My neighbor called me a f — -ing n — -er!

What would you do if that happened to you?

I’ll tell you what I did.

I cried. Sobbed really. I called the police. I continued to sob as I described what had transpired. I apologized for calling them. I felt ashamed for responding so weakly. I called my brother. I took two shots of bourbon to calm my nerves. I cried some more.

I blasted A Seat at the Table as loud as I could. I finished washing my hair. I wrapped it up in a turban. I put on a pair of jeans and my University of Notre Dame Alumni sweatshirt. It was a little chilly yesterday, so I also put on my army fatigue jacket and pulled on my moccasin boots. I gathered my laundry, and headed off to my parents’ house.

I was greeted by my dad, my uncle, his girlfriend, and my mom when I arrived. I told my mom what had happened, privately. She hugged me tightly. I cried again. She made me tell everyone else. My dad and uncle were pissed and protective, yet powerless. The moment had passed. I had already experienced what they’d worked so hard to prepare me for, yet shielded me against for 27 years.

We went to visit my brother and his family. We had dinner and drinks. We watched football and cracked jokes. We hugged and went our separate ways. They called and texted to make sure that I made it inside my apartment without incident. I had. I went to bed.

I woke up this morning and got dressed for work. I headed to the office, really early for the first time in a while. I parked my car and walked into the office wondering if there was anyone around who wanted to call me a f — -ing n — -er today.

Update: Walking into my building today, Tuesday, October 4th, he calls me a “fucking nigger” again! I can’t take this.