One summer day my father sent me to buy wire for our farm. At 16, I liked (76) better than driving our truck, (77) this time I was not happy. My father had told me I’d have to ask for credit at the store. Sixteen is a (78) age, when a young man wants respect, not charity. It was 1976, and the ugly (79) of racial discrimination was (80) a fact of life. I’d seen my friends ask for credit and then stand, head down, while the store owner (81) whether they were "good for it." I knew black youths just like me who were (82) like thieves by the store clerk each time they went into a grocery. My family was (83) . We paid our debts. But before harvest, cash was short. Would the store owner (84) us. At Davis’s store, Buck Davis stood behind the cash desk, talking to a farmer. I nodded (85) I passed him on my way to the hardware shelves. When I brought my purchases to the cash desk, I said carefully, "I need to put this on credit.\