And you call yourself a Christian,' were Hilly's words to me and I thought, God. When did I ever do that?

Shame ain't black, like dirt, like I always thought it was. Shame be the color of a new white uniform your mother ironed all night to pay for, white without a smudge or a speck a work-dirt on it.

It weren’t too loo long before I seen something in me, had changed. A bitter seed was planted inside of me. And I just didn’t feel so, accepting, anymore.

I'm pretty sure I can say that no one in my family ever asked Demetrie what it felt like to be black in Mississippi, working for our white family. It never occurred to us to ask. It was everyday life. It wasn't something people felt compelled to examine. I have wished, for many years, that I'd been old enough and thoughtful enough to ask Demetrie that question. She died when I was sixteen. I've spent years imagining what her answer would be. And that is why I wrote this book.

Bosoms are for bedrooms and breastfeeding.

It's already 95 degrees outside. Mississippi got the most unorganized weather in the nation.

Great books give you a feeling that you miss all day, until you finally get to crawl back inside those pages again.