Same with the others – next to him was a light-skinned black girl, 7, with corkscrews of hair cascading around her shoulders. Next came another boy,...maybe 6, half- white and half-Asian. Then a 3-year-old boy; I couldn’t tell if his father had been Indian, black, or Latin, but I had a feeling if it was the latter, it wasn’t Juan’s doing. Juan himself held a baby girl in his arms, white again, with red hair. And Julie’s pregnant belly was stretching out a t-shirt that read “Not My Husband’s”,. I was living in the 1950s in New York, renting a small apartment that I was sharing with a young lady I had met in college. We both came to NY to pursue our dreams; mine, as a reporter, writing for the Times and hers, composing music and performing. Mary was a talented pianist and although I wasn't a huge fan of Neo-Classical, her compositions both amazed and moved me. I wasn't alone in this opinion, as she had won a national competition, beating out several graduates of posh music schools, a. More

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