Ferguson

I’d hoped we’d wake up to footage of crowds marching slowly through the streets of Ferguson, peacefully protesting the decision. We all knew protests were coming. Maybe we knew they’d be violent.
Last night I watched as the Grand Jury’s decision was announced and I saw the crowd begin to break up and move quickly in different directions. I watched live as people broke the windows out of a cop car. I watched as anger, hurt, and fear turned into what I least hoped to see.
Here’s the thing, though: I’m not mad about the protests. It’s not my place to be mad about it. It’s my place to try to understand.
I’m not going to pretend to know everything about the case, or every detail the Grand Jury was given. I’m not going to pretend to know if Michael Brown caused a violent threat to that officer, or if it was profiling. That’s not for me to figure out.
A life was lost. A life much younger than mine. A life of someone who, by many opinions, was still a child.
I don’t know what it’s like to be a black person in America. I likely won’t know what it’s like to wonder if my [future] children will be gunned down because they are perceived dangerous (whether or not it’s true). I don’t know how it feels to wonder if I am actually protected by the people hired to protect me.
The only sense that I can make out of any of this is that I simply don’t get it.
I don’t understand how it feels, but I know I’m affected. I know that any kind of unrest in my world, especially based in the concern that we’re not all treated equally affects me and everyone around me.

I said it last night, and I’ll say it again: My heart goes out to those affected by the Ferguson decision, and to those whose world is so small they don’t feel affected by it.

Because we all are. Peace & comfort to all.

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