How would I feel….

How would I feel if I saw on my Facebook feed yet another story of

a white


32 year old



of Irish and Italian decent

getting killed in day light going about her business.

Sure, with a gun in her hands — one she believed she was able to have

a gun that promised other people would stay away, a right to declare

“please, not me today — ok?”

She would have my dark eyes

My thin lips

My round belly

and wavy long hair.

Memories of the same childhood TV show theme-song in her head

Humming to pop-songs on the radio

Crushes in school that never materialized

Dreams that seem both in and out of reach

…if only things were a little different.

A nagging sense she’s not wanted — but no idea where to go.

Back to her ancestral grounds?

Back in time to a place where she belongs? How far back is that?

Out of sight as not to offend the vision of what a “nice neighborhood” means?

How would I feel if I kept seeing her be damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t.

Would I tell her “sorry” and accept the loan easily offered to me by the bank for that dream house in the nice neighborhood?

Would I reminder her “Well, if you just listened to the officer…” as I sped through a stop sign, knowing I’ll easily talk my way out of a ticket

Would I correct her “If you didn’t have anything to hide, why were you acting like it?” as I tuck my long hair into a hooded jacket; no reason for concern.

What would I do if I kept seeing someone so similar to me, so much like me, be convinced their pain isn’t real, their fear isn’t real.

Secretly, hushed, “Whew, I’m glad that’s not me…” — until someday it is.

And I’d be looking at the folks in a higher position above me, pleading “...what about me?”

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