Sandra Bland could have been my daughter

So much has been written about the terrible death of Sandra Bland that I'm not sure what I can add to the conversation.

Other than it has shaken me to my bones and I can't shake loose the horror.

She reminds me of my daughter. She could have been my daughter.

Sandra Bland.                      My daughter.

Same age, almost.

Both sassy, some might say affectionately, smart-mouthed.

My daughter would have been irritated too, and told the cop she had rights and she wasn't putting out her cigarette or getting out of the car.

She would have fought it every step of the way.

I'm sure Sandy Bland had been given "the talk," and knew the dangers but maybe couldn't imagine what happened to her could actually happen. To her. Or couldn't stop from demanding respect and lawful behavior from the cop. That's got my kid all over it.

The only difference that matters?

Sandra Bland is dead.

It could have been my daughter.

Or yours.

Or you.

But so likely never me, even if I was that age. 

Because I'm white. 

Makes me wanna holler.

#BlackLivesMatter

July 25 update: Read this, by the brilliant Roxane Gay: On the Death of Sandra Bland and our Vulnerable Bodies.

And this: Why are we still talking about racism?