February 26, 2017 at Chicago in Chicago.


“And So it was
A little black girl yearns for the blue eyes of a little white girl, and the horror at the heart of her yearning is exceeded only by the evil of fulfillment
We saw her sometimes. Frieda and I–after the baby came too soon and died. After the gossip and the slow wagging of heads. She was so sad to see grown people looked away; children, those who were not frightened by her, laughed outright
The damage done was total. She spent her days, her tendril, sap green days, walking up and down, up and down, her head jerking to the beat of a drummer so distant only she could hear. Elbows bent, hands on shoulders, she flailed her arms like a bird in an eternal, grotesquely futile effort to fly. Beating the air, a winged but grounded bird, intent on the blue void it could not reach–could not even see– but which filled the valleys of the mind
We tried to see her without looking at her, and never, never went near. Not because she was absurd, or repulsive, or because we were frightened, but because we had failed her. Our flowers never grew. I was convinced that Frieda was right, that I had planted them too deeply. How could I have been so sloven? So we avoided Pecola Breedlove–forever “

FURIE Readers Literary SALON

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