled the scene, then drew a 9-millimeter pistol and pointed it at an officer while running away. Cpl. Ethan Antonson fired in response.
McCann ruled the use of lethal force was justified.
An hour after the announcement, several hundred people marched on the Colorado State Capitol.
“My son is dead,” DeBose’s father told reporters. “He was shot for running for his life.”
“Beth McCann should be out of her position,” protester Andrea Perez told the Denver Post. The rally quickly shifted into a pro-DACA demonstration after the Supreme Court struck down the Trump administration’s attempt to end the policy protecting undocumented youth.
As chants filled the streets, the Denver Post editorial board pushed back, standing by McCann’s decision.
“The autopsy report says one bullet entered through the right side of DeBose’s chest and traveled across his body exiting his back and a second bullet hit his leg,” the board wrote. “It’s important to note that the autopsy did not find that DeBose was shot in the back.”
June 20
On Juneteenth, Gov. Jared Polis signed Colorado’s sweeping police reform bill into law. The Colorado Springs Gazette reported on the moment the next day, noting that with his signature, Colorado became the first state in the nation to pass legislation in direct response to George Floyd’s death.
The reforms ended qualified immunity, banned chokeholds and restricted police force statewide. Even Senate President Leroy Garcia, a Pueblo Democrat, supported it—just days after rioters trashed his car outside the Capitol. He learned it was totaled the same day the bill was signed.
“It was worth it,” Garcia told Colorado Politics.
Standing behind Polis at the signing ceremony were the parents of De’Von Bailey. As covered in a previous COvid Chronicle, Bailey was shot and killed by police in August 2019 after he fled during questioning and reached toward a handgun in his shorts.
Officers were responding to a reported aggravated assault, and the suspects were said to be armed. Bailey’s name had appeared just weeks earlier on a Pikes Peak Crime Stoppers Most Wanted list.
An El Paso County grand jury reviewed the case and found the officers’ use of force justified.
That didn’t stop Polis from using Bailey’s death as political theater. By signing the bill beside Bailey’s parents, Polis aligned not with the grand jury or law enforcement, but with a narrative of injustice—facts aside. Outside the Capitol, Bailey’s father, Greg, tied his son’s shooting directly to the new law.
“I sat in there and I watched the governor sign this bill,” he said. “Which came a little too late — a lot too late. I’m hurt. I don’t know how to feel, but how should I feel that it had to take something to happen to another Black man in another state for anything to happen here in Colorado? Everything they did to my son… is now the law.”
That same day, a Juneteenth celebration in Aurora turned tragic when a 17-year-old was shot at Rocky Ridge Park, where more than 1,000 had gathered. Police reported to the scene, and found the youth with a mortal gunshot wound.
Aurora police began investigating it as a homicide and believed it to be an isolated incident between the victim and the suspect.
“This tragedy cuts to the core of all our hearts,” tweeted interim Aurora Police Chief Vanessa Wilson. “Praying for his family and friends. I ask the community to pray for peace for our city.”
Even Republican gubernatorial hopeful Walker Stapleton found himself swept up in the moment.
As the Denver Post explored in its article “The future of Stapleton: How a neighborhood changes its name,” Stapleton tweeted his support for the change.
“If changing a name brings more equity, fairness and opportunity for Denverites and specifically Coloradans of Color, I’m all IN,” he wrote.
Presumably, Stapleton’s public declaration referred to the neighborhood—not his own last name.
June 21
It was time to “re-imagine” the Colorado State Fair. As the Pueblo Chieftain reported, fair organizers announced they were “moving forward” with a restructured expo format to comply with coronavirus restrictions.
That re-imagining included canceling all entertainment events in the fair’s events center, grandstand arena, and general fairgrounds.
Fair General Manager Scott Stoller received unanimous approval from the Colorado State Fair Board of Authority to pull the plug, with organizers committing to limit attendance at both indoor and outdoor gatherings to meet state and local health guidelines.
The cost of that compliance? Between $600,000 and $1 million in losses, according to the Chieftain. But officials still framed it as a win, since the fairgrounds had already been repurposed for months as a drive-thru COVID testing site for Pueblo County.
It was the first time the fair had been reshaped so dramatically since 1917, when the same grounds were used as “Camp Carlson”—a National Guard training site during World War I.
“The responsible approach is to remain as relevant as possible,” said board member Brian Coppom.
With cases, hospitalizations, and deaths remaining low across Colorado, health authorities found creative new ways to expand testing. In Denver, that meant setting up shop outside the City and County Building—through a partnership between the city government and Black Lives Matter.
Yes, the same BLM movement whose “activists” had just caused millions in property damage at that very building was now co-hosting public health operations with city leaders.
“We want to make sure that African Americans and other minority groups have the ability to get tested,” said Kim Desmond, director of the Mayor’s Office on Social Equity and Innovation. “But not only get tested, but have the resources they need if they get confirmed positive,” she told Denver7.
This was just one example of local governments across Colorado openly partnering with the overtly political Black Lives Matter mission, using taxpayer dollars to do so—even as many residents remained deeply opposed to elevating ideological causes through state-sponsored action.
Just a few weeks later, on July 10, the Frisco Town Council voted unanimously to approve a Black Lives Matter mural painted across multiple blocks of Frisco’s Main Street. The project was led by human rights activist Shannon Galpin—who, according to Rocky Mountain PBS, had originally planned to block the road illegally if the town said no.
But the town didn’t say no. It said yes—and then offered funding for the paint, closed the street, and turned the project into a government-approved message.
The mural stretched directly in front of Town Hall, the police department, and several major ballot drop-off locations for municipal, state, and federal elections. And it stayed there through November.
Electioneering, anyone? State-sanctioned and taxpayer-financed electioneering, at that?
The town of Frisco didn’t stop there. It released a 900-word statement on Galpin’s behalf, preaching the gospel of systemic racism in the outdoors and beyond.
“The outdoor community and the outdoor industry has a racism problem,” the statement read. “The industry is facing this head on in a variety of ways. This isn’t new for those of us working in human rights, social justice and the outdoor industry, but it is for the average mountain community resident who recreates and lives but doesn’t work with brands and sit on panel discussions within the industry.”
It was the kind of self-important, know-it-all sermon that could make even Gov. Polis squirm with secondhand elitism.
Farther south, Cañon City saw the same brand of messaging spill into its public spaces.
For weeks, protesters lined Royal Gorge Boulevard and U.S. 50 with wooden picket signs planted along public greenspace, styled in the familiar #SayTheirName format.
The Gazette didn’t report whether city funds were used, but Cañon City Mayor Ashley Smith voiced her support for the ideological takeover of city streets.
“These are hard conversations, but we need to have them,” she said. “I think that’s one of the beauties of a small town. You can really see results quickly and well when you get to work together.”
June 22
Colorado recorded 1,407 new coronavirus cases between June 15 and June 21—up from 1,087 the week before. It was the first weekly increase in nearly two months.
Yet the spike in cases didn’t come with a rise in hospitalizations or deaths. In fact, hospitalizations dipped the following day.
Of the state’s 1,096 critical-care ventilators, only 271 were in use as of Monday afternoon. Still, the rise—coming on the heels of the Boulder spike and mass gatherings during the George Floyd protests—helped stir the pot on the narrative that a “second wave” was imminent.
Back in Estes Park, town officials were still cleaning up the fallout from their own brand of pandemic fear.
After angry, mass-printed notes were left on vehicles with out-of-state plates—scolding tourists for daring to spend money in town—Estes Park police issued a public statement condemning the behavior.
“Last weekend a very unkind, mass-produced note was placed on numerous vehicles with out-of-state plates in the Estes Valley,” the statement read. “We’re looking for the individual(s) who did this, because we’d like to remind them that tampering with private property and littering could lead to charges in Municipal Court.”
Across Colorado, restaurants and diners tried to adapt to the new normal—outdoor dining under tents and on patios to comply with Gov. Polis’ mandates.
But even as customers returned, business owners faced a bitter financial reality. The cost of reopening—after months of forced closures—was anything but small.
“There’s an expense to expanding,” said Juan Padro, who owned several Denver eateries including Tap & Burger, Bar Dough, and Señor Bear. He told the Denver Post it cost each of his restaurants between $8,000 and $10,000 just to reopen in an outdoor-only format.
To make matters worse, Padro and other restaurant owners—including Andy Ganick of The Pig & The Sprout near Union Station—were left waiting nearly a month for city permits. In Ganick’s case, the permit was just to add five tables or 24 chairs to his own private parking lot.
Reopening, it turned out, wasn’t just about tents and tables. It was about navigating a thicket of government approvals—because even economic survival now required permission slips.
June 23
The racial justice movement took over Denver City Council chambers, with activists demanding police defunding and refusing to follow the three-minute speaking limit.
At 5:30 p.m., when the council attempted to move on with its regularly scheduled agenda, a crowd of protesters barged in from the hallway and insisted on more time at the mic—ultimately granted by Council President Jolon Clark.
“You are not doing enough, you are not doing enough and you are not doing enough,” one woman told the council, according to Conrad Swanson of the Denver Post. “And if you continue to sit by, then we will tear all this s*** down.”
The activists demanded the resignations of Mayor Michael Hancock and District Attorney Beth McCann.
They also called for a seat on the police department’s Citizen Oversight Board. Council members responded with silence, occasionally nodding their heads, as speakers clapped, snapped, pounded on pews and tables and issued demand after demand.
They cited juvenile cases involving law enforcement and painted city officials as complicit, negligent, or worse.
One focal point of outrage was McCann’s recent decision not to charge Desmond Manning, an off-duty Department of Corrections investigator who shot and killed Alexis Mendez-Perez.
According to McCann’s office, Mendez-Perez was among several burglars who ran through Manning’s yard after breaking into a neighbor’s home. Manning—who is Black—fired when Mendez-Perez allegedly posed a threat.
That context didn’t stop the signs from flooding the room: “Justice for Alexis.”
Perhaps, like California’s Larry Elder, Manning qualifies as what the Los Angeles Times once called “the Black face of white supremacy”?
Activist Rosie DuPree took the mic next and referenced the 2003 police shooting of Paul Childs, a 15-year-old with developmental disabilities. DuPree said the case made her realize that “police can kill children too.”
In that case, Childs’ own sister had called 911, reporting that he had a knife and was threatening their mother.
Officers had responded to the family’s home many times before. During the final incident, Officer James Turney fired after Childs refused to drop the knife.
“I am a child of this city. I pay taxes in this city. I’m a business owner in this city and we need more eyes on who makes the decisions, on who trains the people who interact with our children,” DuPree said. “And if you guys don’t do it. We’re gonna (expletive) do it.”
In the years that followed, violent juvenile crime surged across Colorado’s cities. Youth homicide and manslaughter sentences hit a record high in 2023—up 28% since 2021, according to the Division of Youth Services. By 2024, Colorado Springs Police Chief Adrian Vasquez reported officers were handling 400 juvenile suspects a month.
A quarter of those were tied to violent offenses like assault, robbery, and attempted murder.
“We’ve got 10-year-olds that are stabbing people, shooting people. Eleven-year-olds, 12-year-olds are doing the same thing,” said Vasquez. “It makes me wonder what could we have done differently to help our kids.”
But back in 2020, the rage wasn’t interested in context or consequence. That same week, the Denver Post’s opinion pages published two guest op-eds soaked in grievance and demands for moral reparations.
In one, union president Kim Cordova dismissed corporate gestures—such as Kroger’s $5 million pledge to promote diversity and equity—as insufficient.
“George Floyd’s death and the disproportionate impact of COVID-19 on working people sends a clear message to communities of color: your life is worth less,” Cordova wrote. “We are dying at the hands of police and racist vigilantes. But we are also dying because we must work while sick, because we cannot afford healthcare, and because our employers do not implement the most basic public health guidelines.”
Thornton native Rahem Mulatu penned an op-ed titled “Dear White Friends, Where Were You?”—a series of pointed questions for white residents, including, “Do you not agree that I should breathe the same air you breathe?” and “Where were you when they decided my neighborhood did not need parks, sidewalks, and street lights that function?”
Mulatu concluded: “Your silence is blocking my breathing. You are the privileged who must use your privilege for a good cause to ‘unchain’ and ‘unlock’ your friends like me who do not have that privilege.”
One wonders if Mulatu stood alongside residents of every ethnicity, creed and income level the following year—at school board, city council and county meetings—begging for choice over school closures, mask mandates and experimental mRNA injections.
Five years later, many Coloradans still remember George Floyd. But how many remember Xaviyar Lawrence Sturges?
Sturges, 17, was shot and killed days earlier at a Juneteenth gathering in Aurora’s Rocky Ridge Park. Police formally identified him on this day in 2020.
Video posted online showed a chaotic fight in a grassy area with Sturges nearby. Moments later, shots rang out off-camera—one fatally striking him.
Despite a crowd of about 1,000, no arrests have been made. In January 2021, Denver Crimestoppers increased the reward for tips leading to the killer. But it appears police still do not have a suspect.
Perhaps it would help if Mulatu asked the person responsible for Xaviyar Lawrence Sturges’ death to come forward—and face the absence of justice that followed.
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