The first time I met Cornel West was at Disney World. He wasn’t hard to spot.

I didn’t want to bother him — I was with my in-laws, he was with a young member of his family — but just a few weeks after the rough-and-tumble primary season in which both of us dove headfirst into the Sanders campaign, I couldn’t get over the irony of two Berniebros passing in the night. And at Epcot of all places.

Despite the 90 degree weather, he was clad as always in the same black suit, the same white shirt. Except now, instead of that reverential band of cloth he wears around his collar, his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the collar spread out like a disco-era leisure suit. It was the only alteration of the iconic Brother West uniform that he would permit under the hot Orlando sun.