“Me First!”

The last thing I remember hearing was the “click, click, click” of the left turn signal when he hit us.

The back seat of the Karmann Ghia was cramped so I sat sideways, with my legs across the bench seat. The instant we collided – as our car turned left – I clearly saw the yellow and black State of Florida Highway Patrol car and the trooper’s hat. My last words were, “Oh my God!”

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Racial Hatred

I knew I was in danger. As the pitch of the woman’s voice was getting higher and volume louder, a creeping, nervous feeling was moving along my whole being. Without a doubt a physical attack was next.

That bright spring Saturday morning, I was with my African-American friend Rose in the Flatbush Avenue section of Brooklyn to interview John, a young man from Kenya.

Twenty years ago, Flatbush was a Jewish area, but now it is black, with most of the people living there coming from Africa, Haiti, and other areas of the West Indies. That day, hip-hop music, mixed with rap and reggae, boomed from open apartment windows. It was easy to imagine that this was a foreign country.

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