“I have asthma.” Growing up in my beloved St. Louis, I thought this might be the most common middle name for Black kids like me. Brittany “I have asthma” Packnett. We were strong in numbers. It just seemed like a fact of life.

Until I realized just how many of my white peers were not wheezing after high school gym class. It was not a fact of life, it was a fact of Black life. If you were a black child in the city of St. Louis as recently as last year, you were 10 times more likely to be hospitalized for asthma than a white child.

And if you are a Black resident in St. Louis during the coronavirus pandemic, you are painfully aware: Every single person who has died from COVID-19 in the city so far has been Black.

This staggering fact mirrors what’s happening across the country: Black people account for 72 percent of the coronavirus-related deaths in Chicago, 40 percent in Detroit, and 70 percent in all of Louisiana, even though we represent far smaller proportions of the population in those regions.

As Dr. Anthony Fauci recently acknowledged, Black Americans were already suffering from health disparities and higher incidences of COVID-19 comorbidities like diabetes and asthma, making these figures unfortunate—but expected. The numbers are stark and they remind us that we are all weathering the same storm, but we are not in the same boat.

But of course this—and the societal victim blaming that followed—was all predictable. The idea that Black people are born with predispositions to diseases like diabetes and asthma or that we have brought them on ourselves through weak will power and laziness is not new, but especially pervasive in this time. The insidiousness of oppression renders too many people unable to do the harder, nuanced, complex work of examining this country’s deep structural issues and the legacy of systemic oppression.

America’s systems treat Blackness like the most toxic comorbidity of all, whether you have diabetes and have been exposed to COVID-19, or you wore a mask to keep safe but were discriminated against or accosted for it.

But my Black friends and I did not have a higher risk for asthma from birth or bad parenting; the legacy of housing discrimination and environmental racism instead put more Black children in the midst of polluted indoor and outdoor air. The prevalence of diabetes in Black communities is not a consequence of unrepentant laziness; it is the direct result of food deserts and disproportionately low wages.

There is no pathological brokenness in Black people. The pathology lies in our systems.

As an activist, I am trained to never let systems off the hook. And our greatest injustices are rooted in systems of reckless power that have and will continue to cost us lives—unless we make a different choice. The responsible choice. The human choice. We must choose to care about inequity and injustice all the time, not simply when it is convenient. It is not convenient to think about who is suffering most during this pandemic when you’re on eight hours of video calls and your child will not stop screaming. Or when you are not allowed to leave your home, or see your loved ones for days at a time.

It may be inconvenient to remember that LGBTQ youth, foster children, or abused partners may not be safe to shelter at home—but it is no less undeniable. It may be uncomfortable to remind yourself that all kids don’t have laptops and broadband to learn in a Google classroom—but it is no less real. It may be disheartening to face the fact that health systems have inherent bias and that Black people, undocumented folks, the elderly, and those who are disabled may not be given the lifesaving treatment they need because their lives are deemed less valuable—but that is no less true.

A global crisis does not erase inequality. It expands it.

As we live through this pandemic, we have a responsibility to expose and solve for injustice. Demand that Congress require COVID-19 data collection to include information on social identity, like race, disability, and income—and that they fully fund tailored treatment and testing for those most at risk. Communicate best practices with your loved ones, so they are not confused by false narratives and misleading press conferences. Visit whileathome.org to support the hardest hit communities with your time and talent.

Confronting injustice will always be more important than it is popular—unless we choose it. Even and especially when it’s hard. We don’t have time to be surprised. There is only time for accountability, solidarity, and solutions. Right now.