My home would appear rather Spartan to most, I suppose. There is little on the walls save a photograph of my mother, some prints of Roman statuary, and a few pictures of the great Ethiopian marathoner Abebe Bikila, who ran the 1960 Olympic marathon barefoot and won in record time. I have a few hooked rugs and a rocker in the Shaker style. My primary indulgence is books, which line every available wall space. My other indulgence, as Jana discerned, is a rather extensive collection of the music produced by Motown in the mid-to late 1960s. I suppose this seems rather contradictory, but let me explain. Who, after all, is immune to the charms of the music of his youth? Simply to put on a record is to recall a time of infinite possibility, a time when life seemed to stretch out before one as a golden road. But that is only part of the reason for my enthusiasm for this music. Motown is, I think, a testament to the possibilities the Negro people hold within. Have you ever been to the Motown museum? I have—once, after a dreary winter teachers conference in Detroit. I suppose they chose Detroit because it was so undesirable, particularly at that time of year; I assume that it was therefore inexpensive. The wide, wide streets, made for cars that no longer line them. Hundreds of walled-up businesses. The general air of fatigue and decay. Idle one afternoon, I went to the museum, which is Berry Gordy’s old home, the place where that glorious music was made. I was astonished. A house, just like all the other houses on that street. But here the basement was soundproofed with cheap tile from a hardware store, the wood floor scuffed from the feet that had shuffled and marked out time there—Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, David Ruffin—making such sounds. Upstairs, an orange Naugahyde sofa with old forty-fives scattered around it. Where Berry Gordy once sat, mailing out records himself, with his wife’s help. Here was a man who made his own way, who asked for no handouts. Instead, he took his circumstances and made an empire. Standing in that small house, looking at all the worn memorabilia, the inexpensively made sequined dresses and jackets, I was proud. Here was a man who’d taken all the doors life had slammed in his face and turned it into the sound of joy. That’s something to be proud of.