Archive: Story Experiences

"As I'd watched Momma put ruffles on the hem and cute little tucks around the waist, I knew that once I put it on, I'd look like a movie star. (It was silk, and that made up for the awful color.) I was going to look like one of the sweet little white girls who were everybody's dream of what was right with the world."..."I tried to hold, to squeeze it back, to keep it from speeding, but when I reached the church porch, I knew I'd have to let it go, or it would probably run right back up to my head and my poor head would burst like a dropped watermelon, and all the brains and spit and tongue and eyes would roll all over the place. So, I ran down into the yard and let it go. I ran, peeing and crying, not toward the toilet out back but to our house. I'd get a whipping for it, to be sure, and the nasty children would have something new to tease me about. I laughed anyway, partially for the sweet release; still, the greater joy came not only from being liberated from the silly church but from the knowledge that I wouldn't die from a busted head"..."If growing up is painful for Southern Black girls, being aware of her displacement is the rust on the razor that threatens the throat. It is an unnecessary insult."