gangs even more than going to the
colored corner as a fake colored
person. Because that’s what had
happened to me my entire life.
Colored people would see me
hanging out with blacks, and they’d
confront me, want to fight me. I
saw myself starting a race war in
the holding cell.
“Hey! Why are you hanging out
with the blacks?”
“Because I am black.”
“No, you’re not. You’re
colored.”
“Ah, yes. I know it looks that
way, friend, but let me explain. It’s
a funny story, actually. My father is