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.