Curley's Wife Monologue

Useless, pathetic, meaningless. Admittedly, Curley’s wife was right. I hate it. Bashing me on why I shouldn’t bother joining in with that small minded Lennie and that damn George on their ranch. I can’t hold anymore of this reality on my back any longer. Why should I be perceived like this? Because I’m black? Because we’re black? Foolish. It ain’t fair. My hands, my arms and my legs are black; my face is as dark as the California night sky. It’s different from the other white men, possibly more likable, like the morning sunshine.

My skin identifies me. It outshines the most out of everything. It is a great wall that stops be from doing anything. To all appearances, I carry a stench. The stench distances me away from the white fool’s bunkhouses, as my stable buck is entirely afar from theirs. I am a trap inside my place; my own position. I can’t go outside without being called a plain nigga, why do I even bother owning a name? It’s inherited within me.
But she’s right. It makes my painful lips tighter than it already is. Her cynical words throw me back into the current as I try to keep my head up. Why was I so narrow? To think that I was going to give a hand to little rogues ranch. I see men work their hands and legs off just to own a piece of doleful land, yet they still fail to succeed. That’s the reality of everything. I’ve always known it was a ominous view, but I could not bare to join in. Where is this keenness coming from? Is it because of that child, Lennie. Oh how he’s so entirely drawn to this ambition 턖 this dream. He’s way out of his mind. Tending the rabbits? For god’s