“Not like Jimboy,” Sandy countered against himself. “Not like my father, always wanting to go somewhere. I’d get as tired of travelling all the time, as I do of running this elevator up and down day after day... I’m more like Harriett—not wanting to be a servant at the mercies of white people for ever... I want to do something for myself, by myself... Free... I want a house to live in, too, when I’m older—like Tempy’s and Mr. Siles’s... But I wouldn’t want to be like Tempy’s friends—or her husband, dull and colorless, putting all his money away in a white bank, ashamed of colored people.”
