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Each story is an original one, and each takes place in a distinct location. Our web model for the series has one more restraint: a word limit. Sound like murder? It is. But so are Mondays. This week, Jennifer Celestin forces a smile in Flatbush, Brooklyn. Me and Tino are sitting in the bay window of the lobby. Our building, like the other brown, seven-storied buildings around it, is really majestic—people just never take the time to look at it. Past the scrubbed-down graffiti, the floors are lined in regal burgundy and green tiles. Not like the glowing green from the antifreeze draining into the gutters, but like emerald.
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Jordan sat in her small cubicle, she was packing away the last of her work belongings.
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JLo, Shakira, and the flattening of Latin America into a non-Black monolith.

Tossing and turning, emotions were strong. Even before it was announced last September that Jennifer Lopez and Shakira would headline the Super Bowl halftime show, the performance was already steeped in controversy. Mogul or not, he was abetting the NFL in its campaign to distract from the blackballing of Colin Kaepernick, the former 49ers quarterback who was exiled from the league after kneeling during the national anthem in protest of police brutality against Black people. And while booking two Latina icons to headline the halftime show in the era of Trump may have felt like a win for Latinx representation, their performance only further complicated an already contentious situation. We love Brown people. The show had been politicized before a single bar of music had sounded in Hard Rock Stadium. The performance was charged in every way, along many different dimensions. We conducted our chat over Slack. An edited transcript is below. Or was it the opposite—a bit on the nose for the sake of being on a national platform?
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Shit, he grew up in Detroit—black food, black music, black friends. He never had a problem with the Blacks. He joined the Aryans to protect himself from the Whites. No fence sitting motherfuckers up in here. Max security. You fucking kidding? If you want, be a bleeding-heart liberal open-armed faggot outside the walls, but inside it all came down to the color of your skin. There were pariahs of all shades. Held down too hard. And, like, no fucking way West knew she was fifteen.
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Shit, he grew up in Detroit—black food, black music, black friends. He never had a problem with the Blacks. He joined the Aryans to protect himself from the Whites. No fence sitting motherfuckers up in here. Max security. You fucking kidding? If you want, be a bleeding-heart liberal open-armed faggot outside the walls, but inside it all came down to the color of your skin.

There were pariahs of all shades. Held down too hard. And, like, no fucking way West knew she was fifteen. Not built the way she was. Word was already out-West was a microwave burrito once inside. Two minutes away from getting nuked. Prize of the month, worth, shit, worth like five other fish. Contractors finished the gym before the cells and are still here working after the convicts had arrived. The Aryans, that was his rescue. No, the man said, getting up with West as soon as his guard escort was gone. A circle of whites keeping watch. Eyes looking in, eyes looking out.

So, you know, if you ever feel—. Get it? Fucking rap names, fucking initiations, fucking fish getting turned out just like that fucking TV show, the one where the boy genius escape artist somehow kept his asshole from getting bloodied. In two different prisons! Even a Panamanian pit of hell. Just like all those movies. Just like all the stories West heard about prison guards turning their eyes away if the price was right or the convict was shitty enough. Leaving dinner. West keeps his mouth shut.

The Aryans keep their mouths shut. The Blacks keep their mouths shut. Shit, even those Spic M motherfuckers, tight lipped. But everyone keeps their mouths shut and sweats it out. With that, West becomes a trusted white.

Gets a tat. It gets infected. He spends three days in the infirmary to get the fever and pus out. Al makes another pass at West in his weakened state, but West pwns him in front of his gang. Pwns him bad. Get yourself some Jesus and love some pussy. It was a bad dream. And most of those third, to wipe the memory as best as possible, end up fucking someone else younger and newer on the totem. More bad dreams.

Except those Spics. Very few drift over that line. Mary watches them close, Hey-Zeus looking over her shoulder. Anyway, West fucks that shit up. Startled awake by two big ass Blacks, one wide and one made of granite.

One blacker than the dark with bloodshot eyes, and the other lighter like copper with stab scars across his arms and chest like ancient runes. And West knows which it is. Fucking sold out. Shaking too bad to scream. Not like it fucking matters. Fucking right. But they understand West still has to pose. Only man in the dorm who had cleared out the top two bunks of a three-tier unit, put up double-thick sheets on all sides, and was left the fuck alone by guards and cons.

Looks clear, like cable. A Macbook. The bunk is soft. He has a mattress cover, nice satiny sheets. Al can take the bite. Good boy. Nigga could like having him a bitch with sass like that cleaning his bunk. Sweet bitch. Surprised you can even talk in sentences.

You must got white in you somewhere. Some other blacks listening in, obviously, and they start up. Whole place starts up.

What are they thinking? So do it already. West balls his fists. Flexes all his muscles, thinking if they shiv him, he can make himself hard like armor, like Iron Man, like a flesh wound is as bad as it would get. You know? Like, permanent. He needs to be got. If West wants any protection at all, he has to kill a white man.

That fucking Buddha vibe. Guy is a sea of calm. Zen and shit. You scared up in here? You have trouble sleeping? You acted a fool and got your white ass thrown our way. You know why? You stopped being scared. Granite outside, punches the sheet. West nearly falls out the other side, bangs the back of his head into the frame. Scrapes his scalp bloody. They laugh, laugh, laugh. West cracks his neck, hold his lips hard.

Makes West realize how many men are listening in, their shadows large and looming on the sheets. Bar fights, some fun on Friday nights? A fucking accident was all. Someone he cared about, not that he could let on. In here, he had to be badass. The girl had to be a piece of ass, nothing more. And her age, finally getting floated around. All the shit about short-eyes getting the worst of it in jail? Kind of true. But only as an excuse to rain down terror without worries of retribution. Teenagers, well, not quite the same.



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