Passage: Chapter 4, pg. 70- 71
She was black as could be, twisted like driftwood from being out in the weather, her face a map of all the storms and journeys she’d been through. Her right arm was raised as if she was pointing the way, except her fingers were closed in a fist. It gave her a serious look, like she could straighten you out if necessary.
I felt she knew what a lying, murdering, hating person I really was. How I hated T. Ray, and the girls at school, but mostly my self for taking away my mother.
I wanted to cry, but then, in the next instant, I wanted to laugh, because the statue also made me feel like Lily the Smiled-Upon, like there was goodness and beauty in me too. Like I really had all that fine potential Mrs. Henry said I did.
Standing there, I loved myself and I hated myself. That's what the black Mary did to me, made me feel my glory and my shame at the same time.
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