When America received the news ¡ª the reminder that some of its darker-hued citizens are in deadly jeopardy when interacting with officers paid to protect them ¡ª I was sipping coffee, buttering toast, safe in my quiet hamlet in Yokohama. I decided I would put off scanning any Internet news outlets for a few more minutes.
A day earlier the media had warned that it was coming, this decision, this confirmation of the value placed on a young man¡¯s life. I just didn¡¯t want to hear it. Not again. Not yet. Not before breakfast, anyway.
I am so very far, in every way imaginable, from the daily reality of a community with a high mortality rate. I can go an entire day and see nothing that poses a threat to me ¡ª nothing more provocative than, say, some silly Japanese guy throwing himself between his girlfriend and me in an unnecessary act of . . . whatever, chivalry or something ¡ª knowing full well that if I had a son and raised him here, similarly subtle micro-nonsense would likely be the worst strain of dehumanization my boy¡¯d ever experience. He¡¯d probably never be harmed by a cop, or told by the society at large, pointedly or unwittingly, that when his ilk are slain it¡¯s likely justified. He¡¯d be slightly scarred by pervasive foolishness, but he¡¯d survive!
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