Mrs. Stowe,

Now I don't want you take what I'm 'bout to say to you the wrong way. What you done for me and my people in writin' Uncle Tom's Cabin -- how you showed the hard and heavy truth without no sugar-coatin' -- is somethin' I don't think no one will ever fo'get. And I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart, I really do. But I must admit, that article you wrote in the Monthly got me downright confused. When I went with my grandmother to talk with you, I was honored -- humbled, too -- to be in the presence of a great woman like yo'self. So tell me why this piece of writing ain't matchin' up with that great woman who I thought wrote it? With all due respect, I ain't no "little black Puck," and I don't recall bein' in no "state of perpetual merriment." And my grandmother, the strongest, most intelligent woman I know, sure as hell ain't no barbarian from Ethiopia, or Egypt, or Libya neither! I don't know what you tryin' to accomplish by paintin' me and my grandmother on such a degradin' canvas, or that you even noticed you was doin' it for that matter. But you got me and everyone else out there thinkin' you're a brilliant and wealthy woman, and quite frankly, you oughtta know better. I'm askin' you to please consider this the next time you take up writin' about my grandmother, or any other black folks for that matter. You ain't doin' us no favors by dumbin' us down.

Sincerely,
James Caldwell