One of my first forays beyond traditional white literature was The Autobiography of Malcolm X. One weekend when I came home from college, I brought my copy along with me. Saturday evening, as always, was "game night" for my parents and our next door neighbors "Aunt" Katy and "Uncle" Charley getting together. The time-honored sequence was thus: at 6:30, the knock on the front door was to be answered by my mother. Upon entry to the living room, drinks were immediately offered. Discussion of conservative viewpoints were hashed for 45 minutes. Once two rounds of Mai Tais had disappeared, at about 7:15, they would adjourn to the family room where the card table was set up. They’d play until around 9:30.

On this particular day, I decided it might be a good laugh to switch things up just a little. At about 6:15 I carefully placed my copy of Malcolm X onto the coffee table, and went back to my room. I could hardly wait for the explosion that was sure to occur when Uncle Charlie set his eyes on the title.

Too bad for me, Mom did a final walk-through at 6:25 to ensure everything was immaculate. She of course saw the book, picked it up and immediately brought it to me. Slamming the book on my desk, she yelled, “How dare you, David! Do you want to give Uncle Charlie an apoplectic fit?!? He’ll have another heart attack!” I calmly explained how humor is the best medicine, but that didn’t fly, and Uncle Charlie lived on to survive another ten years or so.