I’m a white guy from Africa. Cape Town, South Africa, to be exact. I remember being 8 years old, the thud of the soccer ball against my foot, playing in the front yard when my Mom came to the door and called out “Teatime.” When I walked into the house, all the fresh air felt squeezed from my lungs, I looked up at my Mom’s face, saw tears in her eyes and breathed, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was a whisper, “Adelaide’s baby died last night.” I was frozen inside and couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Adie was our nanny who was like a second mom to me: she made me meals, gave me baths, and lived in a small room off the kitchen, six hours from her home, family, and pediatrician. For the first time in my life, I realized that the main reason I was alive, well-fed, and sheltered was thanks to the unearned privilege of my skin color. A couple years later we immigrated to America and I completed my education. All along I kept thinking that I’d seen my beloved Adie’s baby die, likely from a preventable cause, and yet as a child, I hadn’t thought about the inequities of Apartheid very often. This memory makes me wonder what I’m not thinking about enough today.