Being Black in America

I don't know what it's like to be black in America.

I know what it’s like to watch your child thrown into a police car and detained unfairly as spectators duck their heads and refuse to refute the police.

But I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America.

I know what it’s like to tell the police the truth—and have them not believe you.

But I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America.

I know what it’s like to read police reports and watch body cam footage and hear the police fudge the truth to fit their narrative for arrest.

But I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America.

I know what it’s like to reach out to the press to get the truth of your story to the public, have the public rally for a day or two in support—and then have it all disappear when daily life becomes much more pressing because “it’s really none of my business.”

But I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America.

I know what it’s like to have police officers sent to your house to interrogate your child for an alleged comment made by someone with no substantiated evidence and wonder if your child would be arrested again for an unsubstantiated claim—while you were across the ocean and powerless to help.

But I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America.

I know what it feels like to be helpless, not having the law or common sense or power behind you when the law and common sense and those in power should be behind you.

But I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America.

Maybe this is why I feel so outraged by Aubery, Cooper, and Floyd. I, too, have lost my idealized vision of police officers always having the public good and justice as their primary mission.

But the bottom line is

I don’t know what it’s like to be black in America.

I don’t know what it’s like to face this discrimination and violence and injustice every day because of the color of my skin. In my own home. Walking down my own street. Shopping at my local market. 

And I certainly don’t know what it’s like to lose your life over a counterfeit $20. Or over taking a jog in your neighborhood.

I want to lend my voice and my support and my outrage to this cause, but I don’t know how. Tears. Rage. Social media.

It is too little.

But I will not stand silently by.