My parents gave me one great gift. They never said a racist word. Not one. I didn’t realize until I was older just how rare this was.

The only time there was even a hint of something being said, was after my dad retired. He began listening to Rush Limbaugh. We were talking about one topic or another. I remember very distinctly, my older brother sitting and having lunch with a beer. I don’t know who we were discussing, but my dad asked, “Is he Jewish?”

Time stopped for a second. Questions like that weren’t asked in our house. My older brother asked, “why?” My dad said, “I’m just asking.” I don’t know if the question was answered, but the question itself was such a departure that it remained in my memory.

I’m not saying my parents were perfect, and if you read my last post, you have proof they weren’t. There wasn’t racism, homophobia or anti-Semitism though. Granted, we were Catholic; we were very, very Catholic. I would assume they probably thought non-Catholics were going to hell. My entire childhood I was told I was probably going to hell.

I share this about my parents, because I was incredibly naïve about racism. I thought everyone was like me and did not hear racist comments at home. One of my friends was a Black woman who was a breast cancer surgeon. After we adopted, I asked her, “is there any racism anymore?” I still think about the patience and graciousness with which she answered, “I wish the racism was more overt,” she said. “I’d rather be called the N word than the subtle ways I experience racism now.”

I didn’t understand her answer, and then I did.

There are so many subtle ways, and they are easy for people to back out of and say, “I wasn’t being racist.” One really subtle thing Dale and I experience is the reaction of people when we share stories about Ethan experiencing racism. We are expecting shock and awe, and we get, “can you pass the salt?”

Their response indicates their comfort with young Black men being harassed. There is an okayness with it. They wouldn’t authorize it or participate in it themselves, but there is a shoulder shrug when they hear about it.

I have shared the stories of Ethan’s many police stops. They started when he was in middle school. Only two of them occurred when he was actually driving. Walking along, minding his own business, he has been surrounded by three police cars, on one stop. On another, he has been put up against a police car and searched. One cop even took his license, just took it as a little bit of further harassment. Another time, the police wanted to see his ID. He was walking on his college campus at 7pm.

He has been stopped, while driving, by police two times. The one time, he was driving home from work. He worked at a restaurant, so it was later. The police stopped him and just wanted to know, “Have you seen anything suspicious?” He said, “no.” They let him go. Have you ever experienced a stop like that? I haven’t. We both know the cop was smelling his breath, smelling the car.

The second time he was stopped, his grandmother had called him to help her work one of her electronic devices. It may have been her phone or her TV. He was driving back to school and trying to give her instructions and not paying attention to the speed. He was pulled over as he should have been. Thankfully, it was an uneventful stop. As you can imagine, it is worth mentioning that, because Ethan is a young Black man.

Most recently, we were on vacation in London. Ethan was stopped by the security guard at our hotel and was asked, “are you lost?” He said, “No. I know my way to my room.” The rest of us were never stopped. We have mentioned this to a couple people. There has been no reaction. There is that okayness.

When I share these stories, I am expecting outrage, like how I feel. Occasionally, that is the result. There are definitely people who feel this should not happen. They are not the majority. Most people say nothing. Some even offer suggestions for things Ethan can do to avoid being stopped, as though it were that simple.

Ethan’s experiences disrupt the stories people want to believe about the police, and so they want to make it Ethan’s fault he was pulled over or stopped while walking. If your worldview is there are a few bad cops, or Black men just need to comply, you come up with excuses or reasons for police abuse. These excuses and reasons let you rest in your okayness.

Last night, a video was released of another young man who died as a result of a police stop. What is your okayness with this news? Are you okay enough to do nothing? Are you okay enough to go on with your life and pass the salt? Is the leader at your church, mosque or synagogue going to talk about Tyre Nicols tomorrow, or are they okay with it all too?

I know so many people in my life are completely okay with the murder of young Black men. I know it enough to not say the name of the young Black man, who was murdered and whose funeral I attended yesterday.

I tell people I went to the funeral of my son’s friend who was murdered. They are shocked. They are appalled. They ask questions. How old was he? Do they know who did it? “Oh, my goodness, that is terrible!” they tell me.

I nod. It is terrible. He was a gentle, beautiful soul. He called me Aunt Mary, but he didn’t say it like I do, like the insect –Ant Mary. I always found it quite regal to hear him say it. It was my first time being called, “Aunt” in the British pronunciation.

He was 24 years old. He was the youngest brother of three boys. He was adored by his older brothers and his mother. He was strong and silly and sweet and hard-working. His name was Marcus.

I hear the exhale. I hear the resignation when I say his name. ‘He was Black,’ the person is realizing. They are no longer shocked. They are not appalled. They are okay.