I write today because I believe an absence of words in this conversation I’ve hosted for nine years might convey a message of apathy I don’t intend.
But I’ve wrestled with whether my thoughts would add substance or noise to a conversation our country so desperately needs and in which others have so passionately participated.
“Is this my story to tell?” I asked myself from the quiet comfort of my Midwestern front porch in a city whose police department I respect.
I think the point is, the story of George Floyd’s murder in broad daylight is all of ours to acknowledge. For too long we’ve allowed the fester of racism to scab over with the tattered gauze of self-congratulations.
“I don’t see skin color.”
“That is awful. Thank goodness it would never happen here.”
“I’m not prejudiced. In fact, I know lots of people of color.”
Maybe some of what’s happening now in America is a clean lance that finally will allow an old wound to start healing.
It’s time for those of us who have never been victims of racism to examine our unintended complicity. I’ve written before about my own shortcomings in my effort to stand up for what I think is right. I still intend to do better.
I love this country and I admire people who bravely represent the foundation of freedom on which it was built.