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I have always found it sort of funny that people, confronted with accusations of racism, become upset over having been called racist instead of upset with themselves for having done something that perpetuates a system that hurts, and kills, others.
I am not going to write a long thing about Mike Brown and Ferguson and racism and police discrimination and white privilege. That is not mine to write. It is mine to read.
I was raised with the knowledge that, at least in America, I could go to the police for help if I needed it. And I was raised knowing that I could go into any store anywhere and not be followed or harassed or accused. And I was raised knowing that I could come home safely. And I was raised knowing that if I chose to run, it wouldn’t be assumed that I was running away guiltily. And I was raised knowing that I could keep my hands in my pockets. And I was raised knowing that my brother could do all of these things, too.
And I was raised believing that everyone should be able to say the same.
And I know—I know—that if what we have seen tonight was shown happening in, say, Russia, I would tweet and tweet and write and write about the injustice and the inhumanity, and I would be quietly thankful that it does not happen here.
Except that it does. Just not to me.
And they’re told that it is racist and they get upset instead of being upset with themselves for killing out of racism. And it isn’t funny at all.
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