Writing as a privilege

I’m on vacation this week, with nothing more on my to-do list than get my office reorganized, get my desktop reorganized, and finish writing three stories so I can get them out into the world. 

I’ve been unable to write much though, because I am so drawn into what is happening in Ferguson, MO. I am watching Twitter constantly, reading and searching for credible sources and articles, and trying not to get sucked into meaningless fights online, fights where people don’t want to have a dialogue, they just want to retreat into their comfortable white worlds where the police are always the good guys and the blacks always bring it on themselves. 

I’ve just read that Amnesty International is sending human rights teams into the United States, that they want an investigation into the police actions in Ferguson. As I write, there are tweets from Ferguson, of tear gas and shots being fired as the protests cross into a second week. I don’t know what to do, knowing that even my helplessness is a matter of privilege, that I can be angry and frustrated in my safe home on my safe street and knowing that I do trust the police department here in my city. I’m white. I’ve never been given reason not to. 

And so I go back to writing, and watching, and raging. There is nothing else for me to do. 

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