It’s easy for me to say “black lives matter.”

I want to write something about Alton Sterling. About injustice. About how black lives matter.

I care. I really do.

If reading about Alton Sterling in the New York Times and writing a post about it counts as caring.

What does reading about Alton Sterling in the New York Times and writing a post about it do for Alton Sterling? What does it do for the next Alton Sterling? What does it do for all of the other Alton Sterlings out there who will not get shot by a cop, but will get shot by someone? What does it do for all the other Alton Sterlings out there who end up chronically unemployed? Or in prison?

Or successful by all counts except that they’re a stereotype in a blog post like this?

Do I even know what the hell I’m talking about?

I’m a 40-year old white guy from Ashland, Ohio. Sure, I dabbled in the race issue when I did a couple of summers in Mississippi. I lived in inner city Chicago for a few months once. I’ve read a few good books on race in America. Spoken out a few times for justice and racial reconciliation.

So I read about Alton Sterling in the New York Times. I write a post about injustice and race. Then what?

It’s an honest question with no answer.

I care. I really do.

But, like most 40-year old white guys from Norman Rockwell, Ohio, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. And I can put off figuring it out indefinitely. That’s the luxury of being a white male.

It’s easier to just eat my breakfast, hang my American flag on the porch, and go to work. I can always write another blog post next time a cop shoots an African American man.

It won’t be long.