I Can’t Be Them

I walked through the airport, dragging my black duffel carry-on, scanning for anyplace that sold coffee.  I, who don’t drink coffee normally, was desperate for anything that would wake me up, as I was exhausted.  It’s typical for me to be exhausted when I’m leaving D.C. (my former home).  It’s the consequence of talks with girlfriends and wine that go into the wee hours of the morning.  So I was tired, but I was also stressed, though I was at the airport early.  I was flying the day after the riots in Charlottesville; and it reminded me of when I flew the day after 9-11.  I was on alert—I wish a motherfucker would type of alert.

I looked at every White male, who was between 20-40, suspiciously.  Are you flying home from the rally?  Do you hate me?  Are you racist?  Are you a terrorist?  I was angry.  You don’t want…

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