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This is my older brother Zola. And before you ask— yes, he is my brother. We share the same blood. But he is Black and I am White. He is George and Ahmaud and Philando and Walter and Mike and Eric and Trayvon and Oscar.
And I am not.
And I am not.
We are two of a family of five, and part of my privilege meant I grew up with no idea his skin color meant something different than mine did. I was vaguely aware that mixed families weren’t as common but I would see other black kids who also had white mothers and feel reassured.
But as I got older, especially around the end of elementary school, I started to notice things. Things that confused me. And at first it was small.
Blatant looks of surprise on the faces of parents, friends, and even teachers we both had when they found out we were related. Or going out to eat as a family and always being assumed to be a party of four and not five.
These small things I was noticing soon became big, obvious facts of life, and it was around then that I realized that Zola and I live in two different worlds.
When he takes me out to buy me new clothes because I have no money and am hopelessly terrible at dressing myself, he gets told to leave the store. I do not.
When he calls an Uber for us after a night out, he has to call a second because the first pulls away before he can get in. I do not.
When he exercises or trains outside, he has to be cognizant of what he’s wearing, who is around him, and what neighborhood he’s in. I do not.
So when he introduces me to people as his younger brother, or I introduce him to people as my older brother, those people will, without question, always ask: how? How can you be brothers? How is that possible?
But don’t ask yourself how that’s possible, ask yourself how it’s possible that we continue to allow ourselves to live in a world where he can be killed for no reason the second he steps outside, and I will not.
The answer lies in both the actions and the silence of people who look like me. That is what makes these two worlds possible. And in order to fix that we need to start holding those people accountable.
That means speaking up and being vocal in the face of injustice. That means supporting those who kneel even if you do not agree with that form of protest. And if you don’t, that means finding your own way to protest, which can be as simple as showing up to vote on Election Day.
Because I refuse to lose my brother. I love him so, so much. And I don’t know if I can go through what so many others already have.
