OutKast In The Promised Land

FINAL EXAMS AT Morehouse College were a bitch. Nearly four in the morning on a starry autumn night years ago, I found myself making a trek up Buford Highway to a 24-hour Quik Mart. Amped on Vivarin, crammed sociological theories floated through my mind. A white van drove quickly up the long avenue, and I caught eye with a passenger-side traveler leaning out his window. "Nigger!!" he exclaimed at 80 miles an hour, and continued to hurtle through the night.