The most diverse place in Rochester—no, I didn’t actually measure anything.
But when you’re immersed in Great Lakes segregation, it’s easy to know when you’re not.
This all started on September 21, 2026.
I was somewhere in the Rochester metro area, partly lost, as the space was new—to me.
Thankfully, I had help.
My first guide came from near Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. We talked briefly of his love for hip hop, agreeing that Kendrick had bested Drake.
The second guide was from Fort Erie, Ontario, just across the Niagara River from Buffalo. The trade war, mercifully, was not affecting the flow of humans.
We devised a game plan, a divide and conquer, if you will.
As I made my way through the maze, I flipped between English and Spanish. Punjabi would have come in handy as well, but that would be a project for a different time.
I stumbled upon a duo with hijabs speaking Arabic. We smiled, introduced ourselves, and discussed a management strategy—in English, of course.
Here, the housing segregation that had decimated the region seemed, if only for a moment, like a mirage. Suburbia bled into the urban, the blend sprinkled with hints of rurality.
Melanin dosing spanned the spectrum, from the no-dose to the low-dose to the intermediate to the frankly dark.
A quick listen could tell you if an exchange was with an African American or an African. The same, I suppose, was true for those differentiating actual Asia from somewhere like Milwaukee.
When hunger called, which it always does, I ordered the Italian option, served by a Ukrainian.
The process took an extra minute, as income levels were no barrier to intellectual conversation.
Because in the most diverse place in Rochester, we all shared a common goal.
Some focused on prolonging life.
Others discussed dying in peace.
But mostly, what I felt was hope.
