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288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2014
Several years ago, I bought an apartment in Manhattan with an inheritance passed to me from my grandmother, who was the daughter of a former attorney for Standard Oil. She outlived three husbands and managed her money well, and in one fell swoop from beyond the grave hoisted me out of one social class and into another. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, my younger brother was living in a homeless shelter.
Not only couldn't he instigate it, he couldn't even defend himself, couldn't pop this lowlife in the jaw no matter how legitimately threatened he might feel [...] Because he knew how that could all be made to look. Poor people lived for the opportunity to sue you. It was just one more way they tied your hands.
Here is a question for the class. Why am I writing this story and not my friend? Because I was luckier about my illegal money-saving apartment? [...] Is it important that I am white and my friend is black? Is it important to note that he is often kind of a jerk to interact with personally? Is it important to note that I'm a gay trans woman and he's a straight cis male? What facts are salient here and why?