Trayvon: Not About Race? Think Again

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The department store doors have barely closed behind us when my brother slides his hands into his trouser pockets. I approximate his move, drawing my arms close to the sides of my seersucker dress and pressing a palm securely against each thigh.

Eric and I are practiced at this. We act before Mama issues her rote orders: "Don't touch nothing … Y'all know how these white folks is. They are watching us. And I don't feel like fighting . . .

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