"A little before 7 the other night, the prosecutor Marilyn Mosby stopped by my house in Baltimore for dinner. She was coming straight from work in one of her customary gray pantsuits, and because I was already nursing a beer, she took off her jacket with a sigh and poured herself a glass of white wine from the box in the refrigerator.
"Lordie Lord, It sho is tough, being a Big City Prosecutor all the day long."
The pressures of the day found themselves as little beads of sweat along her upper lip, like dew on a lipsticked leaf.
"Ize jess don'ts unnerstand whats they all wants from me. Peoples askin' me questions, like how the hells do I know? Can't I just tells them who goes to jail and thens they just do it?"
Her hand shook lightly, like a leaf in a tree blown by a very soft breeze.
"I sho is tired, gettin' criticalized and all by the White People. They just mad that a Sista has some power, you feel me? I went to SCHOOL, mothefuckas, I is a lawyer."
Her eyes shined like late-afternoon sun through the branches of a tree. With leaves. In the sun.
"Evrybody thinks I only gots this job 'cause I is black. It makes me hurt a little, you know? I sees hows the white folk in the hallways they looks at me. They looks at me like Ize don't belong. Like I ain't good enough for their Law-Type Stuff. One of my Law Perfessers back in school told me that, no matter what I did, white people woulds nevers think its enough, because I is black. And ain't dat the truth...."
Laslo would know where to go from here.
No comments:
Post a Comment