Tonight Pierre is playing at Charing Cross station. He’s 62 now, has a wife and two kids, a faded black guitar case to catch the money that he makes. He’s wearing a black hat with all the colours of the rainbow printed on it; a dark grey shirt with a black pendant strung around his neck; a busking license on the left leg of his black pants; an acoustic guitar with a Venetian cutaway, and a rose burst finish.
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When I was twelve, my parents received a letter in the mail. It was from some boarding school looking for exceptional minority students to give scholarships to. I’d done pretty well on my citywide standardized tests, and we always circled both ‘Black’ and ‘Caucasian’ on any form that asked, so on paper I was very much what they were looking for.