Sheila Fitzgerald/ShutterstockIn Georgia, when I was little, my beloved father used to draw cartoons for me. I examined it again – long, droopy ears, a long, pointed snout… “No, daddy, it’s a dog!” I protested, laughing. The two little girls walked into the store holding hands, swinging their arms back and forth in gleeful anticipation. But when they asked for ice cream, the store owner glared at them and refused to budge. “He said he would serve me, but not my friend.” My mother was white; her friend was black.