I'm angry with Philando Castile. I finally watched the police footage of his murder and I was upset that he didn't know how to protect himself from a rogue officer. Why didn't he know the "hood rules" on police interaction? Why didn't he know to keep his hands visible at all times and only move when all parties were clear on the purpose and direction of each movement? In essence, I'm angry with Philando because he did not know how to properly be oppressed and that speaks volumes about our "more perfect union." 

In blaming Philando for his own murder, I am trying to create a false sense of safety for myself. I am telling myself that he, somehow, didn't know the rules as I do and as such, I am safe. I tell myself these things because if I don't, I must come to terms with the fact that I am in fact powerless and at the mercy of a white power structure which doesn't value my life. I target my anger at Philando because if I do not, I would be forced to admit that he did everything that a responsible citizen should and yet he was executed within seconds. If I do not convince myself that Philando was somehow responsible for his murder, I would have to concede that I live in a country where I, a good guy, can be executed without consequence and the larger society would deem it palatable. That would be far too traumatic. 

I am angry with Philando because I knew well before his killer was put on trial that there would be no conviction. I knew the attorneys would make arguments about the law and the use of force. I know– along with every other black person — that none of those arguments approach the heart of the matter. Had that officer pulled over Jim Bob with his girlfriend Sarah and her daughter Becky, I know it ends differently. It would not matter that Jim Bob allegedly matched the description of someone who committed a violent crime. It wouldn't matter if the car smelled like marijuana. It would not even matter if Jim Bob informed the officer that he was licensed to carry a firearm. Jim Bob would have an uneventful interaction and above all, would never be seen fit for seven bullets. Philando had to know the legal system would treat him differently but still failed to perfectly follow the unwritten rules and so I am angry at him. 

I was taught to keep my hands on the steering wheel at all times after being pulled over. I was taught not to reach for my wallet or car registration until after informing the officer that retrieving these items would require me to reach into my back pocket and glove compartment. I was told that I should reach for them only after getting verbal consent from the officer to do so (they typically opt to walk away while I do this). I was taught to make no sudden movements or even mention the word "gun" unless specifically asked. I keep telling myself that had Philando just followed the special negro rules a little better, he would have survived. There had to be a way, right? 

After Eric Garner's murder I asked my mother (a Cleveland native) if she ever worried about her three black sons interacting with cops. Her answer? "No, not really." I asked her how that could be, given all the high profile cases of police shootings. "Well, things are just so much better now than they were back then." Her answer terrified me. As bad as the age of Michael Brown and Philando Castile is, it is markedly better than the world my mother knew in Cleveland, Oh. Philando's parents and mine were raised in that world and thus their children were taught certain rules. These are rules no one should be subject to but for the sake of survival, we live by them everyday. That reality is painful but rather than process the pain, I find myself targeting my anger at a victim of state violence.