A letter to Mrs. Kellor from a black prostitute

Police me? Institutionalize me? Narrow my educational opportunities to what you think is right? I know that your pedestal allows you to sit high and mighty above my troubles and spit contempt and judgement my way but how, how Mrs. Kellor, are you so damned out of touch? Do you think that I want all the men and the incessant groping and prodding of their grimy hands? If only you knew. If only you knew how I battle through the sweat-drenched night terrors and how I scald my skin with a cocktail of boiling water and brine soap hoping to feel clean again. I am not lazy, I am not a sex-crazed fiend. What I do is the hardest job I will ever do. Waking up day after wretched day, that takes persistence, determination, and grit. Oh! Give me a plow, give me hours of back-breaking scrubbing and toil, give me anything but this life! I've searched high and low but job offerings seem to vanish as soon as a "woman of my background" comes to call. Everywhere I turn, doors slam in my face with a jarring crack. The alley is the only place through which I can tread and tread through it I must. I need the roof over my head, the food in my belly, and the shoes on my feet. I have family depending on me, I cannot let them down. Each morning as the sun rises, I wipe away the dried salt from my cheeks and grit my teeth to face the day. If only you knew, Mrs. Kellor. If only you knew.