I was born amid dissent. Civil rights were won through protest. My parents took me to demonstrations when I was still in my stroller. The people at my rallies had every right to do what they were doing. I understood them, I understood why they were angry. Usually, the crowd drowned them out, and I went on with the business of my speech. But at a rally in Detroit, as I was detailing Trump’s threats to climate policy and the Affordable Care Act, a noisy group chanted: “Kamala, Kamala, you can’t hide. We won’t vote for genocide.” The threat to withhold their vote got to me. It felt reckless.
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