Yeah, before you get started. Do you have any black friends?
Yup. All smarter than the average bear.
Duane Jones. He went to Middlesex. There were ten of them my year. He was the black one. The smartest one, except maybe for the gay one, Philip Core, who died young of AIDS and was my friend also. Duane weighed maybe 220, had higher SAT scores than mine, 1500 range, and he sought me out because he had heard I was smart and he wanted to play chess. At which I was a total flop. I told him, “I can’t play chess worth a damn” and he said “Right.” Then we played and he was awestruck. “You’re right. You really can’t play chess.” I thought we could still be friends. But he needed that intellectual bond I couldn’t convince him I could provide. We remained friendly but not friends.
Hushel Roberts. He was a star at the Cornell Graduate School of Business. From California. Porsche Targa 914, blond girlfriend, and he was on his way to the top. We buddied up, both with a different agenda of success. He didn’t need anyone’s approval. He thought the rest of our classmates were clerks looking for some sinecure. He was right. I’ve searched for him on the Internet over the years and can’t find him. If he failed, it’s because somebody stopped him. I’d like to know though.
Warren Ashe
Lehman Smith
Not to mention all the women of my youth who helped raise and inspire me to be a good and decent person in spite of the world I was living in. Chief among them Rosa.
Comments
Post a Comment