I thought I was immune to the name calling, living here in Margaritaville cum little Haiti. It’s not Houston’s fifth ward, not Harlem. But it doesn’t feel too far off sometimes. And the names usually don’t involve me, or I can’t hear them, anyway.

But today I almost lost it… because I’m sick and cranky… and because a young man of color meandered past my house… maybe five feet from me, talking on his cell about a cop who had just stopped him. I caught snippets only because I was outside with Bree, not because I tried to eavesdrop, trust me.

“…dat $@&^ cracker stop me and I knew he wanted to give me a ticket, but I just looked into he cracker eyes…”

At that point I slammed the door shut, closing off the language and hopefully the feeling. They call each other the N word all the time, that epithet that I’m not supposed to say, and do not even think until I hear it on their lips. But ‘cracker’? Why did I bother getting pissed?

Just call me a Triscuit. Full of fiber, good tasting and slightly nutty.