At 64 I have lived longer than most. I grew up outside of Washington, D.C. in the Maryland suburbs. I was 12 when Dr. King was assassinated, the first time when I would have been aware of black people’s anger. I knew black people before, but being around them was not the same as entering their experience. In my elementary school grade level, there were only two black students, two girls. One was a chubby, extroverted, smiling girl, last name of Banks, (even at that age I remembered last names rather than first) who had taken acting classes and could do recitations for us. I was friends with her; she came to my house after school to play at least once, I remember. The other was a skinny, tall girl, shy, who seemed to have a stoop in her posture and a slowness to her walk. Whether it was a physical affliction or a part of her psychological makeup, I do not know. She was quite a different person from Miss Banks, whom I think today is probably still the life of t