![]() ![]() Oh, she says, followed by, oh, yes, that’s right. And though you back up a few steps, you manage to tell her you have an appointment. It’s as if a wounded Doberman pinscher or a German shepherd has gained the power of speech. When the door finally opens, the woman standing there yells, at the top of her lungs, Get away from my house. ![]() You walk down a path bordered on both sides with deer grass and rosemary to the gate, which turns out to be locked.Īt the front door the bell is a small round disc that you press firmly. Her house has a side gate that leads to a back entrance she uses for patients. The new therapist specializes in trauma counseling. The beautiful thing is that a group of men began to stand behind me like a fleet of bodyguards, she says, like newly found uncles and brothers. And yes, you want it to stop, you want the black child pushed to the ground to be seen, to be helped to his feet and be brushed off, not brushed off by the person that did not see him, has never seen him, has perhaps never seen anyone who is not a reflection of himself. She says she grabbed the stranger’s arm and told him to apologize: I told him to look at the boy and apologize. He’s okay, but the son of a bitch kept walking. ![]() ![]() A man knocked over her son in the subway. ![]()
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