The violence against us is already incremental. Piece by piece. Jail by jail. Charge by charge. Investigation by investigation. Search by search. Trash can by trash can. Up against the wall by wall. Get down on the floor by floor. Lies by status quo testimony by testimony. Knife by knife. Police riot photographer by photographer. Dreamworld fantasy by fantasy. Fireworks by fireworks. Helicopter by helicopter. Canister by canister. Boot by boot. Arrests. Knees on necks by death squads. Killing people in their sleep. Ramming door by door. Vote by vote. Rubber bullets, and real ones, too.

If the process is slow enough to disguise its actual identity – genocide – it can get every last one of us, not in a gulp, but as a steady diet of our bones.

Ross is right about everything he contends. But there is an inability to understand how violence as a menu bleeds a poison on the body politic. Feels like the guts of it gets marginalized, when, in fact, the players are symbolized by such maniacs as the Proud Boys. Again, it’s a symptom, not the disease. Does anyone really believe that the Proud Boys are contained by the police. They are unleashed by the police. There is a difference.

I joined ANTIFA. There were no other options. I am backed into corners where the torches and the brownshirts stalk me in every city I travel through in America. I do not much expect that any columnist – not just Ross – can connect to survival on this side of the line drawn in the killing sand.