How Racist White Minnesotans Try to Scuff Black Souls

It's gonna be another warm weekend; might as well get this off my chest. Two weeks ago, I tried to kill a bit of time at Valleyfair (between my two paid meals, while my favorite slide wasn't open) reclining in a Waterpark chair under the shade.

Minnesota, of course, is where they murdered George Floyd in the street. And shot Philando Castile before that. And Jamar Clark before that. And let's not bring up the ones AFTER that. Point is, murderous racist Minnesotans didn't materialize in a vacuum. They're everywhere.

When I walk around in a Minnesotan public area--minding my black-ass business--the ratio may vary a bit. In the right places, maybe one in eight. In the not-so-right, as many as one in four. Of what? White folk who find my very existence disturbing. And since I'm not amongst a group of Five Other Black Dudes and have a friendly enough face, cowardly Minnesota racists feel safe and comfortable showering me with indignities.

Dirty looks. Staring and staring for eye contact, so they're sure I'm watching them clutch their purse. Snatching their children away. I suppose you could liken it to tinnitus--a constant background noise, that you must consciously drown out.

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