Drug Dealers, Chairs, and White Supremacy: A Philosophical Meditation on Antiblackness

I’m convinced a drug dealer lives upstairs.

He’s not what you envision, though — or maybe you do. He looks like a surfer — or maybe a skater. You know the type: long, stringy brown hair, joggers, and skater shoes. He’s young, too. Can’t be more than 25. I see him constantly going to and fro, leaving and returning to his apartment at all times of the day and night.

And he is, of course, white.

I think he’s a drug dealer because other random white people stop by, go to his apartment upstairs, stay for maybe ten minutes, and then leave. I don’t know how long visitors are supposed to stay, but something tells me they stay for a little longer than that.

Anyway, I’ve thought he was a drug dealer for some time now. And I also haven’t had much of a problem with it. My hunch is that he sells weed, and I would know. I smoke it. I love smoking it. So I know the smell, the aroma. It fills my nostrils when our window is open, and it’s often refreshing to inhale the smell. I haven’t smoked in a while, so the smell of marijuana is, in a way, comforting.

Until today.

Today, two police officers came by my complex. I like to sit outside when I’m writing or reading, so as they came up the…