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  • My mom runs a small grocery store in an African American ghetto. When we were growing up, my siblings and I manned the register, among other duties, since birth practically. One night my brother, in his teens at the time, rang up a couple of kids, a girl and presumably her little brother. My mother was selling inflatable animals at the time. To promote the toys she displayed a blown-up silvery shark on top of an endcap filled with candy bars, pork rinds and twenty-five cent potato chips. The little boy, clutching his brown paper sack of cheapy nickel candies and soda pop, gazed at the shark. "Oooooh, looka tha airplane." His sister studied the toy. "That's not an airplane! That's an alligator."
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