My father worked the graveyard shift as a police officer in the nineties in one of the most dangerous places in the country, East Los Angeles, a predominantly Latino neighborhood. Today, racial disparity in policing in America is under a microscope. As the protests around the deaths of African Americans at the hands of police escalated, so did my confusion as to my position in this movement. As the son of a cop, I found myself overcome with sadness. I recognized I had a unique vantage point and turned to writing to sort out my confusion and ease my pain inspiration for the story.

My father served with the utmost integrity and was regularly recognized for his valor both amongst his peers and superiors. I witnessed this clash between a professionl held in such high regard, and the African American community that has suffered more than any other in this country.

There’s a dichotomy of emotion across the Latino community one of full and complete support of the Black Lives Matter Movement, while also asking, ‘What about us? When is it our time to be heard?’ I remember when I was a kid, after learning about Jim Crow South and seeing the “coloreds only” and “whites only” signs in notorious historical photos, asking my mom, ‘If Mexicans are brown, not white or black, what drinking fountain did they drink out of?’ I heard her uncertainty as she tried her best by saying, “Well, probably the colored one because we’re closer to black than we are white.