Why the Police Should Kill Me Next

“It’s like a perpetual state of exhaustion,” my friend Tony said as he hopped into a cab on his way back the the U.S. It is rather fitting that Tony, another black man from America, had been visiting me in Lisbon while our brothers Alton Sterling and Philando Castile were being executed by police back in our home country. We didn’t really discuss it that much during his three-day stay in Lisbon, we just basked in a little Black joy by visiting museums and monuments, cheering on the Portuguese national football team, and taking it all in.

Perhaps both of us were comforted enough by each other’s company. We just did our best to enjoy our experience. As the only black man in a cohort of 65 Remote Year travelers, I know that Tony’s presence came at the precise right time for me. I am grateful for his brotherhood at a time like this.

I’d be lying if I said that part of my decision to leave the United States and take part in Remote Year wasn’t motivated by some level of escapism. I fully embraced my privilege and left the country (Though I should say that I have a slight problem with this framing because I don’t think that escaping a reality of incessant assaults on my being is anything but my right. I just wish more of us had the resources to act on that right.)