Diary from Mrs. Hayes-Rore

Dear Diary,

Miss Ross over at the 'Y' informed me that she found someone perfect for meeting my needs. She was Helga. I desperately needed someone to help me with ordering my speeches on the train, and well, I didn't have too many options. Not too many people felt the desire to leave Chicago for even a few days. They were often already settled and had adapted to the air of Chicago city life. The windiness assisted by lake Michigan waters blew the breeze of home into their thoughts as well as the coldness of complacency into their dreams. Just the familiarity with both the good and bad of this city was their comfort. I was different. I had to travel, to talk, to mobilize.  The race problem moved me.

Upon meeting Helga, I found her to be a bit peculiar, yet intriguing. She seemed to dwell a lot in time...time into managing her outer appearance with fitted clothes...the upkeep of her hair...the consciousness of her countenance. Yet, I could tell that time, for her, was running short. I sensed that necessity lied deep in her... a longing for something new and immediately gratifying. Well, I thought, maybe I could help her, but after learning more about her story, I knew for sure that she could help me. 

Helga told me that her history was an inconvenient fact. Dead White mother, long gone Black father...she was different. Though she had lighter skin, the load she carried in life was heavy. Her narrative was a stinging stigma, and I needed someone who could help me correct and condense my speech on the race problem, to put it all in order. After studying this young woman, I felt a strange sensation. She embodied something significant about the race problem. All of my speeches usually borrow from other figures...Douglass, Booker T., and so on. Spending just a few minutes with Helga, I understood that the disorder permeating the 22 years of time in her life makes her perfect for ordering my speech about the Problem. She knows it because her own racial identity has been "problematized" by her mixed origins. Perhaps, time holds somber memories in her life in addition to being agency for me. Her taboo experience can innovate my speeches, and shock the discourse on race.

Let time spill out the order of what is to come.