Langston Hughes double feature

Theme for English B

The instructor said:

Go home and write

a 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 here

to 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 elevator

up 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 too -- 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 like

the 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.

Langston Hughes is just a master of rhythm when it comes to poetry. Many of his poems are inspired by the Harlem Renaissance and have a jazzy feel to them, but I love how this one in particular features an unusual beat ("hear you, hear me -- we too -- you, me...") combined with a sort of academic stream-of-consciousness. I also think it's fascinating how he incorporates rhyme seamlessly with free verse, and includes the cheeky asides like "That's American" while at the same time presenting some deep musings about race.

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore --

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over --

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?