Theme For English BLangston Hughes

The instructor said:Go home and writea page tonight.And let that page come out of you –Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-

Salem.I went to school there, then Durham, then

hereto this college on the hill above Harlem.I am the only colored student in my class.The steps from the hill lead down into

Harlem,through a park, then I cross St Nicholas,Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the

Y,the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the

elevatorup to my room, sit down, and write this

page.

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me

At twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:Hear you, hear me – we two – you, me, talk

on this page.(I hear New York, too.) Me – who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

I like a pipe for a Christmas present,Or records– Bessie, bop, or Bach.I guess being colored doesn’t make me not

likeThe same things other folks like who are

other races.So will my page be colored that I write?Being me, it will not be white.

But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white-- yet a part of me, as I am a

part of you. That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a

part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that's true!As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me-- although you're older--and white—and somewhat more free. This is my page for English B.

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We wear the mask that grins and lies,It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-- This debt we pay to human guile;With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our criesTo thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile;But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask!

We Wear the MaskPaul Laurence Dunbar

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He Was a ManSterling Brown

It wasn’t about no woman,It wasn’t about no rape

He wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t drunkAn’ it wasn’t no shooting scrape,

He was a man, and they laid him down

He wasn’t no quarrelsome feller,And he let other folks alone;

But he took a life, as a man will do,In a fight to save his own;

He was a man, and they laid him down.

He worked on his little homeplaceDown on the Eastern Shore

He had his family and he had his friendsAnd he didn’t expect much more

He was a man, and they laid him down.

He wasn’t nobody’s great man,He wasn’t nobody’s good,

Was a po’ boy tried to get from lifeWhat happiness he could,

He was a man, and they laid him down.

He didn’t abuse Tom Wickley,Said nothing when the white man curst;

But when Tom grabbed his gunk he pulled his own,And his bullet got there first,

He was a man, and they laid him down

Didn’t catch him in no manhunt,But they took him from a hospital bed,

Stretched on his back in the nigger ward,With a bullet wound in his head,

He was a man, and they laid him down.

It didn’t come off at midnightNor yet at the break of day,

It was in the broad noon daylight,When they put poor Will away,He was a man, and they laid him down.

Didn’t take him to no swampland,Didn’t take him t no woods,

Didn’t hide themselves, didn’t have no masksDidn’t wear no Ku Klux hoods, He was a man, and they laid him down.

They strung him up on Main Street,On a tree in the Court House Square,

And people cam from miles aroundTo enjoy a holiday there,He was a man, and they laid him down.

They hung him and they shot him,They piled packing cases around,

They burnt up Will’s black body,To enjoy a holiday there,He was a man, and they laid him down.

It wasn’t no solemn business,Was more like a barbecue,

The crackers yelled when the fire blazed,And the women and children too,He was a man, and they laid him down.

The Coroner and the SheriffSaid “Death at Hands Unknown.”

The mob broke up by midnight,“Another uppity nigger gone—He was a man, and we laid him down. Get

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We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

By Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

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Once riding in old Baltimore,Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,I saw a BaltimoreanKeep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,And he was no whit bigger,And so I smiled, but he poked outHis tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of BaltimoreFrom May until December;Of all the things that happened thereThat's all that I remember.

Incident by Countee Cullen

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