I write literature. "We cannot publish stories of colored folks of that
type." It's the only type I know.
This is my life. It makes me idiotic. It gives me artificial problems. I
hesitate, I rush, I waver. In fine,--I am sensitive!
My pale friend looks at me with disbelief and curling tongue.
"Do you mean to sit there and tell me that this is what happens to you
each day?"
Certainly not, I answer low.
"Then you only fear it will happen?"