First of all, I don't speak for all young people. I'm not even (that) young. I'm 32.
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I don't speak for all black people. Contrary to popular belief, we are not a monolith. I can't stress that enough. My experiences are unique to me, but my encounters with law enforcement and security guards are all too common among my brothers and sisters according to the flesh.
That's why the spirits of average Joes such as myself and athletes such as Carmelo Anthony, Martellus Bennett and Bradley Beal seem kindred in the aftermath of the senseless deaths of Alton Sterling and Philandro Castile, as well as the five Dallas officers who were mercilessly assassinated in the line of duty by a hate-filled sniper as a peaceful protest came to a close Thursday night.
I've been pulled over without being cited or ticketed more times than I can count. A cop once reached for his gun while pulling me over to tell me my headlight was out. I've been asked questions such as, "Is this your car?" after I handed over my license, registration and insurance, "You're from Florida. What are you doing in Alabama?" and, "Do you live here?" as an officer looked over my ID after stopping me for no apparent reason in front of an apartment I once rented in suburban Birmingham.
Heck, I've been nearly denied access while walking into my job by a man who simply told me he was head of security — without showing a badge to identify himself — all because he said he'd never seen me before. I'd never seen him, either.
I have a partner who's an accountant and one of the most responsible men I've ever met in my life. He was once told to lie face down as a cop held him at gunpoint after residents in an upper class neighborhood called the authorities while he was house-sitting for a friend. We can both count ourselves lucky. We're still breathing.
It really is like rapper Society said on Trick Daddy's "Amerika" ... "World champions and you MVP — you a n---a/4 degrees and a Ph.D — still a n---a/You use your platinum card you need four ID's — then you's a n---a/If your skin is brown just like me — then you a n---a."
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However, that's not to say this country has not made progress since 1776. The fact you're reading what I'm writing is the result of work of myriad men and women who have given their lives that ours might be enjoyable. We are forever indebted to them.
Nonetheless, in the past few days my emotions have run the gamut. I've cycled through stages of rage, as I witness men and women of every hue, all of whom were made in God's image, debate whether black lives indeed matter, restlessness as the innocent voice of a 4-year-old consoles her mother while she's being detained by police in the aftermath of Castile's death replays over and over in my head, and resolve as leaders such as activists brothers Mark and Corey Hughes, Dallas Mayor Mike Rawlings and Minnesota Gov. Mark Dayton confront America's undeniable race inequalities head on.
I've both cried, wondering whether I might be the next black man reduced to a hashtag and a headstone, and cried out to God, longing for wisdom in the midst of uncertainty.
As a professional journalist with nearly 10 years of experience, I'm expected, some might even say called to, channel my frustrations, synthesize my sentiments and add my perspective to the national discussion. Most of the time I can. This time I couldn't. The pain is too piercing. The problems are too pervasive.
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So, instead, I've listened to the thoughtful and constructive calls to action online and in personal conversations, and I've come to learn that rightly addressing our most divisive issues will take a communal effort. Homogenous people groups can only produce homogenous ideas, which is an impediment to the unity necessary for true progress.
We need black women, such as the Dallas Morning News' Meredith Clark, who can eloquently articulate the anguish of a people fed up with watching their skinfolk be killed by those paid to serve and protect them, then seldom charged and almost never convicted. We need Christians, such as A'sia Horne-Smith, who are bold enough to call out their spiritual brothers and sisters for their hypocrisy, lack of compassion, and prejudice against the marginalized they are called to love.
We need white men, such as AL.com's John Hammontree, who are willing to stand alone and initiate tough conversations, speaking the truth in love to members of the majority culture like only someone who's a product of it can. We need academics, such as Robin DiAngelo, who specialize in opening the eyes of those who benefit from systemic, institutionalized racism while being ignorant of its existence.
We need parents, such as the Talladega Daily Home's Anthony Cook, who teach their brown sons and daughters how to survive should they encounter a bad cop while calling out good ones who walk in the sin of silence during times such as this.
We need me. We need you. We need each other.
Let's get it together.