Singing comes across the railroad tracks, then behind the venetian blinds. Dozens of voices. “We shall over come…” Peer between the slats. They are marching. Black women, their men, white school teachers, idealistic youth with wispy beards. The unexpected parade, like the clip clop of two horsemen who ride down the street in racing season, bewilders the waking mind. A woman looks at the window and smiles. She is seeing the portrait of Jesus we have placed in the window for protection in this barrio on the edge of the ghetto. Behind them, a van with loud-speakers creeps along, narrating a history of Martin Luther King. Behind the van, four black men idle on large black motorcycles, protecting the procession from low riders with loud mufflers who like to buzz the block, impressing donut girls who fuck them on Saturday night.
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