I grew up across the street from a miniaturized rendition of a ghetto, scaled to fit a medium-sized Midwestern town.  It amounted to an oversized block of single-story apartments, barracks-like buildings scattered at odd angles, built to house workers during World War Two.  I am not sure how or when it came to be occupied almost exclusively by black people, but it was. I saw the inside of one of the tiny apartments only once.  A schoolmate invited me inside his family's "home" — a home that clearly humiliated him.  It was a sad place, even from a child's naïve perspective.  The cinderblock walls were painted the same institutional pink inside and out.  The kitchen sink was like a laundry sink, a galvanized sheet-metal tub — the kind of sink you might find in a normal house's basement.  There were three diminutive rooms: a bathroom with exposed water pipes, a dark bedroom,...(Read Full Article)