You know, I once passed a fake $100 bill. By mistake. I was buying fish, and the store owner didn’t notice the problem at first. He hollered at me as I was leaving and I came back to see what the problem was.

Nobody called the police and I was not murdered.

I was once driving without tags in a truck I had just purchased. State trooper pulled me over and took a few minutes to verify that everything was okay. He did not draw his weapon, he did not order me out of the truck, and he did not pepper spray me. Instead, he waved as I drove off wishing me a good day.

That’s the white American experience.

The Black American experience is indeed the substance of my nightmares.