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Within a week or so after our arrival, there were ominous signs that the neighborhood was still working out its kinks. There were two murders in two hotels within three blocks of our new home. What I thought were firecrackers at 4 a.m. on the Fourth of July were in fact gunshots in front of our building. And there must have been something about me that made me a target for every heroin dealer on the block, like the fact that I was breathing.
The writer of this letter seems like just another selfish conservative who doesn’t want to share the wealth (his wealth). Crack-heads have to eat too. Show some compassion, brothers.