Saturday, June 23, 2018

His face was as close to mine as a pitcher talking to his catcher on the mound through his glove. He’d shown up out of nowhere yesterday. He was African American maybe 50, and he only stopped long enough to point to my sign and say in a dramatic whisper. ‘They won’t do what your sign says. They don’t want them to read. If they read, they’d revolt.’

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