When I was in college, I became involved with a Radcliffe student named Jennifer Hargraves. She had skin the color of milk and strawberries and long, curly blond hair that always made me think of honey. Her hand on my arm could make me lose my ability to think, a smile rob me of breath. We met through our mutual involvement with a campus organization called the Association of African and Afro-American Students. It was colloquially known as “Afro,” and its primary purpose was the creation of an Afro-American Studies Department at Harvard. Jennifer was one of very few white students and one of very few women active in the group—after 1968, the group basically cast out any white members, but in 1967 things had not yet become so divided. It is incredible to me now that I should have spent my time in such a manner. But I was younger then. What is youth, if not a time to try out other identities to see how they suit one? In any event, we were alone in the office one evening engaged in the endless task of mimeographing flyers to be posted around and passed out on the campus. I turned the handle as she fed the paper in over and over again. After a quiet half hour of this, she suddenly reached out and covered my hand with hers. I looked up, startled. No words came immediately to mind. But she spoke after a few seconds. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you.” Then she leaned in and kissed me quickly. “I’ve been wanting to do that, too.” I was dumbstruck, both by her boldness and by joy. I had entertained similar thoughts but had no notion of acting on them—she seemed as far off and unattainable as one of the planets. I was a child of the South, after all, even though I’d been in Chicago for some time. A white woman didn’t even seem safe to dream about. So I was struck speechless.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” she said after I remained silent for another short time.

I stepped forward and kissed her deeply. “No,” I said.