Lemonada.

On June 6, 1968, I saw my stepdad, who I call daddy Tom, cry uncontrollably for the

first time.

Actually, I think, really, for the only time.

It was in the morning, and he was standing up in the bedroom, hugging my mother, and

I remember just staring at them.

It was pretty terrifying.

They had just gotten the news that Robert Kennedy had been assassinated the night before.

My parents were huge believers in Bobby Kennedy's ideology, and they were completely devastated

by his loss.

I was, I guess, about seven, so I didn't understand all of the political stuff.

Of course, you know, the war and civil rights and social justice.

I just saw my dad crying, but I really clocked it.

In my family, politics was gigantically emotional.

My other father, my biological father, William, whom I call daddy Will, he had this huge framed

black and white photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. above the fireplace.

And just to put this in context, you understand, he was an avid art collector, okay?

He had some significant paintings, but in that prime spot of the house, there was just

this huge photo of Martin Luther King.

That was the art.

That is how meaningful Martin Luther King Jr. was to him.

And also, my daddy Will was on Nixon's enemies list.

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