“We’ll either buy shoes sitting here,” my father retorted, “or we won’t buy shoes at all.” Whereupon he took me by the hand and walked out of the store. This was the first time I had ever seen my father so angry. I still remember walking down the street beside him as he muttered, “I don’t care how long I have to live with this system, I will never accept it.”
And he never has.
From Alice Walker’s book, In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens, p. 361 (Alice Walker: Award-winning African-American novelist, poet, and short-story-writer. B: 1944 . Still alive.)
It is a bright summer day in 1947. My father, a fat, funny man with beautiful eyes and a subversive wit [-he is tricky and funny-], [he] is trying to decide which of his eight children he will take with him to the country fair…
… I am two and a half years old. I want to go everywhere my daddy goes. I am excited at the prospect of riding in a car. Someone has told me fairs are fun. That there is room in the car for only three of us doesn’t faze me at all. Whirling happily in my [crisp, ironed dress], showing off my [newly-shined] patent-leather shoes and [light purple] socks, tossing my head in a way that makes my ribbons bounce, I stand, hands on hips, before my father. “Take me, Daddy,” I say with assurance; “I’m the prettiest!”
From Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope, p. 267
Here Barack Obama is describing a visit to St. Pius in Chicago:
as I offered my hand and introduced myself… At one point a young girl, seven or eight, came up to me, her parents standing behind her, and asked me for an autograph; she was studying government in school, she said, and would show it to her class.