Very beautiful book by the writer of The Color Purple; on black people coping life in USA after WWII. But also on life in general, violence, social violence, relationship father and son and much more....
“Teach them to hate!” he shouted up and down the Harlem streets, his eyes glazed with his new religion. “Teach them to hate, if you wants them to survive!”
“Love thy neighbor,” they whispered to him. “Do good to them that despitefully use you.”
“We have loved them,” Grange whispered back, his voice rising to compete with the melancholy notes of the church’s organ. “We loves ’em now. And by God it killing us! It already done killed you.”
He prayed for help, for a caring President, for a listening Jesus. He prayed for a decent job in Mem’s arms. But like all prayers sent up from there, it turned into another mouth to feed, another body to enslave to pay his debts. He felt himself destined to become no more than overseer, on the white man’s plantation, of his own children.
“That girl have to buy books that cost as much as a many of us pays for dresses!” Josie would smile proudly
And dancing taught Ruth she had a body. And she could see that her grandfather had one too and she could respect what he was able to do with it.
In the prison with Brownfield were murderers, pimps, car thieves, drunkards and innocents, and their sentences bore no set relation to their crimes. A young boy of seventeen was in for stealing hubcaps and his sentence was five years. A hatchet murderer whom Brownfield came to know quite well, who had dispatched not only his wife but his wife’s mother and aunt, was paroled after three years.
I figured he could blame a good part of his life on me; I didn’t offer him no directions and, he thought, no love. But when he became a man himself, with his own opportunity to righten the wrong I done him by being good to his own children, he had a chance to become a real man, a daddy in his own right. That was the time he should of just forgot about what I done to him—and to his ma.