ne of Sunday’s New York City protests, a river of whiteness streamed through mostly white sunbathers and picnickers in Prospect Park. Those who chose not to march clapped and cheered. When we came to a stop and the mostly white crowd amassed at Grand Army Plaza, I had the chance to survey some of the posters. Scrawled with black marker on cardboard, I came across three signs that illustrate my profound discomfort with how I feel white people are approaching this critical and transitional moment from our nation’s sordid history to a potentially more hopeful future.
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