For long years we of the world gone wild have looked into the face of
death and smiled. Through all our bitter tears we knew how beautiful it
was to die for that which our souls called sufficient. Like all true
beauty this thing of dying was so simple, so matter-of-fact. The boy
clothed in his splendid youth stood before us and laughed in his own
jolly way,--went and was gone. Suddenly the world was full of the
fragrance of sacrifice. We left our digging and burden-bearing; we
turned from our scraping and twisting of things and words; we paused
from our hurrying hither and thither and walking up and down, and asked
in half-whisper: this Death--is this Life? And is its beauty real or
false? And of this heart-questioning I am writing.
* * * * *
My friend, who is pale and positive, said to me yesterday, as the tired
sun was nodding:
"You are too sensitive."
I admit, I am--sensitive. I am artificial. I cringe or am bumptious or
immobile. I am intellectually dishonest, art-blind, and I lack humor.
"Why don't you stop all this?" she retorts triumphantly.
You will not let us.
"There you go, again. You know that I--"
Wait! I answer. Wait!
I arise at seven. The milkman has neglected me. He pays little attention
to colored districts. My white neighbor glares elaborately. I walk
softly, lest I disturb him. The children jeer as I pass to work. The
women in the street car withdraw their skirts or prefer to stand. The
policeman is truculent. The elevator man hates to serve Negroes. My job
is insecure because the white union wants it and does not want me. I try
to lunch, but no place near will serve me. I go forty blocks to
Marshall's, but the Committee of Fourteen closes Marshall's; they say
white women frequent it.
"Do all eating places discriminate?"