And then, I wish someone had thrust a book like Never Caught: The Story of Ona Judge into my hands. I wish someone had pointed out that I was lolling on a campus founded by Philadelphia Quakers, many of whom who drew the line against slavery almost 200 years before the Civil War. Because, while I never finished an entire can of soda, I gulped every morsel of Margaret Mitchell’s romanticized South, including the images of loyal, hardworking, genial slaves whose ministrations made Scarlett long for the antebellum days when all was ducky. We could argue about which was the greater poison. Each afternoon, I parked myself under a maple tree and devoured Gone with the Wind while sipping a Diet Coke. The summer I was 12, I spent weekday mornings on the tennis courts at Friends Central School in Wynnewood, swinging a clumsy backhand and counting the minutes until lunch.
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