https://soundcloud.com/americanshortfiction/bryan-washington-lockwood Roberto was brown and his people lived beside us, so of course I went over on weekends. They were full Mexican. That made us superior. My father found every opportunity to say it. Not to their faces, he’d just whistle through the window, but Ma took it upon herself to visit most evenings. She still didn’t have many friends on the block—we were too dark for the blancos, too strange for the blacks. But Roberto’s mother dug … [Read more...] about Lockwood