Life at № 42
Earlier that year, a Negro family had moved into our lily-white neighborhood, with a son just my age. Ensconced in their newly built American Dream split level with the immaculate manicured lawn, I never imagined their lives proceeded differently from mine. After all, his mother shopped at the same local Food Fair, his dentist dad religiously mowed the lush front lawn, and Roger their son bedecked in Henley shirts and perma-press pants seemed to fit right in. They certainly didn’t seem excluded from the American dream.