It was a warm, sunny, Southern California day as Omar, Jason, and I walked down the middle of a small suburban road, passing a blunt back and forth.

Jason and I were only fourteen, far too young to be consuming any mind altering substances, but enthralled with the effects of cannabis. Omar, our sixteen-year-old dealer, didn’t seem to mind the steady income and company we provided him.

Suddenly, Omar alerted us to the presence of an LAPD cruiser creeping up behind us. He smacked the blunt out of Jason’s hand and we quickly scurried off to the sidewalk, watching the cruiser crawl to a near stop as the officers inside examined us. Just when we thought we were done for, the cruiser abruptly accelerated and eventually disappeared around the corner.

One thing people who haven’t bought illegal drugs may not realize is that dealers, by and large, are not scary, evil people. They almost always grew up in poverty, and are simply doing what they know to make a living.

They are often somewhat lonely, which makes sense when you consider that most people see them as just a vending machine for drugs. As someone who genuinely enjoys listening to people’s stories, I found Omar full of wisdom far beyond his years and enjoyed the time we spent together.

Following the incident with the police car, Omar remarked that he was glad they didn’t stop, because he was “not down to get arrested today.” That confused me and when I pressed Omar on whether there were ever days he was down to get arrested, he said yes and continued to explain his perspective on the police.

Just as a gang maintains control over a given territory through the threat of physical force, Omar explained, the police maintain control over us by the same mechanism. He concluded by saying something along the lines of, “they’re just like any other gang, only they have the best cars, the best guns, and they are the best organized.”

Sometimes, Omar explained, he felt so overwhelmed and angry at the police that he wanted to lash out, regardless of the consequences.

I failed to fully understand the significance of Omar’s explanation until my freshman year of college, when I learned that an essential characteristic of any government is a monopoly on the use of violence, and read James Baldwin’s description of the rage he felt as a result of being black in the United States.

Hanging out with Omar opened my eyes to an entirely different world that existed right there in the same San Fernando Valley I grew up in, only it looked nothing like the world I was used to. We went on “missions” that included trips to various dealers’ and distributors houses, head shops whose owners always seemed to know Omar, and late-night house parties where he unloaded large amounts of weed.

Though many white people like to tell ourselves that we demonize drug dealers because of the harm they inflict on innocent lives, this excuse is little more than thinly veiled racism. We live in a country where rich white people who push drugs that kill hundreds of thousands get to stay millionaires, giving up only their ability to donate to art galleries.

On the other hand, our prisons are still full of people of color who were caught selling dime bags on the corner.

Omar went on to earn a college degree, and as far as I’m aware he is a fully functional citizen who contributes to society in a variety of ways. Unfortunately, many others in Omar’s situation didn’t have such happy endings.