I'd stand on a street corner in the heavy Kansas humidity, surrounded by a few dozen relatives, with my tiny fists clutching a sign that I couldn't read yet: "Gays are worthy of death."
Eu devia ficar numa esquina naquele clima húmido do Kansas cercada de uma dúzia de parentes, com as minhas mãozinhas a segurar num cartaz que eu ainda nem sabia ler: "Os 'gays' merecem morrer".