Or the South.
It’s inevitable when my husband and I visit family these days that the subject of violence in Baltimore comes up. Often, I’m the one who raises it. But when it came up last week on a trip to see my parents in Georgia, I got my back up. I thought of the 11-hour drive south and the billboards we passed along I-81 boasting guns for sale (“A Glock for Christmas”!), and of the story my brother-in-law, who lives in Florida, told of a neighbor stopping by to shoot the breeze in his suburban driveway, a handgun holstered at the man’s waist as their kids played nearby.I’m less afraid of the criminals wielding guns in Baltimore, I declared as we discussed the issue, than I am by those permitted gun owners. I know how to stay out of the line of Baltimore’s illegal gunfire; I have the luxury of being white and middle class in a largely segregated city that reserves most of its shootings for poor, black neighborhoods overtaken by “the game.”
You have to love White Yanks and their airs of superiority. How joyful she is that only Negroes and Rednecks are the problem and not her.