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7 PLOTS Be your own father. —ellison, invisible man I was just past the point in that chapter where Tod Clifton is killed after quitting the class wars when I remembered how you rode the Twelfth Street trolley on your way home from work, age 66, still sewing collars in a sweatshop, owning your own house and saying with a laugh I work for thieves, adding they’re pretty nice thieves and I suddenly saw your hands at rest on your legs, heavily propped on the ottoman from the Goodwill store, and saying We’re all the same, we are all slaves or cursing the God who had killed your husband, an insurance salesman who left you, age 25, a widow with seven preadolescents and no insurance We’re all slaves, and it hit me that I have no idea where you are buried. O Rose, I can recite a thousand plots and cannot find yours. ...

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