Whenever someone begins a sentence with “Some of my best friends are Black,” or I don’t see color,” I move them quickly into a category that tells me if they define their friends by color or identifiers, they’re probably talking about acquaintances, not friends.
I am struggling this week. I’m not angry or sad, but “I’m feeling some type of way.” An indescribable kind of way. It’s 2021, I’m in my 65th year on the earth, and race, violence, terror, and hatred continue to dominate too many conversations.
Earlier this week I spoke to a friend whose neighbor had died of COVID. She has the kind of neighbors people used to have—you know them because you spend time in their homes, the children play together, they have a key to your house, etc., and I lamented that even though I’ve met my neighbors, I don’t know them.