“What is this whole thing?” I asked. “Singing?” He looked around. “The new thing is white folks painting themselves and making fun of us to entertain each other.” “They sing our songs?” I asked. “Some. They also write songs that they think we might want to sing. That’s strange, but not the worst.” “What, then, is the worst?” “I’d better start putting this on you,” he said, showing me the tin of polish. I sat still and looked straight ahead. “Ready?”
