Two white people were killed by ICE in Minneapolis and suddenly White America is outraged. Scared. Demanding answers. Demanding justice.
Welcome to my world.
I understand why you are feeling afraid right now. But I need you to understand something just as clearly: this is what Black America has been living with for generations at the hands of local police.
We need to talk about how policing works in this country for Black people, how the story gets written before the body hits the ground.
Police are trained to yell “stop resisting” while they have someone pinned to the pavement. Knee on the neck. Full body weight crushing the chest. Head being kicked. Anyone who understands the human body knows the reflex is to tense, to coil, to protect yourself. That is not resistance. That is survival. But the words are not for the person on the ground. They are for the witnesses. For the cameras. For the police report that will follow.
“Stop resisting” becomes the alibi.
Because the next line in the narrative is always the same. If he had just complied, he would still be alive. If he hadn’t resisted, he wouldn’t have been strangled. He wouldn’t have been shot.
That script has been perfected over generations.
Now fast forward to Minneapolis. Two white people are dead at the hands of ICE. And suddenly the country feels what fear actually feels like. Suddenly people understand that law enforcement can escalate without warning. That the state can misjudge, overreact, or lie. Suddenly people are asking, why is this happening?
Black America has been asking that question forever.
For generations, Black men and women have been killed by police, not federal agents, not immigration officers, but the people who patrol our neighborhoods every day. And when it happens, the response isn’t shock. It’s explanation. Justification. Excuses.
Hands up, don’t shoot. I can’t breathe.
They were pleas. Folks begging, BEGGING for their life.
There is a conversation Black families have with our sons that most White families never have to think about. “The talk” happens the moment we realize our child is old enough to drive.
It goes like this: Keep your hands visible at all times. No sudden movements. When the officer asks for your ID, tell them exactly what you are about to do. Say it clearly. I am reaching for my wallet. I am opening the glove compartment. I am grabbing the registration. Move slowly. Speak calmly. Do not argue. Do not raise your voice. No matter how scared you may be. And above all else, no matter what they do to you, do not run.
That is “the talk”. Not about responsibility. Not about respect. About survival.
When my son graduated from high school, we bought him a brand new car. Not used. I needed it to be perfect. No broken tail lights. No cracked mirrors. Nothing that could give an officer an excuse to pull him over. In hindsight, that was fear management.
When he came home from college for breaks and went out with friends, my wife couldn’t sleep until he walked through the front door. Not because he was reckless. Because she knew the truth. Out there, our son is always in danger. Not because of who he is, but because of how he is seen. Because of his Black body.
This is our everyday norm. There is no escape from it. No pause button. No whistles to warn us. No neighborhood that makes us immune. Skin color, stereotypes, and long-standing myths can turn ordinary moments into life-or-death encounters.
And then White America elected a man who pours gasoline on all of it.
A man who amplifies fear, legitimizes cruelty, and gives permission to white nationalists to step out of the shadows and be proud. A man who frames immigrants, Black people, and protesters as threats, and law enforcement as unquestionable heroes no matter the evidence.
So when ICE comes to Minneapolis with masks and military gear, when bodies start falling, when chaos erupts, this is not an anomaly. This is an expansion. Federal power adopting the same culture local policing has inflicted on Black communities for decades.
I know many of you are aware of these realities. But many more are not. Why would you be. It doesn’t affect you. Until now.
And yes, we have allies. But not nearly enough. Too often those alliances come wrapped in microaggressions, conditional empathy, and the expectation that our pain stay quiet, polite, and non-disruptive.
To honor the lives lost, we have to say their names. Not as a checklist, but as a reminder that this is not new, and it is not rare.
George Floyd, killed by a Minneapolis police officer pressing his knee on Floyd’s neck for over nine minutes in 2020, sparking global protest.
Breonna Taylor, unarmed, shot during a no-knock raid in her own home in Louisville.
Ahmaud Arbery, killed while jogging by civilians tied to law enforcement.
Eric Garner, choked by NYPD as he repeated, “I can’t breathe.”
Tamir Rice, 12 years old, shot within seconds of police arriving at a park.
Laquan McDonald, 17, gunned down as video later exposed police lies.
Tyre Nichols, beaten to death during a traffic stop.
Rekia Boyd, killed by an off-duty officer, no conviction.
Leneal Frazier, killed during a reckless Minneapolis police chase.
Donovan Lewis, shot in his bedroom while sleeping.
Sonya Massey, killed after calling 911 for help.
There are so many more.
So when White America feels fear now, when outrage finally breaks through complacency, understand this. This is not new. This is borrowed terror. This is a glimpse into a reality Black families have lived with for generations.
The question is not whether you feel it now. The question is whether you will finally listen and truly understand.