In the early 1960s, it was customary to be asked by whites, “When did you first realize that you were a Negro?” The question assumed that there was a defining moment - a traumatic event that rocked you into the realization that you were different from the mainstream. No, not just different - inferior.

Having always known I was African-American, and always liking what I knew, that was never an issue for me. Seattle was arguably more racially tolerant than most of the country. Though blacks composed less than 10 percent of the population, I grew up surrounded by a loving family and a community of solidarity about its black pride.