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16 My People Turn the corner and there THEY are, Loud and Wrong, my grandmother says, head already in mid-shake. Used to be a good neighborhood too, my grandfather adds, gripping the steering wheel, unimpressed by these low-rent others moving in, blurring the red lines separating white from black casting dark shadows on their West Side dreams. Your people—No, YOUR People. They bounce responsibility for the stoop sitters and boom boxes, chitterlings, bright polyester and Afro Sheen back and forth between them their words flying over me looking out from the backseat at my face in the mirrored glass ...

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