It's official. I was worried for my safety in my old neighborhood. There's a temptation to say that I'm coddled, now, that I've somehow become accustomed to the dubious comforts of class divisions. And really, maybe that's inside me somewhere. But bullet-proof glass inside White Castle and my old pizza place? Really? With a bank-style drawer for passing money and food back and forth? "No guns" signs at every grocery and restaurant?
Sunday morning, I could not sleep, so I ventured to the hotel vending machines. During that short walk at 4am, I witnessed three different confrontations, complete with physical threats, racial epithets, and copious use of the word "ho." (Okay, so the last part was kinda amusing, in a you're-a-walking-SNL-skit sort of way.) Mind you, this is in a secure hotel. I was very grateful to click the door lock behind me once more. It's a saddening metaphor, that click.