We always felt halfway to a crime that we could never commit.
I had stopped knowing who to count out at parties or open bars, and so I winged it.
I found myself on a first date with a guy who was born and raised in Yonkers, with a family from El Salvador.
The only girl in my group of black girlfriends who had a boyfriend was dating a white boy who was white enough to have a family that hated black people. We would sit squished in a row behind them with all of our smirks perfectly even as they drove us home.
The year before I graduated college, black boys started dying on TV: Trayvon Martin, then Eric Garner, then Michael Brown, then Tamir Rice.
I had hushed conversations in the corners of cafés about how important it was to keep feeding the black community with positive affirmations and how it began with loving black men.