“You came alone?” Juan Francisco, my driver, asked suspiciously as the Suburban curved through the sleepy streets of the Dominican Republic.

It’s the kind of question that used to bother me, not because of its judgmental tone, but because it pokes at that quiet expectation that, as a Black man of a certain age, you shouldn’t be this one specific thing: alone. The implication being that you’re on this trip for a bit of mischief and plenty of shirtless selfies, or worse, something is wrong with you. And if the ride to the airport is long enough, we might just discover what that “something” is.

As I caught Juan Francisco’s curious gaze in the rearview mirror, I said, “Not exactly,” smiling as the palm trees flickered past the window. I knew something that only a privileged few discover afte

See Full Page