I did not know him. I did not know his family. Children are dying every day from systematic violence and the few lives that are summed up by CNN is just the tip of the iceberg. This is nothing new. If anything, sacrificing our children is one of the great many traditions this country can trace back to its founding.
On Friday morning, I had logged into work from my remote office at my parents’ house in Wyoming. I came to Wyoming during the pandemic, unable to justify quarantining in my tiny Chicago apartment when there were mountains waiting to be climbed COVID free. I felt – feel – immense guilt for this decision. There’s nothing I could have done in the moment Adam was shot to save his life if I had been in Chicago, but I could appease my guilt by mourning with the City and being a part of the outraged community. Instead, I’m safely tucked away in a mountain valley, living in a community that isn’t aware of who Adam Toledo is. Was.
Growing up in the middle of nowhere, we ran wild. The cops were a fun obstacle to thwart and never a threat to our lives. From skinny dipping on public property, sneaking into people’s backyards for worthless pranks, to bonfire parties in the middle of the woods filled with booze and drugs, we would laugh and say, “What’s the worst that can happen? What are the cops going to do – shoot us?”
I want to throw up.