I’m going to admit something. I was five years old when I was with my mother at a train station waiting to get aboard. She had picked me up because the steps were too steep for my little legs. We were in the immediate company of a group of black people also waiting to board the train. Prior to that day, to the best of my knowledge, I had never seen a black person close up. I vividly remember asking her this question: “Mommy, how do they tell each other apart?” The reason I have such an intense memory of that event is probably because of my mother’s reaction. She was clearly embarrassed and flustered. She wasn’t angry with me and didn’t punish me, I just easily picked up on her agitation, which was not something I had ever experienced with her.

I eventually got old enough to feel chagrin when I thought of that moment, and to experience real sympathy for my poor mother trying to explain the unexplainable in such an awkward situation. I also managed to realize that the real question I was asking was, ‘how do I tell them apart?’ And none of my experiences as a kid in the south in those times helped me to answer that question. I went on to all-white schools, had all white friends, and sat at the front of the bus. Any ability I developed to tell black folks from one another was hard-earned, took a civil rights movement, and was facilitated by my determination to treat everyone the same.

At one point in my early twenties, I majored in criminal justice. I thought I wanted to be a police officer. I liked the idea of people who were keepers of the peace. Peacekeepers had a nice ring to it. In my day, that career option wasn’t available to me, of course. My obvious choices were teacher, nurse, or homemaker. I couldn’t stomach bodily fluids, so I trained to be a teacher. And then, later, a social worker, which was as close to a police officer as I could get, since my understanding was that police officers were social workers with badges—they solved problems, advised victims of crime, calmed people in distress, sorted out disagreements, broke up fights, and tried to prevent trouble before it started. Those things are still the majority of an officer’s day. Are recruits today chosen based on their abilities in those areas, or are they picked for their ability to be tough, ruthless even, in the face of perceived threat? Are they instructed in those peacekeeping services, or are they trained to ‘fight crime’? I honestly want to know.

I learned that most officers never shoot anyone; many never even draw their service weapon. I believe, too, that the majority retire with clean records on police brutality or excessive use of force. I have so much respect for people who put themselves between the public and the law breakers, and I’m distressed that the contract we the citizens have with they the peacekeepers has been broken. It must be overwhelmingly painful for a good officer to want to defend a brother in blue while knowing he was wrong to have done what he did. To know that he, the officer of the law who swore to serve and protect all of us no matter what color, has been betrayed by his brother. That he has been damned by association, not anything he did or ever would do.

We’re in the middle of a crisis. It’s pretty clear that some reforms are coming down the pike. And people a lot smarter than I am will have studied and developed theories about what went wrong and how we can fix it. It’s not too much of a stretch to blame the heinous practice of enslaving human beings and using them like farm animals for the origins of systemic racism, and we’re not that far off the plantation that the descendants of those slave owners aren’t still harboring illusions of superiority. Some of them are owners of businesses. And store clerks. And public servants. Relatives and neighbors. Uniformed police officers.

I wonder how many of those cases of mistaken identity actually started that way, don’t you? How many of those reports of a suspect ‘who fits the description’ are at least vaguely accurate? The identifying factor being skin color. A black man. Is that all it takes?

There must be surveys that determine whether a person is even able to distinguish one black face from another. Able to see a lined face, distinguishing marks, scars, moles, the set of eyes, the shape of a nose, the curve of a forehead, a dimpled chin. Why are our police officers, both white and black not provided with training to address those issues? To familiarize themselves with those subtle, but essential differences? In a few cases, it might be as difficult for some black officers to qualify the facial and body characteristics of a white person. If so, then they need that kind of immersion training, too. At the very least, they need to be in the classroom when their fellow white officers are taking the course. Think of the opportunities for dialogue!

I had a mother who would never have misled me into thinking that black people deserve anything less than my open-minded acceptance as equal citizens. I don’t know exactly how she explained to my five-year-old self that our fellow black travelers told each other apart the same way I recognized her or my father or my friends from one another, but I’m sure that’s the message I got. Not every child got that message. Some were taught, either overtly or by example, that the black people they encountered were less than them and to be disdained. Perhaps even erased from society. Some of the children who got that message of hate grew up to be police officers. And they made it worse for all their fellow officers as well as the black citizens they harassed, abused, and possibly even killed.

And now here we are. Where we go from here will say a lot about us to the world, as well as to each other. When the smoke clears, the signs discarded, and the chants stilled, will we be able to recognize ourselves?

The country is rioting. It’s a perfect storm. Trump, the coronavirus, and now riots. Oh, and there were some killer hornets in there, it’s hurricane season, and the first named storm is forming. So, more than three catastrophes at once. Are we great yet?

But, back to the riots. Simmering resentment fueled by fear has boiled over into rage, and rageful people are putting themselves and others at risk–both from authorities and from the virus–to make the point that systemic racism is a real a present danger in this country. That every time a black person leaves the safety of his or her (but mostly his) home and decides to walk or drive or ride the bus while black, he’s a target. He’s vulnerable to a racist attack by a bully, or a team of bullies, whether in uniform or not.

He could die because he’s black. Many of his brothers and some sisters have died–senselessly, brutally. And the perpetrator(s) have, for the most part, gone free. Maybe they weren’t even charged and brought to trial. Maybe they didn’t even lose their jobs. How long did we think that kind of humiliation could go on before the feelings of shame and fury became retribution? It may not make sense to our brains, but it makes sense to our hearts. At least it does to mine.

As a woman–decidedly white–I have always been aware of being … less safe when alone than if I had been a white man. My husband, in his prime was formidable, and when I told him I was always cautious and on the lookout for possible threat from men, he was shaken. He had never thought about the reality women lived with. Never thought that I and every woman I knew would admit to being on guard in public or when walking (even driving) alone. He, on the other hand, often sized up another man or group of men. Weighing whether he could handle himself if push came to shove. Measuring what he would do if, for instance, that man or those men were to insult me. It wasn’t the same as knowing, as I did, that I wouldn’t stand a chance, but we both learned something about how we measured our fellow humans as we went about our business, both when we were together as well as when apart.

But neither of us ever imagined what it was like to wake up and go out into the world in black skin. We couldn’t imagine being looked at with suspicion while wandering around in a store, for example, being followed by a store security person, for example. We couldn’t imagine being stopped by the police because we ‘resembled’ a suspicious person, the resemblance being simply skin color. To live in that reality every day, every hour of every day, every week of every year for your entire life. To live in that kind of wariness, which is just another word for fear. To live with that ever-present anxiety. When we tried to imagine it, both of us felt that we would fight to the death to right that wrong. That as young people, we would have been agitators. But it was all speculation, because we were white.

While blacks account for approximately 13% of the U.S. population, they are almost half of all homicides. Behind that statistic are dead black men, someone’s sons. Sons who came into the world squishy and wailing and button-nose adorable and so very loved, just like the sons and daughters of white people. How sad to realize the mothers of those black babies being so fearful for their sons every day from their birth forward. And not just normal fear all mothers feel–but rather fear based on statistical evidence. How can that still be true after all these years? How can it be even more true after all these years? We all know how, don’t we?

I know that what’s going on now isn’t right. I know that lots of the people who are being and will be victimized by the looting are black people who are struggling to eke out a living. People who are victims of the system already. The irony of that hasn’t escaped me. I don’t know how many of the crimes being perpetuated are being committed by actual black dissenters and how many are planned and carried out by right-wing organizers fomenting violence in order to up the severity of the charges that will be brought and increase the need for military intervention. I’m not normally a conspiracy theorist, but it’s a new day with a new crazy man in charge, so anything is possible. For today, our country is not focused on healing from a virus, it’s watching cities, towns and neighborhoods burn. And local leadership is on its own. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.