I live in an apartment building with diverse residents. Some are white, some are black, some are brown, some are pretty mixtures. And I don't fucking care.

Some are straight, some are gay, some are trans, some are cross-dressers, and I still don't fucking care.

Some are men, some are women, and some aren't sure what they are (but have a clue), and there was a guy who once thought he was a cat, and I still didn't fucking care.

Everyone is allowed to be what they are. Or believe they are, even if it changes. Again, I don't care.

I care about the person, not the armor.

But (there's always a “but”), there was a woman who absolutely hated me. Actually, she hated everyone who wasn't black.

And I hated her. I hated how she ridiculed gay men and women. I hated how she ridiculed cross-dressers and people in our building who had mental problems.

And she KNEW the most damaged and how to destroy them.

During a drunken state, she called the police on me and said I called her the n-word.

The police showed up, banged on my apartment door, and said I had to go outside the building because I was accused of a hate crime. In handcuffs.

Both responding police officers were black. Both knew she was drunk.

I knew better than to argue. (I once worked for a defense attorney.) I asked if one of the officers could take my cell phone so I could call my husband, who was at work. He said no. I asked if he could call my husband. He again said no. Could I call my attorney? No.

I asked if I could put on my shoes. Again, no. A coat? (It was bitterly cold outside.)

Again, no.

I was released when a judge showed up to drop all charges because my accuser was his stepdaughter, and he knew her drunken lies.

I never sued, which I probably should have. And I avoided that woman to the point of terror. What if she did it again?

Turns out she called the police about the n-word when she knew only black police were on duty.

She died a week ago. I just found out.

I'm not sad. But I am terrified her legacy lives on.