They can prosecute a woman for a word. They can invent a misdemeanor out of a playground argument, stretch “disorderly conduct” until it covers a slur, put her in front of a jury, and still act as if the Bill of Rights is a suggestion that applies only to people they like. 
Shiloh Hendrix used an ugly word toward a child who went into her bag and then used it again toward the man filming her. That is speech. Ugly, low, recorded speech. In a country that used to understand the First Amendment, the remedy was social contempt, not a prosecutor hunting for a statute that could be bent around a syllable. 
They bent over backwards anyway. They needed a crime. They found a catch-all. They convicted her on the adult, not the child, and still congratulated themselves for striking a blow against evil. 
She did not kill anyone. She did not touch anyone. She said a forbidden word to a protected class and the machinery of the state lurched into motion like she had planted a bomb.

Then look at Lindsay Clancy. Three children. Cora, five. Dawson, three. Callan, eight months. Exercise bands around their necks. 
Father comes home to a quiet house and a 911 call that should end every conversation about “nuance.” 
The defense is that a voice told her to do it. The commentariat’s job, apparently, is to make sure you remember her diagnosis before you remember their names. 

A hung jury is treated as an insult to women everywhere. The same people who needed Hendrix in a courtroom for vocabulary are prepared to accept a doctor’s note for filicide. Kill your own beautiful children and the culture reaches for the DSM. 

Call a Black child who steals from you a name, and the SAME PEOPLE contort themselves to find a crime to charge you with, to make your life hell, to throw you in jail.

Take it where it actually goes. George Floyd is already on the sidewalk, already full of fentanyl, already the most politically useful dying man in a generation. Lindsay Clancy appears with her exercise band, wraps it around his neck, and pulls hard. 

In a state of “psychosis” of course. 

 Watch how fast the vocabulary changes. Suddenly there is no postpartum anything. Suddenly the voice in her head is white supremacy wearing a lab coat. 

Suddenly the band is a noose with extra elasticity. 

The same outlets that now Clancy as a cautionary tale about women’s mental health would discover, in about eleven minutes, that she was a symbol of racial terror. The psychosis would be a pretext. 

The children she actually killed would still be a complicated medical story. Floyd, a career criminal dying of a drug that does not photograph well, would be a martyr again. That is the hierarchy: a word is a crisis, three toddlers are a symposium, and a man with a rap sheet and fentanyl in his blood is a sacrament.

They have more feeling for the sacrament than for the children. That is not compassion. That is branding. A dead toddler does not give you a summer of murals and Fortune 500 statements. 
A forbidden word does. 
A cop who restrained a man who was on his way downstairs already, gives you a conviction, a city, nay a country, on fire, and a decade of liturgy. 

A mother who strangles her own babies gives you think pieces about the healthcare system. The moral compass did not drift a few degrees. We pointed largely to the North star, it wasn’t perfect but we corrected when the ship was off course. Leftists flipped the polarity with both hands and aimed the needle towards Hell.