Growing up in the South, I observed the way white boys moved. They were happier and lived life with a bit more than I had. More freedom. More smiles. More room to mess up, be loud, and take up space. The moments seemed small at the time, but they stacked up fast, telling the same story over and over: white kids and Black kids live by different rules. Like one Christmas, I unwrapped a toy gun; my mom took one look and quietly took it away. No explanation needed. I already knew the danger of be...
