Same

We grew up together. Same neighborhood. Little league competitors. High school teammates. Same schools. Same teachers. Same values.

Best friends. Brothers from another mother.

Same basic arc. College. Careers. Wives. Kids.

But it’s not the same. Never was. Never will be.

I’ve been pulled over four times.

Alone at 16. Doing 65 in a 45. Warning.

With my girlfriend at 25. Doing 85 in a 65. Warning.

At 34 with my wife and kids. Doing 65 in a 55. Warning.

Once with you. Driving my parents’ car. At 16. 17? Doing nothing. Stopped at a red light. You called it when they pulled up next to us. “We’re getting pulled over.” “What? Why?” “Just watch.”

Light turned. They waited. Followed us a few blocks. Drove safe as shit. Followed us onto my street. Pulled us over a few houses from home. Gave them my license and registration. Shined the flashlight in your face and asked for your ID. Took a long time to run our info. Ticketed for paperwork issue. WTF was that? Didn’t surprise you.

Afterward, you told me you didn’t drive one of your parents’ cars. The nicer one. Got pulled over every time you did.

Told me about the conversation your parents had with you. The one all black parents have with their kids. Things to know about dealing with police. Things to help you not get arrested. Or worse. My parents didn’t have that conversation with me.

And I know that’s just your one story with me. So many others. So many I haven’t considered. So many I couldn’t consider.

And we’re dads now. And I’m sure you’ve had that conversation with your kids. And I haven’t. And I’m sure your kids will have their own stories. And mine won’t.

And that makes me very sad. And I know that knowing isn’t enough. And I know I can do more. And I will. And I’m sorry. And I love you.