you have!" I was accustomed to hear remarks about my beauty; but
now, for the first time, I became conscious of it and recognized it.
I noticed the ivory whiteness of my skin, the beauty of my mouth, the
size and liquid darkness of my eyes, and how the long, black lashes
that fringed and shaded them produced an effect that was strangely
fascinating even to me. I noticed the softness and glossiness of my
dark hair that fell in waves over my temples, making my forehead
appear whiter than it really was. How long I stood there gazing at
my image I do not know. When I came out and reached the head of the
stairs, I heard the lady who had been with my mother going out. I ran
downstairs and rushed to where my mother was sitting, with a piece
of work in her hands. I buried my head in her lap and blurted out:
"Mother, mother, tell me, am I a nigger?" I could not see her face,
but I knew the piece of work dropped to the floor and I felt her hands
on my head. I looked up into her face and repeated: "Tell me, mother,
am I a nigger?" There were tears in her eyes and I could see that she
was suffering for me. And then it was that I looked at her critically
for the first time. I had thought of her in a childish way only as the
most beautiful woman in the world; now I looked at her searching for
defects. I could see that her skin was almost brown, that her hair
was not so soft as mine, and that she did differ in some way from the
other ladies who came to the house; yet, even so, I could see that she
was very beautiful, more beautiful than any of them. She must have
felt that I was examining her, for she hid her face in my hair and
said with difficulty: "No, my darling, you are not a nigger." She went
on: "You are as good as anybody; if anyone calls you a nigger, don't
notice them." But the more she talked, the less was I reassured, and I
stopped her by asking: "Well, mother, am I white? Are you white?" She
answered tremblingly: "No, I am not white, but you--your father is one
of the greatest men in the country--the best blood of the South is in
you--" This suddenly opened up in my heart a fresh chasm of misgiving
and fear, and I almost fiercely demanded: "Who is my father? Where is
he?" She stroked my hair and said: "I'll tell you about him some day."
I sobbed: "I want to know now." She answered: "No, not now."

Perhaps it had to be done, but I have never forgiven the woman who
did it so cruelly. It may be that she never knew that she g