After George Floyd's murder, I saw many of my social media friends posting about their outrage. I wanted to post something, too. Because that's what you do in 2020; you post, and then you breathe a sigh of relief. You post, and you're done.

So I posted about #abolishthepolice and how I initially couldn't even imagine what that looked like, but after talking with my youngest sister who lives in Minneapolis, whose neighborhood had joined together to create a network of night watch patrols after the riots started (because the police shot rubber bullets at the neighbors who were out on their very own porch after curfew), I was open to the idea.

It took me three days to craft my post, a poem meant to support my sister and her community. I expected my opinion to spark a healthy conversation with someone, maybe even someone who did not agree with me. I did not expect my post to be hurtful.

But it was. I received two comments that made me feel awful. The first was sent by a cousin whom I really love and respect. Her partner is a police officer and in the National Guard, and he had been called to Minneapolis the same day that I published my thoughts on Facebook. The message she sent said that my words were very hurtful, and I understood; if I were worried about my husband, Oscar, and I read that someone I love thinks we don't need people like him anymore because they are bad, I would feel terrible, too.

I answered that I was sorry, I never meant to upset anyone, and just because I think that our justice system isn't working for us anymore does not mean that I don't care about either of you.

The response I got was short; Well, I guess we just don't agree.

And that was it.

Instead of sparking a healthy conversation with someone who did not agree with me, my opinion squashed it.

The second comment made me feel even worse, because it came from Oscar. In my post I had used a picture of the two of us, and that made him feel uncomfortable. He felt that my opinion was very harsh, very non-negotiable, and was worried. Oscar is a person of color, and unbeknownst to me, had been very aware of the upsetting comments that were being left on the Facebook page of the brewery where he works right after they posted their #blackouttuesday square. He was scared that someone would connect the dots and threaten us, too.

I wanted to puke. I didn't know he felt like that!

I deleted the picture and the post.

But before I did, I reread it, and I was truly embarrassed by what I had written. It was so obviously written by someone who assumed they were now "woke" after the lightbulb had turned on just once during a conversation with their sister. I had not considered how my thoughts would affect the people I love, including the one I love the most!

I thought about these two interactions for the next few days. I cried over them. Why had this gone so badly?

That same week, I listened to Fabric's most recent podcast. Melissa talks about how during the past two weeks, a lot of us (read: white people) were processing things using the following steps: Pause, Act, Learn. We paused at the news of George Floyd's murder, the protests happening in our cities, and the riots and looting that followed. After pausing, we acted; went to a protest, donated money, donated food, wrote a Facebook post, responded to a Facebook post. If our action wasn’t the best one, we learned from it.

For example, I learned that if I want to create a comfortable space for these uncomfortable conversations to be held with my fellow white people, I need to be gentle. Like Sonya Renee Taylor says, "some of you are coming into the conversation and you're not ready to be in this conversation." I need to respect that not everyone is in the same headspace as I am and then meet them where they are, not where I think they should be.

So I apologized to my cousin. Like, an actual apology. Not a fake one like before, the I’m sorry, but. I used the I’m sorry, period. She responded that she appreciated and accepted my apology, and I know that I will eventually be able to talk with her about our different opinions.

Soon after, an uncle that lives in a small town in northern Minnesota commented something that I disagreed with about the #abolishthepolice movement. I paused, but instead of acting right away, I learned first. I learned that many small cities share their police departments with the surrounding small cities. With more context, I understood how imagining a world with specific task forces instead of police would be very difficult for him. And then I acted. I told him, I understand where you're coming from now. Your city doesn't have enough room in its budget for even one police officer, let alone a social worker and a paramedic. It makes perfect sense that disbanding your police department seems like such an impossibility to you. He then accepted some examples I sent him of social programs that had been implemented in lieu of law enforcement in big cities, but that were concentrated in very small areas. Because I was willing to learn from him, he was willing to learn from me.

In Zoom church on Sunday, when Melissa asked us to write about times we had paused or acted throughout the week, I noticed that she too had rearranged the steps: Pause, Learn, Act. I think she realized that same thing I had; Why act first and risk making a mistake when you can learn first and avoid it? I had a few more examples to jot down, and I know that there will be many more. The race to true equality isn't the mile run, it's a marathon. Pause, Learn, Act, Repeat. Pause, Learn, Act, Repeat. From now 'til the cows come home.