David Gwilliam

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California was beautiful. But not as beautiful as us—young and flush with cash. We drove to a fancy steak house and ordered every course from aperitif to digestif, and we did this in that magical time when we were still barbarians, still hood, still savage and proud to be savage, when we could still look at each other and toast, drunkenly, ridiculously, as if to simply say, “Nigga, we made it.” That was what it was in the fall of 2008. That was how it felt to be black and, for the first time in our lives, proud of our country.
We Were Eight Years in Power: An American Tragedy
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