Growing up, I didn´t think a lot about race and prejudice. We lived in a small, predominantly white middle and working class town. There were only three African-American families in the immediate area and they were well incorporated into the social fabric of the overall community. Within my own family, any underlying taint of racism was manifested in occasional jokes where black voices were stereotyped in a southern and uneducated drawl (I’se gots to go!) and phrases like “look at those cute pickaninnies” when referring to black children: holdovers, I rationalized, from the prevailing depictions in once popular ‘50s and 60s television shows like “Amos and Andy” and the stereotypical characterization of Jack Benny’s black servant “Rochester”. I considered myself untouched by a racist upbringing and thought my parents above – or at least to the side of – any outright racist inclinations. Until, that is, I brought home a black girlfriend. I admit I might have better planne