How could my mother not see the inequity?

I attended my first funeral at age eighteen. He was a friend, a gifted musician, and a troubled teen caught up in the juvenile delinquent system of Flathead County in northwestern Montana. The funeral took place in February, 1990, the same week an Arctic storm plunged temperatures to brutal lows. Leafless tree branches reached out like fingers desperate for warmth. I stood in a huddle with my friends, probably not wearing a coat, mourning a friendship that took decades to process the real...