Thursday evening I was driving to Kit’s house to pick up Ellen for a short night before St. Louis. While I was waiting at a light in Wilkinsburg, there were some teens walking  the sidewalk shouting. Groups of teens are loud by default. I ignored them. But they started shouting louder and repeating themselves, so I started listening. “White cracker piece of shit! Hey, white cracker piece of SHIT!” I looked around for their target, thinking I might see a mugging. Then one of them approached my window and starting banging his fist. “HEY! Mother fuckin’ white cracker piece … of … SHIT!” Bang bang bang. I looked out at him into his brown eyes, the dark brown frown. Half amused, I leaned to the window and tipped my head, offering a little smile and a little wave. Hi formed on my lips as I innocently and silently inquired, what can I do for you? The light turned green. I continued down the road. I’m white. People see me as white. Everyone does. Everyone except white people. To white people, or white pee wee soccer playmates, I’m wussy brownie boy. These names are inked in the shades of my skin.