History is fascinating. It is a work in progress. It evolves. Many times, the history we think we know is but a fable. But every so often, long-hidden history, not to be ignored, reaches out from the depths of obscurity, extending a hand from the distant past to tap us on the shoulder.
This is the story of one of those times.
My three brothers and I spent part of our childhood years in Little Rock, Arkansas. It was the 1960s. My memories of that time are clear, like living in a one-story, three-bedroom house on Marshall Street in a mostly Black neighborhood filled with children…