Wring: the act of squeezing or twisting something; the art of wrestling, and reckoning, and teasing something out.   What is freedom? An illusion? A glass of water? A table of spilled milk? A statue in the middle of a river and a passport, a birth certificate, the ability to walk outside a home – or have a home at all – without the fear of being discriminated against, oppressed, or shot? Or is it speaking truth on the steps of a national memorial, the “Birthplace of American Government,” in front of a statue of a country’s praised reverend of alleged freedom, under a ceiling of tattered American flags, aside the steps of a building that lives sandwiched between the New York Stock Exchange and The Trump Building on Wall Street, the birth of classism for all?   I don’t know what freedom is. I know I am an American citizen, fifth-generation, fourth-generation-born. I know my...