Member-only story
Race has been on my mind a lot recently. I worked heavily with a struggling population of predominantly Spanish-speaking patients in East LA after leaving my job in Harlem last year. My boyfriend is black and continues to unpack his past with me, and my own skin is a topic of conversation in my predominantly white classroom in Malibu, CA.
But this morning, I felt a deep, dark sadness.
My boyfriend lay in bed with me, as he often does when we have both been busy and need to steal a moment to nurture our connection.
“Tell me about your day yesterday,” I asked him, nuzzling into his arms.
“It was a good day. We did a great job at the event. I think we got a new client. I took care of things at the shop, I got my invoices taken care of. I got pulled over by a cop because apparently my headlight is broken, and I walked way alive. All in all, a good day.”
I stopped breathing for a moment, trying to understand why my body froze.
I ran his words through my mind again.
I got pulled over by a cop because apparently my headlight is broken, and I walked away alive.
