Pink vs Black — A Rude Awakening

A racial journey in fits and starts

There’s a picture of my dad holding me in the hospital on the day I was born, his jerry curl dangling in shiny coils above my face. If you look closely, which I’m sure I did, you’ll find a Mercedes Benz with diamond windows nestled in his chest hair. My dad’s beaming down at me through heavy square-framed Cazal’s. My mom isn’t pictured, but…