On Saturday, August 9th, another innocent, young black man fell dead in the streets with his hands in the air, fired upon by a Caucasian police officer. Upon hearing the news, I was struck by the same sickening feeling I had when I heard that George Zimmerman was found not guilty of murdering Trayvon Martin who was suspiciously wearing a hoodie on a cool February evening; or when I read about the black woman beaten by a state trooper on the side of a California highway because she was talking to herself; or when I saw the news about John Crawford III who was shot and killed in a Walmart armed with nothing but a toy gun; or when I learned about the shooting of Relisha McBride whose only crime was needing help when her car broke down. Too many stories of black men and women being brutalized and killed for things that white people can do without fear. And each time it happens, our hearts cry, “Not again!” But it has been happening again and again.

Yes, slavery was abolished hundreds of years ago. Segregation ended decades ago. And yet, the systematic devaluation of black life—the implication that we are inferior and worthy of fear and distrust, this deeply ingrained belief that our work, our time, our contributions to society, our very lives are worth that much less than that of our pale-skinned cohorts—has not changed.