February 17, 2014

Prejudice isn’t just wrong, it kills

A car full of teenagers heads down my street, windows down, music blasting. Their anthem is French Montana’s strip club hit “Pop That”: “Don’t stop, pop that, pop that. Drop that. What you twerking with?” I’m outside, bent over, picking up dog poo of all things. The kids yell, “I’d like to hit that,” and other catcalls as the car zooms past. I don’t call the police or clutch my imaginary pearls. Or reach for a gun.

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