It was 1970, Summer. I was 5 years old. Washington, D.C. I was sitting on the little cement wall in front of the White House. Next to me and also sitting on the wall was a black family, and further down were scores of others sitting on the wall. I was talking to my brother. Suddenly, I heard a loud bellow “Get down from there.”

Startled, I turned to see a big black Washington D.C. cop glowering at me. Surely, he couldn’t be talking to me.

“I said get down from there,” he screamed.

I looked over at the black family, none of whom moved off the wall. I’m sure my face showed my confusion.
“Don’t you hear?” the ignorant pig hissed. “I said get down from there.”
I did.
“And don’t let me catch you back up there again.”
“Stupid white kid,” I heard one of the blacks say.

That is my earliest recollection of what racism in America is all about.