How I Lost My Fear of Being White in Compton

It was a dry, yellow day in Los Angeles when I clomped my way up Hollywood Boulevard to tour one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural treats, the Hollyhock House. The couple that joined me was from Pittsburgh and the husband was a Lloyd Wright aficionado. I felt very artsy, cultured, and even privileged to be there. We gossiped about the late owner of the house and the architect himself as though we had visited the early decades of the 20th Century on some other vacation. I was surprised that some rooms were tarped-off, concealing wreckage from water damage. Others...

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