Old As She Was, She Still Missed

There Is A Problem In America. An Irish Or Polish American Can Write A Story And It's An American Story. When A Black American Writes A Story, It's Called A Black Story. I Take Exception To That. Every Artist Has Articulated To His Own Experience. The Problem Is That Some People Do Not See Blacks As Americans.

Six Months Of Looking For A Job Had Made Me An Expert At Picking Out The People Who, Like Me, Were Hurrying Up To Wait - In Somebody's Outer Anything For A Chance To Make It Through Their Inner Doors To Prove That You Could Type Two Words A Minute, Or Not Drool On Your Blouse While Answering Difficult Questions About Your Middle Initial And Date Of Birth.

Why Do I Write? The Truth, The Unvarnished Truth, Is That I Haven't A Clue.

Time Is A Funny Thing. I Was Always Puzzled With The Way A Single Day Could Stretch Itself Out To The Point Of Eternity In Your Mind, All While Years Melted Down Into The Fraction Of A Second.

She Could Walk Through A Lightning Storm Without Being Touched; Grab A Bolt Of Lightning In The Palm Of Her Hand; Use The Heat Of Lightning To Start The Kindling Going Under Her Medicine Pot. She Turned The Moon Into Salve, The Stars Into Swaddling Cloth, And Healed The Wounds Of Every Creature Walking Up On Two Or Down On Four.