I am an isolationist.

Whenever I write for hotel reservations, I always enclose a set of rules I have made for the hotels.

Twenty-five years is a long time for a girl to live out of a trunk, and after looking over a few houses, I fell in love with one in Southwest Los Angeles.

The greatest acts in colored show business had long made Harlem their home and favorite stamping ground.

I was born out of wedlock. Nobody brought me up.

We show girls were forced to live in whorehouses in each town, no other accommodations being available.

I am an isolationist.