It’s not you, it’s me.

It’s this overlooked reality where I can walk into a store without question. But her, with her darker, smoother skin can’t shop without feeling a thousand eyes watch her hands touch the silk on a blouse.

We’ve got the reflection of the 1960’s in our eyes, in our hearts and in our hands. It’s the protest off (or is it on?) another black man’s body — when does the narrative take a shift?

It’s all too loud, the tick of another statistic.



When judicial justice is given a Get Out Of Jail Free card, there’s no one way to crawl anymore. It’s up; it’s over; it’s screaming; it’s crying; it’s outrage; it’s cars flipped; it’s children finding themselves in the great divide.

Then it’s rinse and repeat.


We, with our light skin and pore-seeping privilege, draw the line for our Black brethren. And we are found on either side of the line; of every tick. Every rinse and repeat.

Brother, sister … it’s not you, it’s me.

We all bear witness to the spectrum: from hate to hate the pendulum swings. The middle is a foreign ground where a feast of peace awaits.

Until that day, don’t say you didn’t know. Don’t say history didn’t tell you so.

“We cannot be polite enough, law abiding enough, pants raised high enough, eyes averted enough, ya suh no suh enough, Standard-English speaking enough, one of the ‘good guys’ enough, respectability politicking enough to live in this country sometimes.

When that cop saw Phil Castile, he didn’t see a member of the Teamsters, or a 2nd Amendment dude, or an improv show cat, he saw America’s boogyman: the nigger.

We grieve because we know him. We grieve because that could have been ANY ONE OF US. In this system, we have no individuality. He wasn’t a person to that cop. Just a threat to be put down. With impunity.”


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