There was one emotional outlet my people always had when they had the blues. That was singing.

If I wanted pity, I got it because I'm illegitimate. And when I didn't want it I was mean and nasty.

My whole family could sing. My family harmonized without any instruments to accompany them.

I have reason to be shy. I've been hurt plenty.

My father came back one day and forced my mother to submit to him. He raped her, holding a knife.

We never had a bathtub. Mom would bathe me in the wooden or tin washtub in the kitchen, or in a big lard can.

After years in white theaters I dreaded working in colored houses. The noise, the stomping, whistling, and cheering that hadn't annoyed me when I was young was now something I dreaded.