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 gave me a sword-thrust that day in school which was years in healing.

II

Since I have grown older I have often gone back and tried to analyze the change that came into my life after that fateful day in school.  There did come a radical change, and, young as I was, I felt fully conscious of it, though I did not fully comprehend it.  Like my first spanking, it is one of the few incidents in my life that I can remember clearly.  In the life of everyone there is a limited number of unhappy experiences which are not written upon the memory, but stamped there with a die; and in long years after, they can be called up in detail, and every emotion that was stirred by them can be lived through anew; these are the tragedies of life.  We may grow to include some of them among the trivial incidents of childhood—­a broken toy, a promise made to us which was not kept, a harsh, heart-piercing word—­but these, too, as well as the bitter experiences and disappointments of mature years, are the tragedies of life.

And so I have often lived through that hour, that day, that week, in which was wrought the miracle of my transition from one world into another; for I did indeed pass into another world.  From that time I looked out through other eyes, my thoughts were colored, my words dictated, my actions limited by one dominating, all-pervading idea which constantly increased in force and weight until I finally realized in it a great, tangible fact.

And this is the dwarfing, warping, distorting influence which operates upon each and every colored man in the United States.  He is forced to take his outlook on all things, not from the viewpoint of a citizen, or a man, or even a human being, but from the viewpoint of a colored man.  It is wonderful to me that the race has progressed so broadly as it has, since most of its thought and all of its activity must run through the narrow neck of this one funnel.