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With the dog day heat of June, blood’s boil. Summer is the season of violence. The beating of feverish noontime sun suffocates, the heat of injustice rises like hot air to the surface. We can’t breathe. It’s too fucking hot. “Don’t make me fucking run around here with thirty pounds of goddamn gear in the sun,” McKinney Patrol Supervisor Cpl. Eric Casebolt  threatens. He’s yelling at a group of young men, cuffed, chased by a sweltering Casebolt, after the police responded to “disturbances” at a neighborhood pool. Casebolt then shoved and straddles a young woman, he waved his gun when her friends come to her aid. “I wonder how many of them feared becoming a hashtag,” Ashley Yates shared. If the pool reflects summer’s oasis from suburban stifle, the neighborhood destination for leisure and refreshment, for the teens in McKinney, and their white neighbors, it became contested territory, like buses or bathrooms or other public amenities, the historical fault lines of segregation. What happened this weekend in Texas was aggravating, inexcusable, but it was also gratefully, without casualties. Our impatience with these injustices burns; like a drought, patience runs dry, Police brutality is hardly seasonal—it’s systematic—but as tensions rise with temperature, will the coming months be remembered by names we refuse to forget, the names of names of black youth smothered by cops in heat?

Fuck That Noise indulges skepticism. It doesn’t buy into your bullshit, but it doesn’t write it off either. Instead it’s leaves you with more questions than answers.