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One Thing Leads to Another   I’m not black but there’s a whole lots of times I wish I could say I’m not white.     Lindberg Sanders sat on an orange-beige couch, in his south Memphis home on Shannon Street. It was January 11, 1983. He drank some wine, straight from the bottle. Rolled a joint. Took in a lungful of smoke. The front door was covered in wrought-iron bars. For security. It seems so ironic now. The police were called; Lindberg Sanders was black, one thing led to another. It never ends well: one thing led to another. Black man killed by white police, it's all too familia...

  I’m not black but there’s a whole lots of times I wish I could say I’m not white.     Lindberg Sanders sat on an orange-beige couch, in his south Memphis home on Shannon Street. It was January 11, 1983. He drank some wine, straight from the bottle. Rolled a joint. Took in a lungful of smoke. The front door was covered in wrought-iron bars. For security. It seems so ironic now. The police were called; Lindberg Sanders was black, one thing led to another. It never ends well: one thing led to another. Black man killed by white police, it's all too familiar these days.