We gathered in the park – people of so many different faiths, so many different ages, so many different skin colors. We came to gather and to pray and to say collectively this isn’t okay. It shouldn’t be like this. One of our own should still be here today, one of our brothers shouldn’t be gone. A mentally ill person shouldn’t be backed into a corner with guns drawn; a 5150 call shouldn’t be responded to by officers on the offensive. Alfred’s life matters.

And then we then marched. I didn’t feel unsafe, I didn’t feel uncomfortable – I felt a bit unsettled. It was peaceful, it was legal – but I didn’t really plan on it, if I’m being honest. I didn’t really expect it. I didn’t wake up that morning thinking I’d be walking in the streets, stopping traffic, waving signs with Alfred’s picture. We were walking by the El Cajon police station – 300 or so strong – and I looked up at the officers staring down at us from their second floor parking garage. We were chanting (“What do we want?”) JUSTICE (“When do we want it?”) NOW and I have to admit it felt a little eerie, staring up at the officers. I wanted to yell “This isn’t against you. We aren’t against you.”

We’re against injustice. I think everyone should be.

We marched on, and at the next intersection, police officers had stopped traffic so we could walk peacefully into the intersection to turn left. They created a barrier with their bikes and with their bodies. I wondered if they were ordered to do so, or if they chose to do so (the previous two intersections were blocked for us by various civilians). I wondered what they thought of us. I wanted to go over and say hi, say thank you, say something. I didn’t know how it would be received, on either side, so I didn’t. Now, looking back, I really wish I had walked over and shaken their hands.

It was a strange feeling, to be protected by and served by the people you’re marching against. It’s like wanting to get to a Clinton rally and Trump offering you a ride in his private jet. What? But then I realized I had bought into the lies that we’re constantly fed, lies that keep polarizing us in all of this. If I’m for Alfred, I’m against the police. If I claim black lives matter, I’m saying blue lives don’t. If I claim injustice, I’m vilifying law enforcement. I don’t think it has to be like this.

I think police officers have incredibly difficult jobs. I am incredibly grateful for our police force – both the ones I personally know, and the millions that are strangers to me. I’m tired of listening to the narrative that if you’re for black lives matter, you’re anti police. I’m sick of explaining to people that I’m not against law enforcement, I’m not advocating an overthrow. I’m definitely not advocating attacking officers. I’m advocating justice, I’m advocating change – I’m advocating that we’re in the midst of a broken system.

We think we have to draw the lines in the sand here; we think it’s an either / or situation. I think we’re wrong. We may not agree on the statistics, we may not agree on the motives, we may not agree on what reforms are needed – but I think we can all agree that humans are flawed creatures. Police officers, therefore, are flawed creatures. Just like you can find corrupt and/or misguided and/or bad CEOs, bankers, lawyers, grocery store clerks, teachers, office managers (that’s me!), computer programers, or scientists, you can find corrupt and/or misguided and/or bad police officers.

Don’t we want to be careful who we put in charge of policing? Don’t we want to be aware of who we give power to keep the peace? Don’t we want to be cautious of the way we train, the work culture we create, and the way we maintain those we willingly put in power, those whose hands we place guns and authority?

Don’t we want to be aware of worrisome trends? Don’t we want to be checking on how they deal with certain situations over others, on where they can improve, on the results? Don’t we want everyone – no matter their job title – to be accountable for their actions when someone ends up injured, hurt, or dead? Maybe we disagree on how exactly to do so, but I think this is a unifying place for us, not a polarizing one. I think, I hope, that is something all of America can agree on…

But apparently we can’t. That’s what this week has taught me. Apparently we don’t all see a problem.

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Can I be really honest? I don’t know how to have conversations with white people who don’t understand the basic premise that black people live in a different reality than our own. That black people have experiences that have been nothing like ours and, therefore, a point of view that is nothing like ours. Its like co-painting a picture with someone who doesn’t agree the sky is blue – how do you prove that? How do you find common ground with someone who doesn’t see eye to eye with you on the most simple starting point?

Its been really hard to talk to people. Its been really hard to have calm, mature conversations when I hear “well if they would just respect police offices” or “they’re just acting like victims and brining this upon themselves” or “America isn’t racist”. Its been really hard to have conversations when I feel like I’m constantly on the verge of weeping. I’m not a crier, I’m not one to tear up easily, but I’ve found myself consistently holding back sobs – for a nation so far gone, for people who refuse to see, for friends who are so out of line.

I can’t handle “well maybe if he hadn’t run away” or “I know better to never say that to a police officer” or “well if they had just [acted differently]…” Besides all the cases that prove that way of thinking wrong, besides all the proof of implicit bias, besides the fact that a certain word or response or hand motion should never merit a death sentence – you just belittled and brushed aside a human life. A human life. And too often it’s black lives that are the ones belittled and brushed aside. It’s black pain that is belittled and brushed aside. It’s the black point of view that is belittled and brushed aside.

I’ve had to stop responding to some messages, I’ve had to close Facebook multiple times. I’ve started praying for people, instead of condemning them in my head. Ive started praying, instead of reacting. I’ve started praying for a third way – instead of automatically assuming I’m right and they’re wrong. Binary thinking has gotten us into so much trouble; I’m trying my best to resist it these days.

How do I convince people the sky is blue? It’s all I see. It’s all I know. We live in the same world and yet seem planets apart from each other.

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I’m sorry if I can’t engage in this conversation with you, just yet. My wounds are raw right now. I’m learning and learning and learning and honestly the more information I find the more my grieving widens. There is so much hurt in the world – that isn’t new. But there is so much hurt in the world that has happened by the hands of the majority. By the hands of my brothers and sisters. By the hands of myself. And I don’t know how to make it stop.

My heart breaks for the injustices that have gone on for centuries, the injustices carried out by my ancestors. My heart breaks for the injustices that happened last decade, last year, last week – injustices I could have possibly stopped, injustices I could have possibly spoken up against. But I didn’t.

Im learning all kinds of new things – white privilege and white fragility and white guilt and, also, just whiteness. Some people laugh at this, some people scoff. You really buy into all of that? You really think there’s a problem? America isn’t racist. And I want to weep some more.

This week has split me wide open, in the worst way possible. Because not only did it happen right here, in my city, but it happened to the weakest of our society. Those we are called to protect most of all. A brother suffering a mental breakdown. An immigrant who survived war torn Uganda, living in a country and culture that is not his own – we should have done our very best to care for him. Instead, we shot him five times. Five. There’s no excuse for that.

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I see everywhere I look my ability to walk away from this conversation when it gets too hard, my choice to put down this pain when it feels like too much to bear. My desire to say, “Okay, that’s enough for now – let’s talk about something else!” Let’s revisit it in a few hours, or tomorrow, or next week…

Privileges that aren’t afforded to the black community. Their grief is unending, their fear is rampant – to walk down the street, to call for help, to turn to a system that still claims (mockingly, so it seems) justice.

Privileges that aren’t afforded to the Olango family.

His cousin goes to my church. That makes her family.

That makes him family.

I don’t think we have to be for police or for the black community; I don’t think we have to choose between blue lives matter and black lives matter. I think all lives have worth and merit and every human deserves a chance at life – and I believe with everything in me that black lives haven’t been given a fair chance at that for far too long.

We might not agree on the same, exact narrative and we might not agree on the particular solution and we might not agree on how to enact change – but can’t we agree on that?? Can’t we all see the sky is blue?