“Gimme your money, punk!” the sneering, wild-eyed leader exhorted, pushing his pistol into my face. As he did, two muscular accomplices fished through my pockets. These men attacked me on the street in my Fort Greene, Brooklyn neighborhood on the evening of May 25, 2000, as I was walking home from a friend’s house. The brusque contact and overpowering scent of their excessive cologne recalled the bullies of my youth, who routinely stole my money. With one foot anchored in the past and the other in the present, I freaked out and fought back, yelling, “Fuck, no — fuck you!” I held onto my wallet, embroiled in a high-stakes tug-of-war as an unclasped chrome Swatch slid down my arm. “Fucking faggot,” spat the leader as he pistol-whipped me. He yelled, “Let’s move!” at his companions, who ran away. Angry and adrenalized, I chased after them for a full block until…