When I was nineteen years old I was shot by a white police officer. In today’s climate, that would be the headline and the entirety of the article. That is why I never neglect to add that I was a victim of a police shooting that was completely justified. I left the house the night that I was shot with the express intention of robbing a particular convenience store in my city. When the officer approached me I was in the process of committing a crime. I pulled the forty-five millimeter that I had on my person on the officer immediately. He pulled his weapon and a brief argument ensued. The officer later testified in court that he saw a dangerous glint in my eye that suggested that I was about to pull the trigger and he fired his weapon before I could. He was absolutely right and his decision was absolutely the right one.

I fell on the hard rock driveway of a small storage facility that was close to the store I had nearly robbed, bleeding out and realizing that I was dying. The officer had shot me three times. Three bullets broke two ribs and lodged another in my back. My vision was rapidly dimming as I stared up at the stars in the clear night sky. I didn’t fear death. I feared waking up in the morning to the only life that I had always known. I had done everything that I could think of over the long hard years to escape and all my attempts had been summarily thwarted. 

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