My uncle is trying to keep See Us from breaking down our doors to get me to speak to the media. Every few minutes, someone from the foundation is calling to plead with my uncle to let me speak. He refuses, saying I need time to let what’s happening sink in. He needs time too. His hands are still shaking.

I’m standing in the middle of the house surrounded by the wreckage, and I wonder: What are the cops having for dinner? Will they have a regular meal, like, say, chicken and rice, or will they go all out with a celebratory feast? Will they invite their friends to join them as they cheer getting off? Oh my God, is there cake? Do people serve cake after getting off of shooting a woman in the head?

You’re so stupid, Ayo! Don’t you get it? They didn’t shoot a woman; they shot an animal.

We’re animals, but not like a small dog—white folks love, protect, and, for some strange reason, kiss them on the mouth. We’re creatures to be hunted and killed on a whim. And all this time, we’ve been playing a game here in the animal kingdom, called “How to not scare the white folks so they don’t shoot us.”

That’s why we glob on chemicals to keep our hair from looking too Black; nappy hair scares them. We lower our voice, adjust our tone, and learn to code-switch because big, Black voices threaten them.

They creep into our homes and take what they like: our traditions, our culture, and our slang. But we don’t protest; protest might startle them. Instead, we adjust. They feed us diced-up chunks of casual racism, and we make no mention of the bitter taste. We swallow quietly and don’t make a fuss; a fuss would make them nervous. Nervous white folks are quick to shoot.

That’s the object of the game: to live a life so small, so anemic, that white folks hardly know we’re there. It’s paramount to our survival. Is that why some of the icons of the civil rights movement were killed, because their lives were too big?

Medgar Evers.

Fred Hampton.

Malcolm X.

Is that the key to staying alive in this country—try as hard as you can not to exist? Would my mom be here now if she’d made herself smaller? What does that mean for all of us? How small do we have to make ourselves to not scare the white folks?