Abstract
Just who was Miss Mary Mack, all dressed in black, with her stalwart buttons up and down her back, her patient request for fifty cents to see some bedraggled circus elephant jump a fence? As children, we never asked who she was, content instead to clap out her story in pairs, our hands meeting, then parting in quick motions. When we sang We're going to Kentucky, we're going to the Fair, to see the senorita withflowers in her hair, we'd shake our little girl hips in time with the melody, but we never stopped to ask what a lovely senorita was doing at a fair, and we possessed no knowledge of where Kentucky was, didn't even know what one did at a fair-children who only knew cinderblock and cement, corner storefronts, brick high-rises. We sang about Miss Lucy and her prized steamboat, the steamboat destined for heaven
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