The America I saw in the fall of 2021 was weary and battle-scarred. Its sidewalks were cracked. Its mailboxes bashed in. All along the West Coast I saw tent cities. They were in parks, in vacant lots and dilapidated squares. In one stop after another I’d head to a store or restaurant I remembered and find it boarded up, or maybe burned out, the plywood that blocked the doors covered with graffiti: EAT THE RICH. FUCK THE POLICE. BLACK LIVES MATTER.
