A progressive who worked hard fundraising, so that cities could become progressive sh!tholes, has been stabbed to death by a “black life that mattered.”
I’m elevating a reader’s comment to its own post. “Curious” wondered aloud about what could have gone through this guy”s mind during his final seconds.
So, as the gang of five youths rambled rambunctiously into the train, do you think any little red flags were raised inside Sutherland’s head? Did he feel guilt for having such thoughts?
When they approached him, did he flinch in apprehension and did he feel guilty about that? Did he castigate himself for his paranoid white privilege?
Did he frantically wonder about how he could tell these poor victims that he understood them; that he was not like all the other white people in the car, in the city, in the country? That, of them all, he walked the walk, talked the talk, and worked hard as hell for them. For them. Each and every one.
Did he wonder how he could let them know all of that without insulting them, without hurting their feelings, without leaving them with one more racist micro-agressive memory of a white man?
As the assailant tried to steal his phone, did he lament the poor youth’s decision–did he warn him he was fulfilling a vicious paranoid right wing fantasy about black people?
Or did he just fight for his phone, not even having the sophistication to understand he had provoked this young man with his affluence, his wealth, his whiteness?
And when the killer pulled his knife, did he think, Not me! He can’t really be threatening me with that, can he? I’m not like other white people!
And after the first cut, and the tenth cut, and the thirtieth cut and the fortieth cut, did he think…did he think…did he think…