Kathy

“Only horses were honest, in the end.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Well, they say trauma etches the neurons, and I was traumatized by my appalling behavior.” Typical, Theo thought. He’d been accused, yet she was traumatized.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“I don't rightly know who was my great-grandfather, much less his father. How come you know that about a horse?”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“I still can’t believe it.” Daniel ran a hand through his locs. “Yeah. Right.” She caught the thin wedge of anger in his voice. “Well. I can’t.” “He couldn’t, either. Whereas I—we—all his friends—can believe it, no problem. Who does that? Go help some White girl. In a park. In Northwest DC. At night.” He shook his head and dropped another book into the box. “What else could he have done?” Daniel straightened. “Girl, he should have sped up, kept on running right to a well-lit road, and called some White folk to help her. He just didn’t know how he needed to be if he was going to live in this country.” He sighed. “We tried. Gave him ‘the talk,’ like our parents did when we were little kids.” He shook his head. “He thought he knew about cops. But the cops he knew in England, ninety percent of them weren’t carrying guns. No, make that a hundred percent, the bougie ’hoods where he came up. Art historian, Lord Fauntleroy accent, Yale and Georgetown—none of it was ever going to keep him safe. Like I said, we tried to warn him. But seems like it never sank in.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse