I'll preface this story by saying that my friend Sonny is a young, black man born and raised in Brooklyn. I, clearly, am a young, white girl from Boston - while I can always try my best to understand his upbringing, I will never have lived anything like it myself.

Anyway, we were walking home after Gov Ball and since Uber had shut down any rides off of the island, we were directed to walk over the RFK bridge. Once we got across, it was past midnight, so everything looked unfamiliar in the dark. We got lost, and no one else was around.

Sonny spotted a police vehicle in a nearby parking lot and said he was going to ask the cop for directions. And in that moment, I thought nothing of it. I started scrolling through my phone to see if Uber was working, and that's when I turned around and saw it happening.

Sonny was walking up to the police car at a snail's pace. Both his hands were in the air, and he'd set his bag down, open, on the ground. The officer had his windows rolled up, and was staring him down. My stomach dropped all the way to my feet.

Here I was, ignorantly paying attention to my phone, while my friend was genuinely terrified for his life. He didn't know if him approaching a police officer would end in him never making it home. The disparity between our concerns in that moment only highlighted my own privilege

I walked up behind Sonny, hands still dropped to my sides, bag still hidden under my arm. It was only after the cop noticed me there that he opened the window to talk to us. The first thing he asked was if I was safe. "Of course I am, officer! I'm not the one with my hands up!"

It just served as another harsh reminder to me that POC live in a reality that is constantly defined by their race, something I will never know. It makes me feel angry and heartbroken and more determined than ever to utilize my privilege to give power to the marginalized. (/End)