. . . pongee-colored girls in white dresses the sun shone through in multiple haloes where they lay alongside streets like sofas reading José Martí behind potted ferns in avenue-knolls paved with Key West grass and long-leaved tobacco shaved and scented like bark strips. . . . . Continue Reading »
The St. Jo River whirling full around the South Bend rich and dark as a negresse en chemise bedaubed with cochineal: mauve, purple tinting the water from the Odilon Redon sun setting. As we drove, the sunset fell over “The Goats” in Peru, Indiana and a crescent moon came up the color of . . . . Continue Reading »
I hadn’t thought of Jerry Carter for at least five years. I probably wouldn’t have thought of him for at least another five if it hadn’t been for the report of the National Research Council’s Committee on the Status of Black Americans. I met Jerry in 1982. I was a reporter for the Chicago . . . . Continue Reading »
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