All before I was twenty-four years old. My name is Samuel Xavier. Brother Samuel to my friends. I’m a big and tall bisexual black male writer living...in the Boston area. Down in Massachusetts. This here is my story. Am I paranoid when I assume the white man or white woman I see giving me funny looks is a closet racist who means me harm simply because I’m brown-skinned? Am I wrong to feel uncomfortable when a white male or white female in a police uniform stares at me too long? Am I evil for. As usual I had her coffee ready, the sales reports ready, as well as a few other things that she had texted me earlier that she wanted when she came in. Like clockwork the doors opened. She came walking in, passing all the other people in their cubicles. I jumped up, and started walking by her side. “Morning,” I said. She put her hand out. I put the coffee in her hand, she took a sip of it. She nodded her approval. She pushed the door to her office open then walked in. Usually, this is where I. More

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