__________________________________________ At the conference on slavery, which was outstanding in its academic rigor-- so much that I told a woman who worked there, one of the organizers, that I worried about the audience, the auditorium almost full of listeners from Harlem who sat silent and thirsty for words. But Sylviane said they had been coming there for years and were used to such things. They, standing guard of history, sitting solid, eyes ahead, unshifting, lips thin, jaws square, skin black, skin dark brown, skin light brown, tan, ivory, and white in spots, determined to know, to discover, to remember, to witness the bloody lash, the rope, the rape, the dead bodies, the blackness they know must be there, because if it didn’t happen, they can’t be sitting where they are and Harlem doesn’t exist. I was thinking about all this (my humanity) in the cold, cold street, when a boy about 18 spoke out after me in a whisper, eyes blank, arms to his sides, standing at attention, robotic: “Excuse me sir, I don’t mean to bother you but I’m on the street and I will be for a long time and I wonder if you can give me a quarter.” He was beautiful. Tall. Thin. Face-fresh. Soft. Too shy for the street corner. I gave him a dollar. I shook his hand. He smiled, dropped his guard, and thanked me hard. I walked away. I saw him a few minutes later, laughing, moving fast. Said he had enough for coffee but wanted to get more for a donut too. I hit my heart with my fist and gave him two thumbs up in happy salute. He laughed. Now I wish I had done the obvious thing and said {Come on, guy. I’m on my way to Dunkin’ right now. I’ll buy you a coffee and donut, and you tell me why you’re on the street, and why you will be still.} But instead, I turned and walked away again.