I tried to pass a counterfeit $20 bill once.
There, I said it. I admit it. I am guilty of the same crime supposedly committed by George Floyd.
No one called the police.
No one tried to arrest me.
No one threw me to the ground.
No one handcuffed me.
No one put a knee on my neck.
No one held his knee on my neck until I died.
I did not have to cry, “I can’t breathe.”
I did not have to plead for mercy.
I did not have to plead for my life.
I did not have to yell out for my mother.
The alert clerk at the Hazlehurst Winn-Dixie store recognized the bogus $20 and told me it was counterfeit. She didn’t call the police, she simply called the store manager.
He didn’t call the police, he simply explained to me that the bill was counterfeit.
I explained that I had gotten it from a convenience store in payment for the newspapers I had delivered there a few hours before my crime. I didn’t know it was counterfeit.
He took possession of the bogus bill and bid me farewell.
I had forgotten about that incident from decades in the past.
Now, I remember.