Rather than being shot at, my new fear would be of seeing the officers unleash violence upon a helpless body, having to watch within the confines of my approximated uniform, padded with a bullet proof vest, which would incontrovertibly claim me, identify my orientation toward the police and not the helpless body, drown me out even though I can’t imagine that I wouldn’t be screaming, I am the kind of person who screams. And aren’t I? Affiliated? My cousin is my cousin. She’s my blood. But so am I black. My father is black. She’s white. But her children are black. Our affiliations are bleeding all over the place.
Over at The Offing, Aisha Sabatini Sloan pens a touching essay on calling Detroit home.
