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How Can Mrs. Moreau's Short Story To Be A Racist

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“Ms. Moreau. Your mother is here to pick you up. She has some bad news. Get down there quick. I am so sorry, honey.” This tore through my memory every time I closed my eyes. The sympathy in Mrs. Jones’s expression, the lump rapidly growing in the back of my throat as I sprinted through my middle school’s long hallways, but what wakes me up every night is the look on my mother’s face, the painful swelling of her sobbing eyes. That is what kills me inside, what makes me feel like collapsing and never getting back up again. My mother was never the same. She stopped talking. She stopped working. Then something changed in her attitude. She remarried some rich southern gentleman and we moved to the French Quarter in New Orleans to one of those stereotypical southern homes. I was enrolled in The Quartier School, a prestigious school with old buildings from the 1800s or something like that. The grounds were huge so it would take forever to walk back a fourth from class to class. I hated it. My name is Callie Moreau. I was 14 when my father was pronounced dead. His body was not identifiable but he had his wallet on him, or something like that. My mother recovered from the accident quicker than I had expected. She eloped with a rich man by the name of Jonathan Leroux. Believe it or not, she did not tell me she…show more content…
You got married and you did not bother to tell me? Unbelievable. I am your daughter. I should’ve been there.” I couldn’t tell if the emotion I was experiencing was anger or distress that my own mother did not invite me to her wedding never mind the fact she didn’t bother to inform me she was getting married. That pushed me away from the outside world. I did not “hang out” with anyone. I am pretty sure people are afraid of me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not goth. I just don’t talk to people. I dress the same as everyone else. In fact my favorite outfit is this lace dress from Free People. Most of the time I just wear shorts and a tee shirt,
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