James

by Percival Everett

Lizzie raised her hand. “Because we must let the whites be the ones who name the trouble.” “And why is that?” I asked. February said, “Because they need to know everything before us. Because they need to name everything.”

“What you be doin’ on dis ilan? And why you got blood all ova ya?” “I kilt myself,” the boy said. I looked him over. “You din’t do a good job.”

“Why they doin’ that, Jim?” “Dey’s tryin’ to get yo dead body to float up to the top o’ da water.” “Be funny if some other body float up,” he said. “Hilarious,” I said.

“It’s a horrible world. White people try to tell us that everything will be just fine when we go to heaven. My question is, Will they be there? If so, I might make other arrangements.”

“The thought crossed my mind. I haven’t decided. Oh, sorry, let me translate that for you. I ain’t ’cided, Massa.”