My Little Town

I love the city I live in, I really do. Just a couple of months ago I recall talking to my wife about our town and how glad I was that we'd moved here almost 25 years ago. Our streets are clean and safe, the neighbors are friendly, and our local government seems to have its act together. Over the years, I've watched with some amusement as city councils and mayors bickered in some of our neighboring cities. They've got issues, but things are pretty swell in our little village.

All that changed a few weeks ago when Philando Castile was shot to death by a police officer sworn to protect and serve my little community. That incident, and the discussions that have occurred as a result of it, stripped away our town's idyllic veneer and exposed racial intolerance and bias. I wish I could say this revelation was a complete surprise and shock to me. I wish I could say I hadn't noticed that most of the people pulled over by law enforcement were people of color. But I did notice. I just didn't do anything about it beyond complaining to some family and friends. I probably convinced myself that the people I saw were only a small subset of the total number of people stopped. In hindsight, I can see it's a pretty weak argument. Especially, if I consider that my town is overwhelmingly white and yet I can't recall ever seeing a white person stopped by the police.

When I drive to the store, I usually take whatever route will get me there fastest given the time of day. I don't plan my route so as to avoid certain high traffic-stop streets. I don't worry if I happen to pass a police car along the way. I just go to the store. Until now, I never realized how different simply running an errand could be in my town for someone who is not white.

So now I sit in my house. Less than four blocks away is a make-shift memorial to a man I did not know. But I do know people who worked with him and I do know people whose kids knew him from a school where he worked. In that sense, he was a member of our community and his loss diminishes all of us.

I still love much about my little town but my eyes have been opened to a city I did not know. A place where my race affords me certain privileges denied to others. I pray that some good can come of this tragedy, that our community will be forced to confront and address the bias that is blatantly apparent. I also pray that other folks living in their "perfect" cities would dare to take an honest look at their communities. I doubt our little town is an anomaly.

Birthday Morning

Today is my son's birthday. I paused briefly at his bedroom door this morning as I prepared to leave for work. He's eighteen years old today, an adult. Sometime in the past year he grew taller than me - I'm still adjusting to that. As I watched him peacefully sleeping, I saw a young man about to embark on the next stage of his life. But I also saw a little boy, the one who loved dinosaur pajamas and warrior cat stories. He's in there somewhere, providing a part of the foundation that my son's life is built upon. And though my son may not realize it, eighteen is still so very young. He may feel like he's all grown up but the next few years will likely see him grow and change in ways neither of us can imagine. I'm excited for him and, if I'm honest, just a little bit terrified. No different than the past eighteen years, really.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.