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but where does a slave put anger? We could be angry with one another; we were human. But the real source of our rage had to go without address, swallowed, repressed.
“I don’t know. Hope? Hope is funny. Hope is not a plan. Actually, it’s just a trick. A ruse.”
I hated the world that wouldn’t let me apply justice without the certain retaliation of injustice.
How much of the desire to end the institution was fueled by a need to quell and subdue white guilt and pain?
