I Had No Greater Anger Than When I Was Part Of The Problem

An Exploration of Love, Race, Agency, Privilege and Pain

My 19 year old stepson and I were sitting at the table. He had arrived from the big city to my much smaller one to visit. We developed a relationship that transcended my relationship with his father. We would on occasion do brunch and on this particular trip, he was coming to hang-out with me, his white step-mom, and my white extended family to attend a predominantly white hockey game.

He is my son. We are not blood related, but when I first met him at the awkward age of 13, I knew him immediately. He was a doubter, rational, quick yet quiet and sensitive. He was a kindred spirit. We understood each other and I accepted my role as stepmother. We built our own relationship, one that was solidified when I insisted he sleep in my quarters when he contracted malaria during our visit to Senegal.

This particular visit came not so many months, perhaps even weeks, following the murder of Michael Brown by a police officer in Ferguson, Missouri in 2014. As we sat in my dining room for dinner prior to the game, we discussed the news. My son said, “ I can’t stand cops.” I stopped. I have worked with many police officers, many of whom are kind and respectful. I have also met with those who are aggressive and who see their jobs as a covenant to “lock…