ABSTRACT
The love that dares not speak its name has a new name with an old sound: race. Imagine the context in which this article was conceived: the year was 1991, the place New York, the time summer. Jungle Fever was playing in the movie theaters and How I Became Hettie Jones was just out in paperback. This article was hanging out in the corner, waiting to be written. The economy, even then, was getting worse and worse, the R-word of recession spoken louder and louder, and race was the boiling point, the valve on the pressure cooker that kept blowing up and hitting the ceiling (Bensonhurst, Central Park, Atlantic Beach, St. John’s).
