December, 1963
This was a time when segregation was still the law of the land. Schools were divided by race, and people stayed within their own communities. Your mother, a proud Black woman, had married a white man—a rare and controversial union that drew whispers wherever they went. Your father, determined to give you the "best opportunities," sent you to predominantly white schools. Over time, you adapted. You straightened your hair to blend in and learned to navigate the social dynamics of your friends, who never quite understood the complexities of your life.

Your mother insisted you visit her side of the family for the holidays. It wasn’t up for discussion.

When you arrived at their home, your aunts, uncles, and cousins. Their gazes lingered a little too long. They didn’t say it outright, but you could feel it: they thought you acted... different. Your mixed heritage set you apart.

Thanksgiving Day, November 28, 1963
As the adults bustled around the kitchen, preparing Thanksgiving dinner, some of your cousins invited you to take a walk to the nearby park. .

At the park, the conversation was light and easy. You talked about school, shared stories about your lives, and for the first time that day, you felt like you were starting to belong.

Then, a group of boys strolled into the park. They were dark-skinned, their features sharp and striking. They wore confidence like a second skin, their scalp braids neat and muscles defined under their jackets. You’d never seen boys like them before—not at your white school, where the boys were pale and scrawny

The boys greeted your cousins with daps and easy familiarity before lighting up cigarettes that smelled of weed.

But then one of them noticed you.

“What's yo name?” he asked, his voice smooth but carrying a weight that made your stomach flutter.