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He knows what careful movements must be made and how his skin itself may be a weapon. I can imagine his hands on the steering wheel, the respectful movement of his eyes, and the tone of his voice. As we had over the previous years with so many others, my parents and I watched the news of Philando’s death.

We voiced our anger, our resignation at the growing number of black citizens killed.

But then he felt he needed one to protect himself at his social club. I balked at the idea of such a dangerous thing in my possession. He never understood my decision to live in Philadelphia, far from my small hometown.

He’d carried it to Detroit and was caught, spent a night in jail, travelled back and forth between Ohio and Michigan for court dates.

I relented just to say I’d picked up another skill, conquered something I didn’t think I could master.

I’m sure my father knew this is what would happen, figured curiosity would get the best of me and I’d eventually call with the news I was a legal gun owner with a permit to conceal.

He was spared real jail time due to the illegal search and seizure that started the ball rolling.

He didn’t own another weapon for 25 years, saying he wouldn’t own another until he knew how to handle both the weapon and the power.

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