Life has been going back to normal, and yet, nothing feels normal at all. As restrictions are loosened, Madrid moves into Phase 2, friends are able to hug one another again, and copious amounts of tapas and Tinto de Verano are had, the world is fighting yet another war, alongside this pandemic.

I have had an easy life, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being because of the color of my skin. I’m as white as they come, and grew up in a state with a black population of 1%. I received a good education, and never had to worry about how I would afford college. I never went hungry, I never had to choose between paying rent or eating. On the two times I’ve been pulled over by police, the most I had to worry about was whether I would get a ticket. I’ve never been scared for my life, except on the rare occasions that I’ve walked home alone at night. I was raised to believe that if I was ever in trouble, the police were the first people I should call. I didn’t have a single black friend until I was in high-school, and it wasn’t until college that I made friends with people of all ethnicities. When you grow up in a tiny town, with no diversity, and no socio-economic problems, you think that the world around you is fine, that everyone is treated equally, and that racism is a thing of the past. You see a black person become president, and this furthers your belief that racism doesn’t exist. You don’t even question why it’s taken 300 years for someone who isn’t white to hold such a powerful position.

It’s not until I’m eighteen years old, a freshman in college, that I gain a little more perspective. I have a black college professor and she recounts the number of times she’s been followed in a store by a clerk, how everytime she’s pulled over by a cop she fears for her life, how she’s experienced racism on a near constant basis both in and out of the workplace. I realize that I haven’t experienced a single thing that she’s telling me. I learn about, and read, literature written by black authors, particularly black female writers. When I’m 20 years old, I date a black guy, and am part of his family for the next three years, and I hear their stories and their experiences, and again, I realize that I cannot relate. But, now, I’m seeing more and more videos of black men and women getting assaulted by police, the people we are all supposed to trust to protect us the most. There’s a video of a black pregnant woman getting tased by police, for no reason. There’s a black couple, getting pepper sprayed and dragged out of their car, for no reason. And numerous other examples of police brutality. How many of these injustices haven’t been caught on tape? How many other innocent people have gotten the shit beaten out of them by police, for no other reason than because they ‘look suspicious’ or ‘look like a suspect’? Now, everytime one of my black friends drives home, I hold my breath until I get the text that says they’re home, they didn’t get stopped, they’re safe for another night.

The past two weeks have been some of the most emotionally overwhelming that I have ever experienced. And I’m white. I don’t carry the same burden, the same heartbreak and anger, that my black friends do. But I still feel it. I feel heartbreak when I see the modern-day linching of Ahmaud Arbery. I feel red hot rage when I see the picture of George Floyd with a knee on his neck, and the cold, uncaring look of the cop that’s murdering him, and I feel as though I could set fire to a police station myself. I could burn the whole city down. What if that was my brother? Or my dad? Or my friend? I see the peaceful protestors, who are rightfully angry, and I see cop cars running them over, and police destroying water bottles and medical supplies, and journalists being arrested and pepper sprayed even when they are compliant, and people on their own front porch being attacked with paint cannisters by the National Guard, and our disgusting excuse for a president turning off the lights of the White House, and having his police pepper spray the peaceful people at Lafayette Square Church so that he can get his photo-op holding a Bible that he’s never read in his life. And I feel so many emotions, and so helpless, living thousands of miles away from a country that I love.

I know that there’s a lot of good in the world. For all of the atrocious and violent acts that I’m seeing, I’m seeing beautiful, powerful things too. I’m seeing people in power, listen to the hearts and words of those that have been oppressed for thousands of years. I’m seeing peaceful protests, communication between protestors and law enforcement, dancing in the streets, black men and white men, cops and protestors, hugging, and slowly but surely, change. And I am trying to focus on that.

I have signed petitions demanding justice for George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. I have made donations to Ahmaud Arbery’s family, the NAACP, The Loveland Foundation Therapy Fund, and The Bail Project. I am trying to use my voice for good, and I’m trying to keep listening and learning, and take care of my own mental health at the same time. The events that we are seeing around the world reveal the full extent of the injustices and corruption that occurs within the police system: Yes, it is about race, but it is also about people abusing their power, and a president who encourages division and violence so that he can look good. I am clinging to the hope that justice will win, and each and every police officer who abuses their power will be punished to the full extent: Just as doctors have their licenses removed and are fired for medical malpractice.

It’s no longer a good enough excuse to say that it’s “just a few bad cops.” Please listen to the experiences of black people in America, please learn, and please do what you can to support the movement to end police brutality and racism in this country.