raucous ensemble of street noises served to bring her out of her daze.
Gwendolyn and Benson married. “What do you want to waste your time with that yaller nigger for? I wouldn’t marry a yaller nigger.”
“Blacker'n me” . . . “Why don’t you take a hint and stop plastering your face with so much rouge and powder.”
Emma Lou stumbled down Seventh Avenue, not knowing where she was going. She noted that she was at 135th Street. It was easy to tell this particular corner. It was called the campus. All the college boys hung out there when the weather permitted, obstructing the traffic and eyeing the passersby professionally. She turned west on 135th Street. She wanted quiet. Seventh Avenue was too noisy and too alive and too happy. How could the world be happy when she felt like she did? There was no place for her in the world. She was too black, black is a portent of evil, black is a sign of bad luck.
“A yaller gal rides in a limousine
A brown-skin does the same;
A black gal rides in a rickety Ford,
But she gets there, yes, my Lord.”
“Alva Jr’s black mammy.” “Low down common nigger.” “Jes’ crazy ’bout that little yaller brat.”
