The Wheeler girls came home from Vassar last week. They were a little behind you, I think. At any rate, they have gone completely African. Changed their names; wear these big old pieces of cloth . . . look just like mammies, to my mind. Their mother, Gertie, has refused to let them out of the house till they go round to Mrs. Calhoun’s and get that hair pressed. So, it’s all right that you and your sisters don’t come home, when I think about how you must look!

That little Schuyler boy, the one who went to Dartmouth and is now at Meharry, has wrecked two cars already, and still his father hasn’t put his foot down. I can’t understand loving somebody so much, you let them make you a fool, but, thank god he’s no child of mine. That’s that boy who kept you out all weekend when I came to visit you in New England. Don’t try to act like I’m mistaken—I may not be a liberated woman, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I can’t see what you saw in him. For all that breeding, and the money spent on him, he acts like a natural-born hoodlum.

What else . . . oh, guess what? Your name is in the alumni magazine of the Callahan School. Seems like you are the only one, out of all those rich children, to go on ahead and be an artist. Don’t be upset with me. I sent the information in myself, with samples of your work. It’s the least I could do, after Mrs. Fitzhugh sponsored you and all. I can’t understand why you hated that place so . . . not going to your graduation, refusing to go on to college. Oh, Sassafrass, weaving is a fine craft, but with the opportunities open to Negroes your age, I just don’t know why you insist on doing everything the hard way.