Two years ago I experienced the real world again. I had been living for a couple of years in my sheltered land of self centered routine. A little more than a week had passed since an unarmed black man died of complications from a cervical spinal cord injury; alone, unable to yell for help face-down laying on the floor in the back of a police van. The news was running stories about his rap sheet, what weapons supposedly were on him, the systemic poverty and lack of options for the cities poor. Around Thursday my aide asked me if I thought “something bad” was going to happen. I asked her what she meant. She said she didn’t know but that it felt like the late 60s. Behind the high walls of Yuppieville, I didn’t feel anything.