As I walked into my building the day after my conversation with my elderly neighbor, Ms. Tammy, about my race (read my earlier post titled “Full of Black People” for the back story), she opened her front door and asked me to come inside for a minute. I walked in and she closed the door behind me. With tears in her eyes and choking up, she grabbed my hand and said, “I want you to be my first black friend.”

“We’re already friends Ms. Tammy,” I said, and she embraced me. I was struck by the fact that this woman, probably near 80, has never had a black friend in her life. And I was also delighted that she picked me to be her first.

“I really hope I didn’t offend you yesterday,” she told me, looking me directly in the eyes, and I reassured her that she hadn’t.

She continued to hold my hand, explaining that she wanted me to come for dinner one night so that she could cook me some “good southern food.” I accepted her invitation on the spot and told her we’d figure out an evening soon that would work with both our schedules.

A few days later, Ms. Tammy stopped me on my way into the building again. She had fresh blueberry cobbler for me.