If my skin were the same colour as Vinicius Jr.’s and a hundred strangers called me a fucking nigger every day on my way to work, then perhaps I would think that I was indeed living in a racist country. Not a completely racist one, of course (I don’t even know if such a country exists, and I’m referring to one in which all its citizens are racist, or at least a large majority), but there must or could be some racism in a society that accepts normalising racist insults to a young black man and doesn’t dismiss them with absolute contempt, without half-truths or false dilemmas, regardless of whether he plays football for Real Madrid or installs plasterboard panels for Paco Mirandilla and Hermanos SL: there is still no known virtue that needs a justification.
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