Bob Marley was driving through rural Alabama when he saw something that pained his soul. A diner with a handwritten sign in the window: No Jamaicans, no Blacks, Whites only. His bandmates begged him to keep driving. But Bob had other plans.

Bob walked slowly to the counter, his guitar still slung over his shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost musical.

“I can read very well, brother,” Bob said in his characteristic Jamaican accent. “But I wonder if you can read anything else.”

—What is that supposed to mean?

Bob smiled gently.

—Have you ever read about love? About unity? About the idea that all people come from the same source?

Earl’s face turned red.

“I don’t care about your hippie nonsense. This is my property, and I have the right to refuse service to anyone. Now get out of here before I call the sheriff.”

Instead of leaving, Bob did something that surprised everyone in the cafeteria. He sat down at the counter.

“You know,” Bob said conversationally, as if they were old friends, “I’ve traveled all over the world. I’ve played music in London, New York, Los Angeles, and just about everywhere I go. I know people who think the color of someone’s skin tells them something important about what’s in their heart.”

Earl crossed his arms.

—What’s your point?

“My point,” Bob said, sliding his guitar into his lap, “is that I’ve never met anyone who actually believed that once they heard the music.”

Bob began tuning his guitar, his fingers finding the familiar strings with practiced ease. The sound of him tuning those perfect, resonant notes filled the quiet cafe.

“What are you doing?” Earl demanded.

“I’m going to play you a song,” Bob said simply. “And then you’re going to tell me if you still think there’s something wrong with me because of where I come from.”