I did not have a book or newspaper to read and was, I admit, afraid of taking a walk. It was a fear I encountered every week on my trip to the Bronx, even though the tutoring sessions were early on Saturday morning and even though, in the course of six years, nothing untoward, nothing of any significance, at least, had ever happened to me there. Still, I was a well-off white man in a poor black neighborhood, my social standing stamped on my car, clothes, face, and posture as clearly as any mark of poverty, and I felt disliked, guilty, and vulnerable. Something like that feeling had attached
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