I remember, from my youth while growing up in Harriman, the segregated drinking fountains, theater entrances and seating.
I never understood it, but never bothered to question it. My first black friend shined shoes, as did I, at one of the downtown barber shops.
We remained friends until his death several years ago from complications brought on by Agent Orange.
One of his sons, who is now a grandfather, pleases me when he calls me “Dad.”
I don’t bother trying to explain that to anyone else who might be present.