everal years ago, a woman who lives around the corner in Inglewood told me a story common to black people who were among the first to move into once-white cities. She and her husband bought their house in 1967. Every day that summer, she said, her next-door neighbor came out on his porch, glaring. Whenever he saw her, this white man shouted not a greeting, but a question: Why are you here? In a few months, he was gone, along with pretty much every other white family on the block. I grew up in and around Inglewood and have lived...