The Word: Me, My Dad and Race

It seemed like a pebble. Maybe smaller, it was just a grain of sand. It couldn’t possibly hurt someone. You couldn’t grasp it well enough to fling it. It was just a word, not a stiletto, not a buck knife with serrated edge. It certainly wasn’t a tomahawk, yet another ‘word’.

Oakwood, Ohio. I don’t think we saw black people after five PM. By then, the maids and gardeners had all gone to a bus stop, either the one on Patterson Blvd. or Far Hills Ave.

Every house seemed to have a dog. German shepherds were popular. A few folks would let them out just before 5 PM. Most houses…