" it’s a white man’s farm, and we are only the hands that work here, the feet that tread the grapes in the big vat, or churn up dust on the wide yard around the longhouse, we are the backs that bend until they feel like breaking, we are the necks that get throttled, the stomachs that get hollow from hunger, and mine are the hands that keep on knitting and knitting and honest-to-God never stop knitting, "
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