Like many others, when posting pictures of myself and friends on social media, I find myself captioning them #YaranNorthSide.
Before 4 o’ clock, I caught a north-bound train on line 3 from campus to join the protest.
I knew my reasons for wanting to be there were primarily emotional, not logical.
But there he is again, a few pages later, with his tiny cursive handwriting.
"I barely know your kids and I feel like I would jump in front of a bus to stop this shit."
This hair salon auntie also seemed like a somewhat unreliable narrator.
I mourned New York, the relationship, my friend.
The incredibly ugly Korbel billboard made me actively twitchy the way the Emerald Cup billboard did.
I suspect we learned about Nazism in some unit or other, but it was buried under everything else we had to learn: how to castrate a bull, the three arms of government, Kenya’s cash crops, and how to sycophant for the Dictator Moi.