I was supposed to be an undertaker. My uncle was founder of the Andrew W. Nix Funeral Home, a successful, growing business in a section of Philadelphia where rampant gang activity made morticians thrive. But three things forced me to think about a different career path.

First, I did not like being around dead bodies. As a teenager, I spent summers and some weekends working for my uncle, and I would go into that cold and lifeless morgue . . . and become queasy. And far too often, the bodies were those of young black men and boys who looked like me. That made me queasy too.

Second, as a way to cope with the creepiness of it all, I would often try to lighten the mood with humor. So, not knowing he was within earshot, I nearly caused my uncle to lose complete confidence in me when his business phone rang one afternoon, and I whimsically answered, “Nix Funeral Home, you kill ’em, we chill ’em!” That was not exactly music to the ears of folks calling to make funeral arrangements.