The now-infamous arrest of two black men waiting for a friend in a Philadelphia Starbucks made me think about a recent chilly night in Manhattan when I was happily walking home from a movie through a desolate stretch of SoHo.
While rounding a corner, I saw two sets of suspicious eyes tracking my movements. By the time I had crossed the street and reached the sidewalk, I was aware that two New York City police officers were now walking behind me.
Were they looking for someone, and did I match his description? Were they looking for me because someone had called to say I looked suspicious or threatening?… Seguir leyendo »
If it weren’t for Iowa, my family may never have existed, and this gay, biracial New Yorker might never have been born.
In 1958, when my mother, who was white, and father, who was black, wanted to get married in Nebraska, it was illegal for them to wed. So they decided to go next door to Iowa, a state that was progressive enough to allow interracial marriage. My mom’s brother tried to have the Nebraska state police bar her from leaving the state so she couldn’t marry my dad, which was only the latest legal indignity she had endured. She had been arrested on my parents’ first date, accused of prostitution.… Seguir leyendo »