“Put your hands up! Show me your hands!”

There are things you think about— like what it means when you can be black in your own home minding your business and somehow still be killed by police.

When Amber Guyger broke into Botham Jean’s apartment and stole what was left of his life, she imperiled everything we thought we knew about apartment living. Forced intimacies and polite detachment — all of it’s bullshit when the woman who lived in your building and shot you for no coherent reason is a cop.

And then Atatiana Jefferson dies, and you think about how the perhaps the last words she ever heard were, “Put your hands up! Show me your hands!”

And you think about Atatiana Jefferson’s nephew, and how those words will mark him. About how even before his aunt died at the hands of a man who she would never know was a police officer and whose face she might not even had seen you think about how that boy had probably already learned to associate those words with danger.