Black Boy

The best work of literature I’ve ever read is an autobiography called Black Boy written by Richard Wright. I have reason to believe this text, alone, sparked his career as a writer. I first read Richard Wright’s autobiography in high school, as an assignment. All students were required to read some form of writing for an hour, everyday, before classes began. My class was escorted to the library by our teacher, and was instructed to look for reading material. I picked up the book, because I was intrigued by the colorful cover and the name of it. I didn’t know what to expect, once I had checked out the text, but I was more than ready to find out what it entailed. Since our reading sessions were to start the next day, I took the manuscript home and started it on my own.
I hadn’t known there were black authors, let alone books about black people, and that intrigued me even more. This book tells the story of Richard’s life as an African American child growing up in “the Jim Crow South” as Jerry Ward calls it in his introduction. I read the back cover, discovered the book was an autobiography and wanted to know what the author had to say. I wanted to know what went on: what he’d experienced. I’d learned about Jim Crow laws in school, but after learning Christopher Columbus hadn’t really discovered America, I wondered what else could be questionable that I had learned. Here was a man who had lived from 1908-1960. He had to have experienced some things first hand, I thought. I was never an avid reader before experiencing Richard’s words. Afterwards, I immersed myself with more literature, hoping to get that same feeling of an intellectual high with other authors’ writing.
I was captivated by the imagery throughout the autobiography. The book almost read as fiction, but it kept my attention and the pages turning. The story started off with a warm, comfortable image. “One winter morning in the long ago, four-year-old days of my life I found myself standing before a fireplace, warming my hands over a mound of glowing coals, listening to the wind whistle past the house outside” (3). The author had set the mood for me. After reading the first sentence, I stopped, sat the book down, changed into sweat pants, a t-shirt, and long, thick tube socks; I wrapped myself in a warm blanket, and stretched out on the sofa, all before I retrieved the book and continued to read.
In addition to the imagery, I was enthralled by the details the author had included. His sentences were elongated, but to a necessary extent. I enjoyed the educational value of this paperback, because inside laid an overabundance of information that a young, inquisitive mind would be keen on learning. As I proceeded, the author’s words painted pictures that evoked in me emotions of happiness, sadness, confusion, love and hate. I loved the emotional rollercoaster that was this novel. I was caught up in the situations that this mischievous little boy was always getting himself into.
“One summer afternoon—in my sixth year—while peering under the swinging doors of the neighborhood saloon, a black man caught hold of my arm and dragged me into its smoky and noisy depths. ‘Make ‘im drunk and he’ll stop peeping in here’, somebody said. I took another sip. Then another. My head spun and I laughed. I was put on the floor and I ran giggling and shouting among the yelling crowd.” (20).
My eyes glued to the book, I spent not only the hour in school that was dedicated to reading, but my lunch hour, the bus ride home, and hours in my room reading the text as the words poured off the pages into my sixteen-year-old brain. Richard Wright must be some kind of genius, I thought. I hadn’t liked to read anything and was now entertained by the thickest book I’d ever held, other than a dictionary.
I campaigned to my friends and family for Richard, attempting to persuade them all to read his work. “You need to read this” I’d said. Of course, no one else was interested in reading this novel that I was so fascinated by. I felt unaided in my mesmerized state. I wanted to talk to someone about this book. I wanted to meet just one other person who had read Richard Wright’s words so we could discuss the content of his autobiography as well as the craft of it.
God must have heard my cry, because a friend I’d never thought to ask saw Black Boy sitting on my coffee table and started asking questions. I told him that I had read the book and what my feelings on it were. He mentioned that he’d read the book as well and our conversation began. Although, he didn’t have much to say about the craft or the content, I was pleased with conversing with someone about this masterpiece. I was preoccupied with the fact that the author was an African American man who had lived such an eventful life, but even more obsessed with the skill he’d expressed. I wanted to write the way he did; I wanted to be successful as he was. I must admit, Richard Wright has inspired me to aspire to become a writer.

Observing the World from My Car,
In a Meijer Parking Lot

One cold, dreary, November morning, I dragged myself out of bed, bumbled around the house. Once I’d found my winter coat and searched for my car keys, my boyfriend and I got into the car, and I drove him to work. When we exited the highway, he mentioned that he needed to stop and pick up something for lunch. A few blocks later, I turned into a Meijer parking lot, positioned my car in front of the store, and attempted to stay awake, while my boyfriend went inside. I observed an older, thin, white woman, who wore a blue and white sweat suit and tennis shoes, walk what seemed to be an extensive distance from her car to the sidewalk to leave her cart. I wondered why she had traveled so far to desert the cart in a place it didn’t belong, because the cart station was only a few feet away from her vehicle and she’d looked as if she were in great shape—or at least good enough shape to place the cart in its rightful area.
No more than two minutes later, I noticed an even older, heavier woman, with curly white hair, walking, slowly—her steps assisted by a tall, twisted, wooden cane. Her eyes were half opened, lips curled into a frown, though she’d just begun her journey from the car to the entrance of the store. She struggled to hold her cane in one hand and a large, brown pocketbook in the other, while keeping her balance in the cold, rough wind. Her eyes smiled as they latched onto the abandoned cart a few feet in front of her. Relieved once she’d reached it, the old woman leaned forward, rested her weight on the shopping cart, and moved with ease. I imagine she thanked God for that blessing that others might have taken for granted.
Unknowingly, I smiled. Once I realized I was smiling, I looked around to see if anyone had seen me watching the woman, and pretended to straighten my hair. I continued looking at the woman, through my rearview mirror, until she’d disappeared into the store. I searched the parking lot for another lesson, but wasn’t successful.
There I was casting judgment on the first woman: thinking she was simply being lazy and careless; especially since the wind could have easily blown the stray cart through the parking lot, and could have potentially rolled in front of someone’s moving vehicle. Although, I may have been right in my judgment, her carelessness aided someone else in a time of need. There was a greater plan in progress: one that I couldn’t fathom, until I witnessed it unfold.
My boyfriend grabbed the handle to the car door and opened it. When he got in and closed the door, I drove across the parking lot, away from the store. I had to maneuver around a shopping cart that rested in the path of my car. “Some people are such idiots” my boyfriend stated in a frustrated tone. “Whoever left that there could have easily pushed it out of the way, and been a little considerate of other people.” I smiled: realized that just moments ago, I would have agreed with him and been frustrated as well.

A Learning Process 4 All


Sometimes, we feel as though our parents do not understand where we are coming from. However, we also fail to realize our parents' position. Our way of thinking is selfish. We do not stop to notice that our parents did not get a chance to practice being parents before we came along. This is our first time being young adults and this is their first time raising young adults. Our parents may figure out, later, that they could have handled a situation differently and make note to change the way they handle it in the future. However, it is NEVER our position to bring that to their attention. Whether or not we agree with a decision that is made, we are to obey and honor them only.

When we get into something, our parents, probably, think about how their parents handled a similar situation and how they felt about the situation that was made. Then, they decide how they should handle the situation with us. Afterwards, if they feel that their way was effective, they will continue to do things that way. If they find that their way was not a success, they will figure out a different way of handling things. I am almost sure when we become parents, we will do some of the same things.

I used to feel like I was at a disadvantage, because my parents would handle things with me one way and would not do the same with my younger siblings. In a way, the oldest children are the guinea pigs, because parents experiment with us. Once our parents are comfortable with making parenting decisions, they let up on some things with the other children or crack down on them when it comes to something else. Things will get better though, if we all work together. So, let us cut our parents some slack. We are all learning together.

My Dream

Ok. I went to sleep this morning around 9a, and I had the weirdest dream I have ever had in my life.

I was walking through a restaurant, holding a baby girl. She was wearing all pink. I saw almost every member of my family on my father's side in the restaurant.

I walked through with some friends, going to my apartment. When I got upstairs to my apartment, I noticed that it was my Granny's house, but I was living there. I was extremely uncomfortable being in my own apartment and was preparing to stay the night at my parents' house. There were a couple of other small children there and I made a bowl of cereal. everytime i put my spoon in the cereal, the milk would spoil and clump up onto the spoon. I ate some of it anyway and trashed it. everyone left my apartment, including me.

I came back with a girl from school or work or something. She was my friend. She was also known for knowing a lot of guys and i didn't want to bring her back to my apartment, because i was afraid she would invite some of her male friends to meet her there. i don't know why, but i was paranoid about men knowing where i lived.
some guy that i had apparently known forever knocked on my door. my friend let him in and even though i saw his face and knew who he was, i called the office of my apartment, screaming for help. when i got off the phone, he was like "what was that all about" and i explained that i never invite guys over and that i didn't want anyone to know where i lived. he thought it was funny since he lived down the hall from me and came over frequently.
he left and the girl left, when my cousin arrived. i haven't seen this cousin in a few months...maybe since last year. Anyway, all of a sudden, he lies down on the floor and start to unbuckle his pants. Then, he's not my cousin anymore...he's my ex-boyfriend. (they have the same name) he had no legs and he was flapping his nubs (probably happy thinking he was about to get some). He pulled down his pants and underwear and his penis looked plastic. I looked closer and it had two little eyes on it. THEY WERE BLINKING TOO! I freaked out and jumped up. He got offended and said that all girls reacted that way. i grabbed the baby girl, who was asleep in my bedroom and left.

When i left, i got a phone call from my brother. He told me that my cousin was killed. The weird thing is everyone knew he was going to die, but it was still a shock. He was supposedly killed in a burning building that collapsed. My brother and his friends were broken up about it. I was in my car, driving around looking for my cousin, Jackie's apartment so i could console the guys and bring them back to my apartment. Somehow, I couldn't find them and when i got back to my apartment, they were there and my brother walked up to me with a bible. He handed it to me and asked me to read him something, because he felt like he was losing his power to pray. He was trying to pray to prevent our cousin from dying, because he knew it was supposed to happen, but he couldn't.
i don't know why, but we were leaving again, and i thought i had lost the baby. i looked in the bedroom and she was lying on her back on my bed. i thought she was dead, but when i ran over and grabbed her, she woke up.

At first i couldn't understand why i was carrying that baby around or who she was, because i knew she didn't belong to me and that i was watching her for someone else. But when i thought about it, i realized the baby in my dream was the baby that i saw at the ethiopian restaurant i'd eaten at earlier this week. the burning building my cousin died in was on the news last night, the feeling i had when i was in my apartment was the same stressed out feeling i had earlier this year when i was thinking about moving back home, my boyfriend had mentioned to me, last night, that the milk in the refrigerator was only good for a couple of more days, and that could be why my milk was spoiled in the dream.

And I've noticed that every dream I've had lately, I've been searching for someone or something.

It's so weird to me that my mind gathers all of the events in my life and things that i had no idea i paid so much attention to and put them all in one dream.