I fucking cried real tears over Philando Castile being shot to death by the cops.
People get killed on the news often enough that we're numb to it, desensitized, distanced, removed. It's awful but it's true.
But for whatever reason, I'm struck with an overwhelming sense of this-could-have-been-me. Of how much Phil and I had in common.
Maybe it's that he was driving with his partner in the car and small daughter in the back, like I've done any number of times. With a headlight or taillight out, even.
He had a foodservice job, like I've held. He excelled at it, which I like to think I have done. Paid special attention to the kids with food allergies, like mine.
He had a CCW permit, which I very well might have obtained at some point in my life if I lived in the US.
He was compliant and forthright when he got stopped by the police.
He was quiet, respectful and kind, all words which I would hope describe me.
The difference? He's black. I'm white. He's dead. I'm not.