Yesterday was the 8th anniversary of the murder of Philando Castile.

EIGHT YEARS.

There are several things about that year that just make me shake my head and swear under my breath. Sometimes, I don’t let it be under my breath. There are probably more pivotal events in my personal life in 2016 than 2020.

Philando’s murder is at the top of that list.

I remember waking up and checking news feeds and seeing a live stream recording from Philando’s girlfriend and I was disoriented. I had no idea who this was or what was going on. A hurried search led me to the shock that this was in my backyard. I knew the town, where he had been killed, all of it. And it has just happened.

It was the first time in my life I ever went to a protest rally. My wife and I joined a protest rally in front of the governor’s mansion a few days after the murder. It dug deep into my soul.

It wasn’t the first time I heard us, as white people, make the excuse, “Well, we need to wait until all the facts are out.”

It was the first time I didn’t accept that lame excuse. The more we learned the worse it got.

This was the turning point. Not that lame election. This.

Philando would be 40 if he were alive. He would probably still be serving school lunches. But he was killed that day because of … oh, so much. And I finally woke up. I had more conversations with people who kindly shook their head and had a look of, “Thanks for waking up… finally.” (I so deeply appreciate their patience and kindness!)

George Floyd was in Minneapolis in 2020 and by then it was that wearying thought of, “Of course.”

We work hard to not pay attention these days. As whites, we are willing to just calls facts lies in order to stay comfortable. We can learn to turn our news feeds off… and, of course, we’ve learned to blurt out “fake news” much faster. (And, I will say, journalism has tanked, seriously tanked, and that doesn’t help.)

Philando’s murder got in my soul. I can get so worn out with the clownishness of our current time. And then I see his picture. He’s not a statistic. He’s not a race. He’s not another item in the news. Somehow on his last day of life he became a real person to me that keeps on looking at me. I had never met him and now he won’t let me look away.

His name if Philando Castile. Say his name.