On the few, but still too frequent, occasions that I came home to that little yellow house to see one of my older siblings crying because one of his Black friends had been killed, I was always already armed with a plethora of reasons for why and how they might have deserved it by the time I reached my door. If I chose to bear those arms, I was also choosing to live in a specific version of the present defined by the state. I often did. I
We created this. Only we can change it.
