It was a proud day when I nailed my tin sign, Edmonia Lewis, Artist, above the door to my new studio, ready to begin my sculpting career. While I perched on a stepstool, a tall and narrow white woman entered the Studio Building. She was primly attired and would have looked as if she had just stepped out of a townhouse on Beacon Hill, if she were not out of breath from hauling a large bag of clay. I hopped off the stepstool and grabbed the other side of the bag, as natural a response as if I were helping Genessee pull a sack of rice. “Follow me!” the tall woman puffed.
 

Together, we lurched down the hallway with ou...

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