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Rosie is one of my best friends. She's a black woman who refuses the label "African American".

"African American?!" she says, "What's THAT? I didn't come from Africa, my ancestors did! I'm as African as YOU are. If white people aren't labelled "Scandinavian American, German American, or British American, why am I stuck with AFRICAN American? I'm just plain black and you're just plain white."

Rosie is dying. She was diagnosed with bone cancer a year and a half ago, and she decided that chemotherapy was another agony she didn't want to go through when there was little to no chance of a cure. She is now in first stage renal failure, and we think it's only going to be a matter of months. She's only 44 years old.

She won't sit at home, though. She wants to work and keep her mind occupied as much as she possibly can. So every day, Rosie struggles into her car and drives to her job as a legal secretary. Throughout the day, every movement is painful, every motion drains her of energy, and yet she persists because, for her, the alternative is worse.

You would think the poor woman would have been through enough lately, but recently Rosie was on her way to work when a large red truck with three young white boys swerved into the lane behind her.

The truck was blaring some sort of white supremacist music, and the boys had a megaphone and were yelling at her "NIGGER GO HOME!" and "GET OUTTA THE WAY, NIGGER!" and other similar things.

(Now, I don't know about where you live, but the Tampa Bay area is generally very urban and resembles most major cities. I have NEVER heard such terrifying and overt racism here.)

Rosie grabbed her cellphone, called 911, but the truck swerved off and disappeared down a side street. Although she was able to give a good description of the truck and the three boys, she wasn't able to get the license plate number.

The next day, they were back. Rosie heard them before she noticed them. "GO HOME, YA STUPID NIGGER," shouted one of the boys, the megaphone magnifying his insults.

Rosie looked up, to see that they were back. The red truck stayed carefully behind her, as the music blared and the boys shouted. Rosie picked up her cellphone and dialed 911.

Rosie dropped back, deliberately slowing down in the hopes of getting their tag this time. On one side of Rosie, a hispanic woman motioned to her and dropped back to hem the truck in. Unfortunately for them, the boys were trapped behind a typical slow-moving retiree with nowhere to go on a beautiful morning.

On the

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