It was close to 2:45 in the morning, and I was walking to a friend’s house in Bed-Stuy [a neighborhood in Brooklyn] when I was unexpectedly punched in the mouth. Hard. As soon as I felt the numbing sensation in my face and the warm blood gushing out of my nose and mouth, I felt it was time to get the hell out.
The nurses who examined me that night said that I should have expected something like this to happen walking alone in Bed-Stuy on a Friday night. Maybe that’s true, but I figured walking would be faster than waiting for the G train. They probably thought a “white” guy walking in the neighborhood should know better. But, the thing is, I only became “white” about 15 years ago when I immigrated to this country with my family at the age of 11. …To continue reading this column I wrote for The New York Press CLICK HERE
December 25, 2008 at 3:18 pm |
Great piece, Sir. Just got to reading this, and found it particularly poignant… Good to know that you’re still hard at writing…well I might add.