This Holden Cornfield ain’t got nothin on me.

“You mean Holden Caulfield.”

Me and my partners called him Cornfield.  A play on words.  Cornfield running through the rye.

“Ahhh that’s a good one.  So why do you say he has nothing on you?”

Because this punk is runnin through his hood trying to erase all the times somebody tags up a building or somethin with the f-bomb.  Fuck that.  Can’t protect your sister from the world by trying to erase the shit.  Embrace don’t erase.

“What does that mean?  Embrace don’t erase?”

It means that Holden should be taggin over that shit.  Mark your territory.  Claim your turf.  Carve out your place.

“And that would –”

That’s the difference between white folk and black.  If that was my little sister, Phoebe, I’d still be protecting her but not by hiding that world from her.  Hold that world up.  Let her see what it looks like.  You can’t survive what you don’t see.  Then have her back.

“And –”

That’s the difference.  You people claim “Stand your ground” and shit.  You can only “stand it” if you got it.  I gots to gets mine.  Black folks got to get theirs.  Nothing to stand on.  Don’t erase that taggin. Tag back.

“So you think Holden is a punk?”

Punk ass bitch.  Grow up.  Whining about the way the world is.  No wonder he locked up.  Can’t hang.  Crumbled to the pressure when you got to be the one exerting the pressure.  It’s like D-up.  Ever see a guard crumble when he is pressured bringing the ball up the court?  Press or be pressed.

“So do you think we can talk again about Holden next time?”

Yeah, we can do that.

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