On an unbearably hot August afternoon last summer, I was walking along West Florissant Avenue in Ferguson, Mo., notebook in hand, when I ran into two good friends who were also on the clock, Joel Anderson of BuzzFeed and Jamelle Bouie of Slate. A few nights later, we got dinner with a couple of other black journos from D.C. We’d all known each other for years, and joked about how we rarely get together back home and here we were, eating wings at a gastropub in St. Louis. But this was a strange reunion: We weren’t gathered for a birthday, or happy hour, but because a young black man’s body had lain out for four hours on a sweltering street. — This …
On an unbearably hot August afternoon last summer, I was walking along West Florissant Avenue in Ferguson, Mo., notebook in hand, when I ran into two good friends who were also on the clock, Joel Anderson of BuzzFeed and Jamelle Bouie of Slate. A few nights later, we got dinner with a couple of other black journos from D.C. We’d all known each other for years, and joked about how we rarely get together back home and here we were, eating wings at a gastropub in St. Louis. But this was a strange reunion: We weren’t gathered for a birthday, or happy hour, but because a young black man’s body had lain out for four hours on a sweltering street.
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