With other people, Hilly hands out lies like the Presbyterians hand out guilt, but it's our own silent agreement, this strict honesty, perhaps the one thing that has kept us friends

I wash my hands, wonder how an awful day could turn even worse. It seems like at some point you'd just run out of awful.

I come home that morning, after I been fired, and stood outside my house with my new work shoes on. The shoes my mama paid a month's worth a light bill for. I guess that's when I understood what shame was and the color of it too. 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.

Everyone knows how we white people feel, the glorified Mammy figure who dedicates her whole life to a white family. Margaret Mitchell covered that. But no one ever asked Mammy how she felt about it.

I may not remember my name or what country I live in, but you and that pie is something I will never forget.

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

She's wearing a tight red sweater and a red skirt and enough makeup to scare a hooker.