I had a black neighbor, Mr. Willie. He lived in the house across the street from me. He was around 70ish years old. I was there for 6 years. He and his family were incredibly kind and hard working. He won the lawn award for the subdivision every year I was there. It was a mixed neighborhood. Mostly white. Some filthy lazy sand niggers. One family of rental assistance niggers. He would express the same frustrations I did with the the nigger family and the Muslims. When I went through a divorce, that next thanksgiving I spent just hanging out alone at my house (my family all lived in different states). He and his kids came over and brought me plates of turkey, stuffing, macaroni, etc. when I say kids, they were my age. Hard to say I ever had a better neighbor and in some ways, a friend. His daughter passed somewhat suddenly from cancer they thought she’d beaten. He waved me over one day when I got home from work and told me. We ended up having a couple beers and me letting him talk about whatever he wanted to talk about. I was somewhat flattered he opened up to me. I’m not sure what he needed. Maybe just to tell someone different about how proud he was that his daughter wasn’t a nigger in the typical sense. He and his family were total outliers. I still don’t trust niggers and am often boiling over with frustration and anger towards them.