“Yes, well, it’s hard with these inner-city kids. Honestly, they sometimes arrive here with a complex of problems that we are just not equipped to deal with.” He paused, seeming to carefully consider what he was going to say next. “I don’t mind telling you, Jerry, just between you, me, and the fencepost, I’d rather we had more kids like Gerald Davis than like Rashid. Kids who are used to … well … a certain style, certain mores and behaviors. It’d make my job a hell of a lot easier.” He laughed shortly. “I know that you’d agree with me, that’s why I feel comfortable speaking frankly.”

“Yes. Well, as you know, I quite agree. I’ll do what I can, though. If you’d like.”

The road ticked away underneath us.

We were silent as we pulled up to the Yale campus. New Haven is so different from the lightly populated area that surrounds the Chelsea School. Chelsea is nestled in about one hundred acres of rolling green hills. When one stands in the middle of campus, no city buildings are visible at all. New Haven, on the other hand, is small, gritty, and colored with the fatigued air of a decaying industrial city, out of which the campus rears up like a fortress. The college had availed us of the use of its alumni club, and we walked over to it, still without speaking.

We entered the room, which gave off the familiar, warm scent of leather and floor wax, similar to that of some of the older buildings at Chelsea. It was crowded with young Negro men of every size and shape. There were a few young boys and about twenty or thirty alumni from various years, mostly younger men from the 1970s and 1980s. Fox and I moved through the room, shaking hands briefly with the organizers of the event. None of the alumni spoke to us directly, although I saw a few nudge each other and nod a bit in Fox’s direction or mine. I carefully composed my face to reveal nothing.

After a few minutes Fox stepped easily to the lectern, having been introduced by a young man from the Yale Club. As always, he commanded attention.