I was the little girl running to her mom because the boy couldn’t see past the color of her skin

In the summer of 1981, I went for a bike ride. Days like those felt so uncomplicated — strap on your knockoff Nikes, hop on a borrowed bike, and take the scenic route through the streets of Dorchester. Riding along, it felt like another great day in my 11-year-old world. But I could hear someone behind me. I turned back to see who it was.


It was Bobby....