Free Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson

“Colored folks from around here know better than to do that.”
    She was finally excused, and when she got home that day, she told her father what happened. He had waited twenty years for this moment.
    â€œWhat did he say? And then what did you say? And what did he say after that?”
    He could barely contain himself. The plan was working.
    He told her over and over that she must live up to the name she was given. “They don’t have the corner on humanity,” he told her. “They don’t have the corner on femininity. They don’t have the corner on everything it means to be a whole, admirable, noble, honorable female member of the species. They haven’t cornered that.”
    Years later, Miss had a chance to see life in another part of America. In college, she was invited to spend the summer with the family of a fellow student on Long Island in New York. The family welcomed her and got a kick out of her name and how her family had stuck it to those bigots down South.
    She was attentive to the grandmother in the family, so the grandmother grew especially fond of her. Miss had a graceful, easygoing manner, and was respectful toward the elders in the long tradition of black southern life. When the summer came to a close, and it was time to return to school, the grandmother was despondent at her leaving, so attached had she grown to her.
    â€œI wish you would stay,” the matriarch said, looking forlorn and hoping to convince her still.
    Miss reminded her that she would need to be leaving.
    â€œThere was a time,” the matriarch said, in warning and regret, “when I could have made you stay.” She adjusted herself, her voice trailing off at her impotence….
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    â€”—
    Each of us is in a container of some kind. The label signals to the world what is presumed to be inside and what is to be done with it. The label tells you which shelf your container supposedly belongs on. In a caste system, the label is frequently out of sync with the contents, mistakenly put on the wrong shelf and this hurts people and institutions in ways we may not always know.
    Back before Amazon and iPhones, I was a national correspondent at The New York Times, based in Chicago. I had decided to do a lighthearted piece about Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, a prime stretch of Michigan Avenue that had always been the city’s showcase, but now some big names from New York and elsewhere were about to take up residence. I figured New York retailers would be delighted to talk. As I planned the story, I reached out to them for interviews. Everyone I called was thrilled to describe their foray into Chicago and to sit down with the Times .
    The interviews went as expected until the last one. I had arrived a few minutes early to make sure we could start on time, given the deadline I was facing.
    The boutique was empty at this quiet hour of the late afternoon. The manager’s assistant told me the manager would be arriving soon from another appointment. I told her I didn’t mind the wait. I was happy to get another big name in the piece. She went to a back corner as I stood alone in a wide-open showroom. A man in a business suit and overcoat walked in, harried and breathless. From the far corner she nodded that this was him, so I went up to introduce myself and get started. He was out of breath, had been rushing, coat still on, checking his watch.
    â€œOh, I can’t talk with you now,” he said, brushing past me. “I’m very, very busy. I’m running late for an appointment.”
    I was confused at first. Might he have made another appointment for the exact same time? Why would he schedule two appointments at once? There was no one else in the boutique but the two of us and his assistant in back.
    â€œI think I’m your appointment,” I said.
    â€œNo, this is a very important appointment with The New York Times, ” he said, pulling off his coat. “I