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34 B lue A ir I am Red You say, what’s wrong with you? I’m telling you. I’m red. We who are red have run away from well-ordered households with napkin holders and curtains. At parties, where women nod over wine coolers, My boredom bristles like porcupine quills. I stare into each set of eyes. I see the large whites. They become white people. They extend hands and say, how are you? They hope desperately I will say something normal. They can see my skin is dangerous. It wants to be free. They squint. They walk away from me. ...

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