The people in my mother’s family, on the whole, have always been warm-hearted, decent and tolerant. But the 1968 Trenton riots threw two or three into a state of race paranoia. They weren’t in that state all alone, either. My mother’s boss, a middle-aged insurance man who’d never in his life shot anything but the breeze, took to packing a .45 under his suit jacket. In 1969, my grandparents died in a house fire. When my grandfather’s will was read,... Read more