“Jesus loves the little children …”

I had a dream a few nights ago in which I was confronted by a White man during a public reading of “Myers,” a novel I have set in Lewes, Delaware in 1955, a story written in the context of the personal and systemic racism existing at that time in and around Lewes. The man stood up uninvited, and in a voice intended to be heard by everyone in the bookstore—a voice with a tone designed to flummox me—he asked, “Your book’s nothing but goddamned BLM propaganda, isn’t it?”