I also know that while I am black I am a human being, and therefore I have the right to go into any public place. White people didn’t know that. Every time I tried to go into a place they stopped me.
A pen is different from the pad, the key, moving your fingers across a screen. I like both. I like to work on sketchbooks, big old white sketch paper. I like how that feels, and I like to put different media on it. Then there’s the phone, smartphone, iPad: It’s the new page, and it’s not the same page anymore.
Black employers are just as negative as the white employers concerning inner-city workers.
The white man’s dollar is his god, and to stop this will be to stop outrages in many localities.
Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.
Slavery is, as an example of what white America has done, a constant reminder of what white America might do.
The White man pays Reverend Martin Luther King so that Martin Luther King can keep the Negro defenseless.
There’s sort of a persistent misperception that talking about race is black folk’s burden. Ultimately, only men can end sexism, and only white people can end racism.
I looked on my stomach and saw Frieda Rebecca, white as flour with the cream that covers new babies, funny little dark squiggles of hair plastered over her head, with big, dark-blue eyes.
There are but two places where all go after death, white and black, rich and poor; those places are Heaven and Hell. Heaven is a place made for those, who are born again, and who love God, and it is a place where they will be happy for ever.