It seems a lifetime ago, when I lived in the South. A little girl in Kinston, North Carolina, I was at the local grocery store when one of the white men who ran it saw me place something in my pocket, rushed over and snatched my hand, expecting to find an item I'd sought to steal. Instead he found a tissue. Being raised in a Christian home and spending much time with a grandmother, Granma Nan, who'd been called to the ministry, I knew I wasn't a criminal. But from that day forward, I knew I would have to figure out how to navigate a world in which many people would think me likely to be oneāand, as this store clerk did before I was 5 years old, treat me first as a criminal and ask questions later.
Jan 1, 2016 2:30 AM CST