Driving down an inconspicuous street between a church and manufacturing company sits a parking lot of vintage cars you have seen in shows such as HBOs, Boardwalk Empire.
It is almost one in the morning in humid New Orleans, and I am so troubled that sleep is difficult. Earlier in the day, I left the W.E.B. DuBois annual plenary given by the National Association of Black Journalists (at its conference) in profound sadness and rage.
Somehow, somewhere, some way, a needed dialogue on dismantling the deeply troubled relationship between the black community and law enforcement transformed into the Omarosa Manigault-Newman show.