Illustration by Bob AulWhen I first saw you rolling through my neighborhood on the Fourth of July, I had you figured for another wigger. Was that really the Geto Boyz blastin' outta your low-riding, nitro-injected Honda? Moments later when I saw you outside the car, in the street and standing over my bloodied neighbor, I knew it was time for action. The adrenaline kicked in. My buddy and I raced over to save the old guy from you—only to find out that the old guy had tripped and banged his head up, and that you were doing your best to help him out. You helped us haul the old guy into his house, and waited until the paramedics arrived. And that's when I sized you up. You had all the gangsta-rappin', hip-hoppin' mannerisms and were wearing some kind of basketball jersey—now a bloody mess. Your baggy jeans were sagging to a point just above your ass. But there was no denying that, once again, I'd let my prejudices get the best of me. You were a good Samaritan to more than the old man that day. You also taught me a lesson in prejudice. Thanks for it.
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