I don’t know.
That’s not a great way to begin an opinion column, but as our cities continue to tremble with anger and pain after another series of high-profile police killings of black men and women, it is the only way to begin.
I don’t know.
I don’t know what it is like to be black in America.
I don’t know what it is like to be Toledo offensive lineman Bryce Harris, or to be 10 years old and have the cops called on my three friends and me because we looked “suspicious” as we went door to door with our plastic rakes in the hope of earning a little spending money.