Ask AI: Rewrite "Everyday Use" to be told from the first person perspective of Dee. Be sure to include dialogue.

Sure, here is a portion of Alice Walker’s "Everyday Use" rewritten from the first-person perspective of Dee: --- Growing up, I always felt like a beacon of change, the only one in my family yearning for something more, something beyond our meager, rural existence. My mind buzzed with ideas and the desire to be different, to be noticed, unlike my timid sister Maggie and our plain mother. Coming back home after such a long time felt surreal. The old house, with its sagging roof and chipped paint, couldn’t hold a candle to my new world of books, education, and style. But as I stepped out of the car with Hakim-a-barber by my side, an unfamiliar emotion crept in; this house was still a part of me, a part of my story. "Mama!" I called out cheerfully, striding towards the house with a grace cultivated in college halls and city streets. I could see Maggie peering from behind Mama, her scarred arms clutching her sides. "Dee," Mama said, her voice a mix of surprise and uncertainty, "or should I say, Wangero?" I smiled broadly, “Yes, Mama, it's Wangero now. Dee is dead and gone. You wouldn't understand the importance of a name in our heritage.” Mama's eyes narrowed a little, but she didn’t argue. How could she understand? She never read the books I had, never felt the awakening of spirit I had experienced. She just nodded and turned to welcome us. Maggie muttered a shy greeting. “Hey, Maggie,” I said with a touch of condescension that I hoped was tender encouragement. "Look at this beautiful car!" Her response was a shy, mumbled, "Hi, Dee," her eyes avoiding mine. It was clear she still struggled with confidence, still clung to the past while I had soared into the future. Inside the cramped and dimly lit house, I could almost feel the ghosts of our past lives. As I scanned the modest room, my eyes fell upon the hand-stitched quilts, hanging limply on the backs of chairs. “Those quilts are really something, aren’t they?” I said with enthusiasm, walking over and lifting one up to examine the detailed patterns and intricate stitching. "Mama, I want these quilts." Mama looked stunned. "What for, Dee? I promised to give them to Maggie, for when she marries John Thomas." "These quilts," I said deliberately, “are priceless pieces of our heritage. They belong in a place where they can be properly appreciated and preserved.” I smiled, convinced by my argument, “Imagine them on display, where everyone can see the beauty and history in every stitch.” Maggie’s eyes widened with a mix of shock and sadness, but Mama’s expression turned resolute. “No, Dee. Wangero,” she corrected herself, “I promised these to Maggie. They are meant to be used, to be cherished in daily life, not just in display cases.” I wanted to argue, to explain that Maggie could never appreciate the history and art embedded in those quilts the way I could. But something in Mama's firm eyes held me back. We spent the rest of the visit in an awkward dance of words and silences, each of us clinging to our own version of heritage, of identity. As Hakim-a-barber and I drove away, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of frustration and sadness. “We’ll just have to teach them,” I said aloud, more to myself than to him. "Teach them how to elevate and celebrate their heritage." But the lingering image of Mama’s resolute face and Maggie’s shy, yearning eyes stayed with me, haunting my thoughts. Perhaps not everything about our legacy could be displayed or defined as I wished. Perhaps some things were meant to stay within the humble walls of home. --- I hope this rewrite captures Dee’s perspective and provides insight into her character.