I have had a life, and all of it is divided, but not like the newspapers up North say.
When I saw R. in his army uniform, it killed something in me. Even now, when he lies naked in my bed, why do I sometimes see those brass buttons on him, see them when I don't want to see them? Why do I touch the little knobs on his chest and pull them like pulling the brass off his jacket? When I see the brass on the jacket, why do I hear coins jangling in my father's pocket?
All Daddy counted was acres. All Other counted were the coins. All I count is the slaves, trying to get the number down to ought. Always ending up with one; sometimes it's Mammy and sometimes it's me. There always seems to be one of us who don't want to be free.