On the edge, where Columbus and Chicago Avenues meet in Minneapolis, a familiar sign is plunged past concrete, into layers of soil. The background is a deep red, like blood. The letters on the sign are white and centered. Stop, it said, and cars and bikes and pedestrians did. When I came near the sign, I noticed it was different. Stop, it said. Yet, underneath this word a sheet of white typing paper was attached at its edges with electric tape. On the paper were the words, …killing us. A block over from where I stood, George Floyd was murdered by a policeman just days before. The officer’s knee rested on George’s neck, even as George cried, “I can’t breathe,” and the crowd pleaded with the office to stop, to no avail. Stop killing us. I stood at the sign disoriented. With each step I took toward flowers and cards and pictures drawn on construction paper with crayons and markers by those still learning their letters and words, every glance of George’s face spray painted on boarded windows and imprinted on t-shirts, I realized I had entered a different space. In my white privilege, I do not worry about being continue...