On Saturday of spring break, I got called a “real sista” for the feminist righteousness that I was schooled in: a righteousness that I have since come to second-guess. I shared a cab ride from Wegman’s with a voracious, obviously drunk, alcoholic black woman around my mother’s age. This woman, whose name I didn’t catch throughout our impromptu friendship, and I bonded over our respective family traditions and had the cab stop by Northside to buy some fifths and a tabloid (against some good-natured suggestions from the straight-edge cab driver). On the cover was Rihanna’s face and a headline proclaiming that she had taken back “No Air” crooner Chris Brown (her assailant-cum-boyfriend).