I was eight years old at the time of his murder but didn’t read about it until I was ten. It profoundly affected my sense of security in the world. Once I realized that a person, even a child, could be tortured and murdered just for being black, I no longer felt safe in my skin. Being black meant being a target. And the fact that two white men got away with it, and could brag about that in a national magazine, meant that the country didn’t value our lives the way they valued the lives of white torturers and murderers of children. No one—not my parents, teachers, or friends—could explain how
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