My Encounter with Baratunde Thurston

Baratunde Thurston
(photo from the Washington Post)

Earlier this evening, I attended a reading at Freerange, a New York venue for writers to read from work that has typically already been published. This is my second visit to the monthly event. Some work appeals to me; some of it doesn't. That's okay, as I believe experiencing authors' voices (literally and figuratively) offers enriching value that one can't get sitting on the sofa.

What made tonight a little different for me was that I won a Freerange raffle prize: a copy of Baratunde Thurston's new book How to Be Black. (I thought it was ironic, given that Don Cornelius, whose show Soul Train offered a window into popular African-American culture, died today.) The author read from his work, so I got a preview of what I'd just won. Later, I was encouraged to have the book autographed. That action was out of character for me, as I don't like author signings. However, since Thurston's autograph had some legitimate personal context, I walked up to him and he signed the book.

I didn't understand why he was wearing orange sneakers and an orange scarf on an unseasonably warm night, but it didn't matter. Then again, he didn't question why I wore a black shirt, black pants, black socks, and black shoes. After all, we were in New York's Lower East Side.

Later, I read today's Washington Post story on DC-born Thurston, conveniently dovetailed with the release of his book.

Quite possibly the most unusual observation of the Freerange event was watching a woman write notes by hand and then use her phone to tweet a report of the event for her Twitter following. Think of it as instant journalism: type 140-characters, add interest, stir lightly.