LETTER FROM Atlanta

I’m brandishing a cardboard Starbucks cup with “Karen” scrawled in big black letters on the side. This is a sign that I’ve undergone the country’s age-old rite of passage, a ritual observed by countless Americans every morning. It gives me an opportunity to exchange a glance or two with my fellow cup-bearers, maybe mutter something about politics: “This administration, am I right?”

I’m busy infiltrating their ranks, slipping under the radar as I park