You were born on the third night of curfew and in the third month of the Covid lockdown, entering the world as around us an epic history swirled.
When your mother went into labour, police helicopters circled above our apartment building. Our midwife’s assistant was questioned by officers outside the door. And when we looked out of our window shortly after your birth, a convoy of New York squad cars darted over the Brooklyn Bridge towards the towers of Lower Manhattan, lights flashing scarlet and blue.
Every day for a week afterwards, a column of demonstrators made that same journey across the bridge; tens of thousands of them shouting the mantra of the movement, Black Lives Matter, Black Lives Matter.
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