Before we enter the room they nonchalantly tell me pieces of my brother’s story: We thought he was on PCP or something, one says. He’s mentally ill, I respond, and wonder why cops never seem to think that Black people can have mental illness. He’s huge! one exclaims. Massive! They had to use rubber bullets on him, one says, casually, like he’s not talking about my family, a man I share DNA with. Like it’s a motherfucking video game to them. We had to tase him too, the other cop offers, like tasing doesn’t kill people, like it couldn’t have killed my brother.
