Microwavewe B. Demenciaaa’s Reviews > The Bluest Eye > Status Update

They beat us differently in the spring. Instead of the dull pain of a winter strap, there were these new green switches that lost their sting long after the whipping was over. There was a nervous meanness in these long twigs that made us long for the steady stroke of a strap or the firm but honest slap of a hairbrush.

They go to land-grant colleges, normal schools, and learn how to do the white man's work with refinement: home economics to prepare his food; teacher education to instruct black children in obedience: music to soothe the weary master and entertain his blunted soul. In short, how to get rid of the funkiness. The dreadful funkiness of passion, the funkiness of nature, the funkiness of the wide range of human emotions.

"I had only one desire: to dismember it. To see of what it was made, to discover the dearness, to find the beauty, the desirability that had escaped me, but apparently only me. (...) all the world had agreed that a blue-eyed, yellow-haired, pink-skinned doll was what every girl child treasured. But(...)The truly horrifying thing was the transference of the same impulses to little white girls. "

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And in the night, when my coughing was dry and tough, feet padded into the room hands repinned the flannel, readjusted the quilt, and rested a moment on my forehead So when I think of autumn, I think of somebody with hands who does not want me to die.