The grief that white Americans can’t share

The last thing I thought about when I closed my eyes that Wednesday night, July 6, was the bullet tearing into the flesh of Alton Sterling as he lay pinned to the ground beneath two Baton Rouge police officers. I couldn’t get Mr. Sterling’s face out of my head — his chestnut skin and gold teeth reminding me of my own uncles. The swiftness with which his life was taken, broadcast on a loop like so many others over the last few years, had shaken me. I slept a restless sleep.

When my alarm went off at 6 a.m., I checked my Twitter feed, as I always do, while still snuggled in bed. I read a few Twitter messages, then closed my eyes, the hand holding my phone falling limply to my side. Overnight, while I was sleeping, another video, of another police killing, of another black man, in another American town, had gone viral.

I lay in my bed for the next hour, unable to gather the will to get dressed for the day. I turned the news on and listened as I read everything I could.