“I [patroller’s name], do swear, that I will as searcher for guns, swords, and other weapons among the slaves in my district, faithfully, and as privately as I can, discharge the trust reposed in me as the law directs, to the best of my power. So help me, God.”—Slave Patroller’s Oath, North Carolina, 1828
One lonesome late night in Brooklyn, I sat grading essays in my crib when outside my door I heard a cacophony of gruff voices, a little squad of shuffling feet, and swift seconds later a KABLAMKABLOWKABOOM on my door. Since I believed my apartment building was at least semi-secure, I crept over and answered with only mild anxiety. Whoa! There stood a phalanx of white dudes in the dim hall, some wearing jackets with insignias, others dressed in plain clothes.
“You live here?” one of them asked.
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