And at that point a voice of trombone timbre screamed at me, “Git out of here, you fool! Is you ready to commit treason?” And I tore myself away, hearing the old singer of spirituals moaning, “Go curse your God, boy, and die.” I stopped and questioned her, asked her what was wrong. “I dearly loved my master, son,” she said. “You should have hated him,” I said. “He gave me several sons,” she said, “and because I loved my sons I learned to love their father though I hated him too.” “I too have become acquainted with ambivalence,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”
