We turned off the highway, deep in Long Island, and drove for another 30 minutes until we got into the kind of place that is no longer called a neighborhood. I mean, a neighborhood is where you have some visual relationship with your neighbor. Here, there were just trees, walled gates, and long, winding roads. The mood on the bus turned a little ominous-- maybe this was how the slaves had felt when they were going to their respective plantations. But we had a choice; they didn't. We were making $15 an hour; they weren't.

As we came closer to our destination, a strange, almost familiar, sickly, vaporous odor, oozed through the whole bus. Winding up that driveway, each of us was hoping that our nightmares would not come true, but the closer we got to that house, the more the gnawing instincts of black folk came through--the curiosity and the questions--like why would a wealthy white couple request the services of fourteen black men to cater their party?

My voices were saying, It's not going to be that way, please let me fool myself into believing that it's changed. Just for this evening. These are my prayers when I'm around a group of white people: Please let me not be embarrassed or humiliated, don't let them say anything that I'll be forced to react to, please.

As we reached the house, I could see that it was located on a peninsula. Yes, they had their own private cliff. Of course, if you have a mansion, where else would you hold your party on your large, lavish grounds, but in a marquee--a tent for 200 of your nearest and dearest.