Connecticut Commentary: Red Notes from a Blue State

Growing up as a boy in Windsor Locks in the early fifties, you could not help brushing up against blacks at close quarters.  My very first boss at age thirteen was a Jamaican whose voice was, like a cello, deep and musical. It threw off chords that made you fall in love with your own native tongue. Mr. Black – his real name -- was a straw boss in the tobacco fields of Windsor Locks and Suffield. And when you wanted to catch his attention, you had best not omit the Mr. The man was cloaked in immense dignity. He stuttered when excited, a defect nearly all the toughs in the tobacco fields were careful NOT to notice.