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.

Because ain’t that white people for you, wondering if they are happy enough.

Cause everbody care. Black, white, deep down we all do.

Frying chicken always makes me feel a little better about life.

...and that's when I get to wondering, what would happen if I told her she something good, ever day?

President Kennedy’s assassination, less than two weeks ago, has struck the world dumb. It’s like no one wants to be the first to break the silence. Nothing seems important.

I always order the banned books from a black market dealer in California, figuring if the State of Mississippi banned them, they must be good.