#god i love claude mckay so much

[oflights]

To One Coming North

At first you'll joy to see the playful snow, Like white moths trembling on the tropic air, Or waters of the hills that softly flow Gracefully falling down a shining stair.

And when the fields and streets are covered white And the wind-worried void is chilly, raw, Or underneath a spell of heat and light The cheerless frozen spots begin to thaw,

Like me you'll long for home, where birds' glad song Means flowering lanes and leas and spaces dry, And tender thoughts and feelings fine and strong, Beneath a vivid silver-flecked blue sky.

But oh! more than the changeless southern isles, When Spring has shed upon the earth her charm, You'll love the Northland wreathed in golden smiles By the miraculous sun turned glad and warm.

Claude McKay

[read-alert]

Figured that now that I've got a bookblr, I should make a post about the Read the World Challenge I'm doing! I'm reading a book primarily set in every country, doing my best to focus on authors from said country, though I will read diaspora authors if that's not feasible. Also some of the books from early on were from diaspora authors because I was pulling from books I had already read; I'll likely read more books from those countries in the future if I can. I've got 52 countries so far, and I'll list the titles and countries under the cut

USA- Kindred by Octavia Butler- 5⭐️

Canada- The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline- 5⭐️

Trinidad and Tobago- The Lesson by Cadwell Turnbull- 3⭐️

Brazil- Where We Go From Here by Lucas Rocha trans by Larissa Helena- 5⭐️

Argentina- Tender is the Flesh by Augustina Bazterrica trans by Sarah Moses- 5⭐️

South Africa- The Prey of Gods by Nicky Drayden- 3⭐️

Nigeria- Akata Witch by Nnedi Okorafor- 4⭐️

Liberia- Dream Country by Shannon Gibney 5⭐️

France- Romance in Marseilles by Claude McKay- 2⭐️

UK- Watership Down by Richard Adams- 5⭐️

Ireland- Big Girl, Small Town by Michelle Gallen- 4⭐️

Qatar- Love from A to Z by SK Ali- 4⭐️

Iran- Darius the Great is Not Okay by Adib Khorram- 4⭐️

China- The Three Body Problem by Cixin Liu trans by Ken Liu- 5⭐️

Taiwan- Loveboat, Taipei by Abigail Hing Wen- 4⭐️

Japan- Confessions by Kanae Minato trans by Stephen Snyder- 3.5⭐️

Norway- Survival Kit by AH Haga- 4.5⭐️

Germany- The Book Thief by Markus Zusak- 4.5⭐️

India- The Henna Artist by Alka Joshi- 4⭐️

South Korea- The Mermaid from Jeju by Sumi Hahn- 4⭐️

Columbia- One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez trans by Gregory Rabassa- 4⭐️

Ghana- Wife of the Gods by Kwei Quartey- 4⭐️

Turkey- 10 Minutes and 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak- 4⭐️

Russia- Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy trans by Louise Maude- 4⭐️

Sierra Leone- The Memory of Love by Aminatta Forna- 4⭐️

Austria- The Wall by Marlen Haushofer trans by Shaun Whiteside- 5⭐️

Zimbabwe- Nervous Conditions by Tsiti Dangarembga- 5⭐️

Venezuela- It Would Be Night in Caracas by Karina Sainz Borgo trans by Elizabeth Bryer- 4⭐️

Chile- The House of Spirits by Isabel Allende trans by Magda Bogin- 5⭐️

Sri Lanka- Funny Boy by Shyam Selvadurai- 4⭐️

Singapore- How We Dissappeared by Jing-Jing Lee- 4.5⭐️

Malaysia- Queen of the Tiles by Hanna Alkaf- 3.5⭐️

Egypt- A Master of Djinn by P Djèlí Clark- 4.5⭐️

Sudan- Ghost Season by Fatin Abbas- 4.5⭐️

Antigua and Barbuda- At the Bottom of the River by Jamaica Kincaid- 4⭐️

Ukraine- The Lost Year by Katherine Marsh- 5⭐️

Bahamas- Learning to Breathe by Janice Lynn Mather- 4⭐️

Cuba- The Black Cathedral by Marcial Gala trans by Anna Kushner- 4⭐️

Dominica- The Autobiography of My Mother by Jamaica Kincaid- 3⭐️

Bangladesh- Djinn City by Saad Z Hossain- 4⭐️

Mexico- Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia- 4⭐️

Jamaica- Here Comes the Sun by Nicole Dennis-Benn- 4⭐️

Vietnam- Dust Child by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai- 4.5⭐️

Australia- Too Much Lip by Melissa Lucashenko- 4⭐️

Israel- Against the Loveless World by Susan Abulhawa- 4.5⭐️

Palestine- Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa- 5⭐️

Costa Rica- Where There Was Fire by John Manuel Arias- 4.5⭐️

Uruguay- Cantoras by Carolina De Robertis- 5⭐️

Dominican Republic- Tentacle by Rita Indiana trans by Achy Obejas- 2.5⭐️

Republic of the Congo- Broken Glass by Alain Mabanckou trans by Helen Stevenson- 2⭐️

Czech Republic- The Spaceman of Bohemia by Jaroslav Kalfař- 2.5⭐️

Honduras- Turtles of the Midnight Moon by María José Fitzgerald- 4.5⭐️

[magdaclaire]

as a white person in the supernatural fandom, there’s not much i can say that would contribute terribly much to the conversation on race and racism in the supernatural fandom. and that’s part of what i want other white people in this fandom to understand- this conversation is and isn’t about you. your part of this conversation begins with your lack of knowledge and continues with the fact that most of you don’t want to do anything about it in a age where it is not only possible to constantly attain new knowledge, but by being here on this site and in this community, it is thus obvious that it is regularly readily available. access to the internet, you have it.

so let me break it down into some steps for you.

step one: shut up. take a step back and promote voices of color, use your space to listen to other people and learn from what they have to say.

step two: people of color do not owe you homework, do your own research. if you like history and you love art, try looking into the harlem renaissance or puppet history covers a lot of history with historical figures of color, and while being told by a white man through the veil of puppetry, it does make a conscious effort at social awareness and is a good jumping place of your own research. listen to music by people of color. something. just open your horizons. a little bit of culture wouldn’t kill you. if you want harlem renaissance book recommendations or specific puppet history episodes or some podcast links or the like, i will list some at the bottom. do more research once you get through those.

step three: keep learning. in both research and directly from others, keep learning. there is no benchmark of age or intelligence at which you get to stop learning. the world is constantly changing and most languages are living, so there is always something to learn. you will never be the arbiter of all that is correct in this world, and neither will i.

harlem renaissance books

reading about the harlem renaissance will teach you so much about the long-term multi-generational effects of oppression if you just let it. there are many, many research texts about the era (between the world wars), but i am recommending fiction because i feel fiction makes information more digestible. not much you read here will feel digestible. read it anyway.

passing by nella larsen

their eyes were watching god by zora neale hurston

quicksand by nella larsen

home to harlem by claude mckay

cane by jean toomer

plum bun by jessie redman fauset

the blacker the berry by wallace thurman

the walls of jericho by rudolph fisher

black thunder by arna bontemps

not without laughter by langston hughes

puppet history episodes

these will give you a pretty basic knowledge of a very specific event in a country’s history. they do, however, function as a jumping point and as a historical point of interest

ching shih, chinese pirate queen

hatshepsut: the forgotten pharoah

policarpa: the revolutionary teen spy of colombia

josé rizal: the philippines’ reluctant revolutionary

the war of the golden stool (focused on the asante nation)

ziryab: the world’s first rock star (iberian 9th century musician)

[theyorthemrecords]

imaginary toads in real gardens (I)

a/n: the soft college!cashton fic i’ve been promising the group chat, focusing mainly around their shared poetry class! also a little barista!ashton, if you squint. also linked below are the two poems mentioned by name, if you’re interested in reading them! (both are personal favorites of mine hehe)

tableau by countee cullen

the helmsman by hilda doolittle (h.d.)

word count: 1.7 k

warnings: a light sprinkling of cursing, but nothing else in this part! enjoy ~

Calum wasn’t quite sure how this morning could get any worse. It started with him oversleeping, causing a chain reaction of trying to brew his own coffee, spilling said coffee all over himself, changing his shirt because of the spilled coffee, and ending up in, quite literally, the ugliest outfit he had ever seen. To make it all worse, it was a Tuesday, meaning the class he was rushing to was poetry, which just so happened to be the one class he shared with the absolutely dreamy barista from the on-campus coffee shop, the Bee-Hive. 

Calum had been crushing on the guy, from afar, since his freshman year, and couldn’t believe his luck when he materialized in his spring semester poetry class two years later. Throughout the first few weeks of the semester, he had collected a few key pieces of information about the other boy, using it all to fuel his romantic daydreams, when his mind wandered. First, his name was Ashton, which technically Calum already knew, but it just felt so different to hear Ashton say it himself as opposed to simply reading it on his nametag. Second, Ashton was a junior, like himself, but unlike Calum, Ashton wasn’t an English major. He was a Philosophy major, making his enrollment in the class perplexing to Calum at first, but he pretty quickly understood why Ashton had picked the class. It was obvious that Ashton loved poetry, the art of crafting words into something larger, something new, from the first class discussion they had about Claude McKay. Calum liked to believe, especially since he was now an upperclassman in the English department, that he understood poetry, but it had rendered him speechless to hear Ashton discuss poetry. He just seemed to feel everything so deeply, to be able to grasp the author’s intent and purpose immediately, breaking the poem due to purest essence before Calum had even figured out the rhyme scheme.

Which all looped back to why Calum was hellbent on not only showing up to poetry class on time, but putting all his effort into the discussion they had, in order to desperately try and impress Ashton with his dazzling and insightful textual interpretations. Has it worked so far? Technically no, but he was too stubborn to stop trying and too chicken to actually just ask the other boy out. What if he said no? Then Calum could never go to the Bee-Hive again and his caffeine addiction would be limited to his shitty dorm room, french press brew. That was a horrific reality. Worse than that, what if Ashton wasn’t even gay? The question had perplexed Calum since the first day of class and he bounced back and forth on the answer every time they had class. The closest he had gotten to an answer was the day they discussed Countee Cullen and his poem “Tableau”. Ashton had talked so passionately about the poem and Cullen but managed to do so without actually saying whether or not the poem applied to him. Calum concluded that day that Ashton had to be gay, that there was no way a straight man would talk that emotionally and beautifully about one of the most stunning gay poems in existence. Still, he didn’t have a definite answer, and that was enough to scare Calum out of asking Ashton out.

Too lost in his train of thought, and the blasting volume of Jimmy Eat World currently pumping through his earbuds, Calum failed to notice the body in his way until it was too late and he slammed into whatever unfortunate bystander in the Quad, scattering the books in their hands all over the ground. 

“Holy shit” Snatching his earbuds out and bending down to gather the books that fell to the ground, Calum was amazed when the voice that answered him was none other than Ashton himself, seemingly materialized in front of him by how hard Calum had been daydreaming about the man.

“Hey man, no worries. You’re Calum right, from poetry?” He winced as soon as Ashton spoke, glancing up at him from where he was positioned on the ground, picking up Ashton’s books, which, upon inspection, were obviously from their assigned book list. Of course Ashton barely knew his name, when it seemed that all Calum could do was daydream about him. It had gotten so bad that his roommate, Michael, had taken to throwing pencils at Calum to get his attention, as most of the time he was zoned out in his own private Ashton fantasy. Standing up to hand Ashton his books, Calum gave him a small smile as they finally stood face to face.

“That’s me. Sorry for barreling into you like that, I was just -” Calum paused mid-sentence, too self-conscious to admit that he was rushing to class. Especially because he was rushing to class to see the person that now stood directly in front of him. Luckily, Ashton filled his silence with an easy laugh, a sound Calum found particular delight in.

“No worries, I definitely don’t want to be late for poetry either. Dr. M always bites people’s heads off if they’re not on time. Since we’re going the same way, wanna walk together?” Calum could feel himself gaping at him, scrambling to find something to say to Ashton’s offer. This was too good to be true.  

“Erm-” God, pull it together. Now or never Hood. “I’d love to.” For an English major, he felt like he should be able to say something a little more eloquent. Ashton just let him so speechless, it felt like every word he had ever learned simply departed the minute Ashton’s hazel eyes landed on him.

“Perfect! Lead the way” Falling in step, the two walked in silence for a beat as Calum gathered the courage to say something, anything, to keep a conversation flowing.

“You’re a Philosophy major, right? Why take an English class?” The walk was just long enough that Calum could get some answers to the questions he’d had all semester, and he decided this was the most neutral one to start with. Wouldn’t be very becoming to just launch out the gate with the good old “Are you a queer?” He at least had a little tact left. Again, he was met with one of Ashton’s laughs, a sound Calum quickly found himself becoming addicted to. I’m in too deep.

“You got me there. In all honesty? I’m not too sure why. I just had extra space in my semester and… I don’t know. The class just kinda grabbed me. If that makes any fucking sense.” Calum was nodding along, trying hard not to look like he was hanging off of Ashton’s every word. Fuck their poetry class, this man was a poem himself. Just grabbed by a poetry class. Could he get any dreamier?

“No, I totally get you. You picked a good one. Dr. M may be a hardass, but she’s one of the best professors in the department.” This was Calum’s fifth class with the woman and he was still shocked by how hard she made all of her exams. Still, she pushed him in a way that was unlike any other teacher he had ever had. He was happy to know her and even more grateful to have her knowledge in his life, both as a professor and his advisor. 

“Shocking to hear you say that. She eats up everything you say. On the other hand, I feel like a dumbass every time I make a comment.” Accompanied by a bashful smile and shake of his head, Ashton glanced away for a second. Calum was, once again, stunned into silence, this time for a totally different reason.

“You? Are you kidding me? Everything you say in class is amazing, you’re so insightful. I wish I could read poetry like you do… everything you say is so stunning and you just… get it. You’re great in class Ashton.” Finishing his ramble, it was Calum’s turn to be embarrassed. I can not believe I just said all of that to him. He’s going to think I’m insane, that was a crazy thing to ramble at my crush. Is it too early to consider transferring? 

“Really?” Every single bad thought Calum was having about himself halted when he looked over at Ashton when he spoke. Ashton was staring at him, with so much hope welling up in his eyes it was disarming. Calum’s mum had always said that the eyes were the windows to the soul, and it seemed like Ashton’s windows were flung open, displaying every emotion plainly to him. A warm summer day, gorgeous and breezy and open. “You think so?”

“I know so. And Dr. M loves you, she just has a funny way of showing it.” Calum bumped Ashton’s shoulder, half to break the trance they were in and half to remind him to start walking again. “She will, however, love us less if we show up late to this class. C’mon.”

It was silent again as the two walked side by side, but unlike before, the silence felt comfortable. Breathable. Like a shared understanding. It remained that way as they walked into the English wing of the Main Hall, finally reaching their classroom right on time. The class was small enough that there were always open seats, but everyone had settled into their unofficial assigned seats back during syllabus week. Ashton always sat closest to the door, while Calum sat across the room, right in front of the big window that faced the park on the front of campus. Ideal for gazing out of the window when he wanted to zone out and for sneaking glances at Ashton whenever he spoke. The best of both worlds. However, as they entered class today, Ashton followed him to the window and snuck into the seat on Calum’s left. When Calum stared at him in shock for half a second, still standing, Ashton laughed his adorable laugh again with another shake of his head.

“Figured it was time for a change of scenery, yea? Now sit down so we can talk about Hilda Doolittle. I’ve been dying all weekend to hear what Dr. M has to say about The Helmsman.” It’s official, Calum thought as he sat in his seat and pulled out his own book, I’m in love with this man.

[lunchboxpoems]

CENTO FOR THE NIGHT I SAID “I LOVE YOU”

Today, gentle reader,

is as good a place to start.

But you knew that, didn’t you? Then let us

give ourselves over to the noise

of a great scheme that included everything.

That indicts everything.

Let us roam the night together

in an attempt to catch the stars that drop.

                              •••

White clouds against sky

come humming toward me.

One closely resembling the beginning

of a miracle. There’s

the moonlight on a curved path

lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June.

I dreamed him and there he was

silent as destiny,

lit by a momentary match.

                              •••

Men are so clueless sometimes,                                                          

like startled fish                                                                                              

living just to live.                                                                                            

We are dying quickly                                                                                      

but behave as good guests should:                                                                  

patiently allowing the night                                                                              

to have the last word.                                                              

And I just don’t know,                                                                                  

you know? I never had a whole lot to say                                                        

while talking to strange men.                                                                          

                              •••

What allows some strangers to go past strangeness? Exchanging                      

yearning for permanence. And who wouldn’t

come back to bed? Love—

How free we are; how bound. Put here in love’s name:                      

called John. A name so common as

a name sung quietly from somewhere.

Like a cry abandoned someplace

in a city about which I know.

                              •••

Like black birds pushing against glass,

I didn’t hold myself back. I gave in completely and went

all the way to the vague influence of the distant stars.

I saw something like an angel

spread across the horizon like some dreadful prophecy

refusing to be contained, to accept limits.

She said, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

                              •••

I love you, I say, desperate

to admit that

the flesh extends its vanity

to an unknown land

where all the wild swarm.

This is not death. It is something safer,

almost made of air—

I think they call it god.

                              •••

Some say we’re lucky to be alive, to have

a sky that stays there. Above.

And I suppose I would have to agree…

but the hell with that.

It isn’t ordinary. The way the world unravels,

from a distance, can look like pain

eager as penned-in horses.

                              •••

And it came to pass that meaning faltered, came detached.

I learned my name was not my name.

I was not myself. Myself

resembles something else

that had nothing to do with me, except

I am again the child with too many questions

as old as light. I am always learning the same thing:

one day all this will only be memory.

One day soon. For no good reason.

                              •••

Dying is simple—

the body relaxes inside

hysterical light

as someone drafts an elegy

in a body too much alive.

Love is like this;

not a heartbeat, but a moan.

                      ��       •••

Can you see me

sinking out of sight

in the middle of our life?

Should I be ashamed of myself

for something I didn’t know I—

(He walks by. He walks by

laughing at me.)

“What else did you expect

from this day forward?” For better. Or worse.

                              •••

One life is not enough

to remember all the things

marriage is. This town at dawn

can will away my lust

to suck honey from the sunlight,

so why am I out here trying

to make men tremble who never weep?

                              •••

After all’s said and after all’s done                  

and all arrogance dismissed,

the distance rumbles in

sparing only stars.

The moon, like a flower,

survives as opinion

making it almost transparent.

The pieces of heavy sky

heavy as sleep.

I close my eyes

and this is my life now.

NICOLE SEALEY

** “Cento for the Night I Said, ‘I Love You’” is comprised entirely of lines borrowed from the following poets (in order of appearance): C.D. Wright, Mary Jo Salter, Patricia Smith, Toi Derricotte, Philip Levine, Lynda Hull, Langston Hughes, Malachi Black, Kimberly Blaeser, Maxine Kumine, Afaa Michael Weaver, Hédi Kaddour, dg nanouk okpik, Claude McKay, Deborah Landau, Sharkmeat Blue, George Bradley, Yona Harvey, Federico García Lorca, June Jordan, Kwame Dawes, W.H. Auden, Ana Castillo, Erica Hunt, Muriel Rukeyser, Ed Roberson, Ruth Madievsky, Thylias Moss, Gregory Orr, Yusef Komunyakaa, Elizabeth Spires, Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon, Tim Seibles, Nathalie Handal, Wisława Szymborska, Lucille Clifton, C.P. Cavafy, Rainer Maria Rilke, Raúl Zurita, August Kleinzahler, Louise Glück, Victoria Redel, Adélia Prado, Sonia Sanchez, Jean Sénac, Claribel Alegría, Remica L. Bingham-Risher, Sylvia Plath, Harryette Mullen, Emily Dickinson, Sharon Strange, Larry Levis, Sherman Alexie, Franz Wright, Marianne Boruch, Andrea Cohen, Linda Susan Jackson, Carl Phillips, Robert Hayden, Eavan Boland, Anne Waldman, Dorianne Laux, Natasha Trethewey, Eric Gamalinda, Galway Kinnell, John Murillo, Yves Bonnefoy, Tina Chang, David Wojahn, Nick Laird, Simone White, Catherine Barnett, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Brenda Shaughnessy, Kazim Ali, Brenda Hillman, Valzhyna Mort, Blas Falconer, Theodore Roethke, Kahlil Gibran, Rita Dove, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Khaled Mattawa, Tracy K. Smith, Ed Skoog, Alice Walker, Pablo Neruda, Adrienne Rich, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Aimé Césaire, Jake Adam York, Bob Kaufman, William Blake, Frank Bidart, Marilyn Nelson, Polina Barskova, Santee Frazier, Suheir Hammad and Cornelius Eady.

[miscellaneousmeditations]

A Lesson Before Dying Essay

Period 6

African American Literature has deeply influenced modern society. Its understanding of struggles and hardship can easily go unnoticed if not shared with others. African-American literature conveys a deep narrative of humanity through themes of love, family, and soul.

In his novel, A Lesson before Dying (ALBD), Ernest Gaines' speaks with intellect in expressing the prejudice that Caucasians have for people of color. Jefferson, a main character in ALBD, is wrongly accused of murder. He is not one lucky enough to have been educated, a primary reason white people judge his character. But underneath the surface, Jefferson has the potential to alter the whites' negative attitudes of African-Americans in the town. With the help of Grant, an educated colored teacher in a small town in Louisiana, he might be able to transform Jefferson from being the town's "hog" into a strong-willed and wise man. Love and family are critical reasons Jefferson is such an important figure. Miss Emma, Jefferson's aunt, the motherly figure in the story, her unconditional love pressures Grant to help enlighten Jefferson. 

Zora Neale Hurston describes her childhood in her autobiography. 

In his poem, A Black Man Talks of Reaping, Arna Bontemps' benefits our understanding that Jefferson can work in the fields, not only with his hands, but his heart. Work goes deeper than just calluses or sweat. Being the motherly figure, Miss Emma has the authority to influence hard work into Jefferson. He has an obligation to work in the fields, as a symbol of his love for her. Arna Bontemps' says "I planted deep, within my heart the fear that wind or fowl would take the grain away" (826) He articulates the passion that blacks have for the work they've done. Grant, another example, wants to see Jefferson as a friend, rather than a fatherly figure. Grant says, “It would mean so much to her if you would eat some of her gumbo.” (141 ebook) He convinced Jefferson that, in Miss Emma’s eyes, love is really doing good things for others. Eventually, Jefferson comes to the conclusion that being strong and proud is what makes others happy, making Miss Emma, Grant, and the whole town proud.

Claude McKay, in his poem, If We Must Die, expresses turmoil in the lives of Afro-Americans. “If we must die, o let us nobly die, so that our precious blood may not be shed in vain; then even if the monsters we defy shall be constrained to honor us through the dead!” (803). This closely relates to the external struggle between Jefferson and society. Grant and others want for him to have respect for himself. If Jefferson makes racists in the town think that Jefferson died with honor, then maybe all African-Americans are worthy to live a chivalrous life.

In his autobiography excerpt, When the Negro was in Vogue, Langston Hughes' tells a story of his intimate relationship with music and dance. “[The clubs] were the heart[s] of their dark community” Expresses the multiple examples of African-American art and lifestyles. Langston talks of books, African sculptures, music, dance and the “rise of the new pop culture” (817) “All of us know that the gay and sparkling life of the so-called Negro Renaissance of the 20s was not so gay and sparkling beneath the surface as it looked" (816) Hughes suggests that even through the dance and liveliness that blacks have an obligation to overcome the stereotype of sadness and pain that white people have adapted. Hughes speaks highly of performers becoming successful and music outshining the negatives in the outside world. Everybody strives to go against the grain and do something to make a change.

With that, Gaines' suggests African-American home life to be conventional. For example, Gaines shows a vulnerable side of him with his relationship with his intended, Vivian. Miss Emma is seen as an individual, passionate about her God, and as a loyal friend. 

In Zora Neale Hurston's, Dust Tracks on a Road: An Autobiography, she explained, "You had to keep on going over things until you did know" concerning her mother push for her to get an education. In ALBD, Gaines creates characters like Jefferson and Grant, polar opposites when it came to education. The fact if you’re educated or not, can put you into a category in the eyes of whites. Sadly, The Civil Rights Movement, showed the world how strongly opinionated people are against African-Americans. The fact that Jefferson was wrongly accused only showed a fraction of the cruelty that occurred from the early to mid-1900’s. It took numerous acts of attention to demand liberty from those who took it away from them. It wasn’t just Jefferson who broke the silence.

Similar to Hughes' Negro in Vogue, breaking stereotypes is vital to African-Americans in the 1920s and 1930s. So getting an education and making something out of yourself has a great significance to African-American's and their writings. 

In conclusion, it is plain to see that African American literature, as a whole, represents humanity in a multitude of ways. Arna Bontemps’ relates to the hardships of Jefferson in ALBD through sweat and tears. Meanwhile, Zora Neale Hurston elaborates on her childhood which flips back to the home life of Grant and Miss Emma. This is symbolized as unconditional love in the hearts of blacks in the small Louisiana community. Finally, Langston Hughes, literature extraordinaire, narrates his autobiography and defends Gaines and his opinions on not only the African American soul, but the American dream. 

[amieravenson]

Magickal Month- January 2019

January is kind of a mixed bag, depending on your mindset. For some, the holidays are over, and the long winter stretches ahead of us, bleak and depressing. But for some, this is a month of new possibilities, taking control of our lives after the chaos of the holiday season, and a time to rest, recuperate, and do some serious self-examination. January is my birth month, so as much as the cold weather hurts my fibromyalgia, I love to get out into the cold and feel the wind cut through my clothing to remind me that I’m alive. I just have to be prepared to pay the price by resting and feeling crummy the next day. January was named after the Roman god Janus, the two headed god of doorways, endings, and new beginnings. He had one head forever turned toward the past (looking to the previous year), and one head turned toward the future (the new year ahead). As such, he’s a perfect archetype for the gateway of the new year. There isn’t a lot of wildlife around right now, just some cardinals that have wintered in the woods around my house. Even the hearty hawks are quiet, and everything seems really silent. We’re feeding the neighborhood’s feral cats still, and trying to give them access to warm places to hide from the weather. We’re staying close to our space heater, and bundling up in blankets on the couch. I got a lot of good books for Yule/Christmas, and so I’m reading a lot. Also, YouTube and Netflix are my best friends this month. Lunations: January 5- New Moon in Capricorn, 8:28pm EST January 21- Full Moon in Leo, 12:15am EST Astronomy: January 3- Quarantids meteor shower begins January 6- Uranus goes direct Celtic Tree Month: Birch (December 24- January 20): Beginning of Celtic tree calender, new beginnings, making plans for the future, contemplation, resolutions, inception, “Lady of the Woods”, reflects feminine aspects of nature. Renewal, protection, wards evil, banishes fears/builds courage, beauty and tolerance. Rowan (Jan 21st- Feb 17th): Protection, inspiration, vision, clearing the mind for meditation, attunes us to nature, broadens perspectives, protects from harm on a journey, brings spiritual enlightenment, hidden mysteries of nature and quickening of life force Holidays (non-Pagan): January 1: New Year’s Day January 6: Epiphany (Christian) January 21: Tu Bishvat (Jewish) January 21: Martin Luther King Jr Day Holidays (Pagan): Jan1: World Peace Day Jan 5: Feast of Befana (Roman goddess who brought gifts to children on her broom) Jan 5-6: Feast of Hekate, who guides all through transitions and crisis Jan 6-7: Gamelion Noumenia- Greek festival honoring all the gods and goddesses. Jan 8-9: Feast of the Charities- honoring the Goddesses of beneficience. Jan 9-10: Feast of Aphrodite- day to honor peace and compassion Jan 13- Jan 25: Icelandic/Norse Midwinter, where offerings were made to the Norse gods to ask for plentiful crops in the coming year Jan 20: World Religions Day, a day to honor all religions Jan 24- Feb 1: Sementivae- a Roman festival of sowing, honoring Ceres (grain goddess), Proserpine (fruit goddess), and Terra (earth goddess) *Some people begin their Imbolc/Candlemas celebrations on January 31st, I prefer to wait until February 1st. Themes for the month: Renewal, leveling up, self-examination, solitude, a fresh start! Also, cleansing and purification for the year to come. General activities for the month: Hiking (some might disagree, but I love being out in nature in the Wintertime), planning, goal-setting, starting something new, reading, building cozy fires, knitting, rest and relaxation, going within. Herbs I’m using: White sage for purification, lemon/ginger/turmeric simmered together with local raw honey to stabilize my stomach issues after the holidays. Stones I’m using: Labradorite to help with transformation- even the most painful, Botswana agate for finding solutions and balancing and centering physically, mentally, and spiritually, and blue lace agate for dreaming. Goddess of the Month: I had kind of a weird moment on Christmas Day, when we left earlyish in the morning to visit my mother for Christmas breakfast. There was sparkling frost everywhere. This doesn’t seem so weird to most people, but my sleep schedule means I usually don’t wake up before 11am. So I was awed by the beauty and the crispness of the early day. In that spirit, I’ve been thinking a lot about Eos, the Greek ‘rosy fingered’ Goddess of the dawn. This is also the dawn of the new year, and I feel like anything is possible with a new day, and a new year! 3 card reading:

First, we see the 4 of Wands. We’ve been working really hard, or spending all of our energy (the holidays have a tendency to really take it out of us), and we need a rest. So we’re going to be laying low and spending time recuperating. This is the perfect time of year for that, and really goes with the internal, quiet energy of January. Next, we see the Page of Chalices reversed. This card is calling us to be quiet about the plans that we’re making right now. While we’re dreaming and planning new creative endeavors for 2019, they’re still in the earliest planning stages, and we’ll do well to keep them under wraps. Sometimes people can inadvertently steal your thunder if you give them too much information, so it’s a good idea to let the new things we’re dreaming up simmer under the surface until we have a strong idea how to start. Finally, we have the Moon reversed. So I feel like this is an emotional rest period for us too. Perhaps the holidays brought up some emotional issues, or we’ve been stressed about something serious, but this card is indicating a time of emotional rest. Sometimes it’s nice to just drift in the grey energy of having no fucks to give, and let our hearts and heads rest. This might be a good time to go out into nature and ground ourselves physically while we rest and regroup. Our special guidance card is the Waning Gibbous Moon, or Devotion reversed. So it’s a good time to question what it is that we’re holding onto tightly. Are there still things from 2018 that we haven’t let go of yet? Are we devoted to the right things, or should we change our path? This can include relationships, careers, our homes, or anything that we devote our time and energy to. Maybe it’s time to reexamine those things. The Snow Fairy By Claude McKay I Throughout the afternoon I watched them there, Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky, Whirling fantastic in the misty air, Contending fierce for space supremacy. And they flew down a mightier force at night, As though in heaven there was revolt and riot, And they, frail things had taken panic flight Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet. I went to bed and rose at early dawn To see them huddled together in a heap, Each merged into the other upon the lawn, Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep. The sun shone brightly on them half the day, By night they stealthily had stol’n away. II And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you Who came to me upon a winter’s night, When snow-sprites round my attic window flew, Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light. My heart was like the weather when you came, The wanton winds were blowing loud and long; But you, with joy and passion all aflame, You danced and sang a lilting summer song. I made room for you in my little bed, Took covers from the closet fresh and warm, A downful pillow for your scented head, And lay down with you resting in my arm. You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day, The lonely actor of a dreamy play. My personal tides: I have mixed feelings about my birth month. Traditionally, I’ve had a lot of crummy birthdays and I deal with a lot of seasonal depression this time of year, but I try to stay cautiously optimistic that this year will be OK. I guess that sums up my whole approach to January. I move back and forth from being optimistic and feeling a world of possibilities in front of me at New Year, and feeling low, hurty, and depressed when I don’t see the sun for a week or more due to the cold and early evenings. My personal goals: I have decisions to make. I’ve been waiting for things to line up and money to come in so that I could start making the moves that I need to make, but the reality is that I need to gear up to make those moves regardless of whether the circumstances are perfect and the savings account is padded. We need to find a new place to live, STAT! I’m also really working on developing a regular spiritual practice where I start meditating, praying, and purifying my energy every day. I feel like that’s going to see me through the rest of what seems like a very tumultuous year ahead. Transformation can be messy! Read the full article

[rightallocations-blog]

Philosophical/Theological Bender

I gave a writing prompt the other day in relation to Claude McKay’s poem “If We Must Die” about what students may be willing to die for. I had two students respond (written) that they would be willing to sacrifice their life because they already knew where they would go (heaven, I presume). That struck me as very presumptuous but maybe that’s how religion rolls now, I’ve been out a while so it could be. I asked Schab because she is my go to for all things Catholic and religious, and because she’ll give the question thought and reply honestly. Does the Church officially frown on this sort of declaration or is it just bad taste to say it? Turns out, yes, the Church does actually frown on this sort of statement.  Score one for Catholicism, I think.  

I also asked my very religious friend A. because she’s not Catholic; maybe this aversion was just my Catholicism showing through from days of yore. Asked her the same question. I think she is now legitimately worried about my immortal soul, although to be fair, I think she was worried about that before as well. She said she probably would have written the same phrase because she is confident in her relationship with God; she knows she is forgiven and will be saved. (My guess is this is the type of thing my students think as well) This is where my trouble began.

A. asked if part of my frustration with these two children’s answers was because I didn’t know where I was going after I die. I don’t care where I go when I die because there’ll be nothing I can do about it then, assuming there is something after. I don’t want to presume to know whether my heart is as light as a feather or not. I strive to be a good person without expectation of a reward, even if that reward is in the afterlife.  And really, whatever judgement gets made about my life at the end of it, I’ll accept.  I am living a life I think is good and just so if that condemns me to a harsh ever-after, I don’t know as I want to be part of the nice ever-after. This sparked concern and a 20 minute discussion.  A. sees doing good happening because she’s let God into her heart so it’s His glory, mercy, love, etc guiding her action.  Which to me feels a little lack-luster. The only way I could be a good person then, is to let God into my heart, which I find questionable. (I suppose that would actually depend on what we mean by God, but in the very traditional sense I find this statement suspect) This idea removes my agency, my choice, my free will in choosing to be a good person.  If ti’s just a reflection of God then really the only free will I have is in choosing to let God in or not. To be fair, this isn’t how she sees it as far as I can tell.

Except then she follows it up with “What is the point of doing good things for others if there is nothing past this like for you or them?” Which kin of hits on my issue with this whole idea. I can’t be a good person simply because I want to ease the suffering of others in this life, the one I’m currently living in, that hypothetically was given to me by an Almighty Creator without thinking it’s going to earn me brownie points in the afterlife? I can’t image every time Jesus did something kind for a person he was seeing tally marks in his head for how pleased Father was going to be. As far as I remember from Scripture, he also wasn’t in your face that this is for God, and that everyone needed to know he was healing the sick and easing the suffering because GOD SAID SO!  I’m pretty sure he did it because it was the right thing to do, and, yes, he obviously did it in the name of God but more as a lead by example and not so much a do it for reward kind of thing. You know ‘what you do to the least of my people you do unto me’ kind of idea.

If there is a Higher Power, a Creator, I’d hope that the actions I’ve done, the example I’m trying to be. Because as much as I love and value words, actions do speak louder. I can say I am a christian but if my life doesn’t reflect that then it holds no water.  But if I lead a christian life and don’t claim it, does that really lessen the value of my actions?  Worrying about whether this life I lead is going to be enough for the judgement that comes takes time and focus away from easing pain and suffering now.  It seems very selfish to be doing good things if only to hope it gets me into a nice place after I die. Jesus probably didn’t hang on the cross thinking, if I forgive all these people, then I have to get in, right? He did it because he was asked, not because he wanted anything in return. Is it somehow wrong then, that I too try and do things because other need me (or need something I can give) without that expectation that it’s going to get me something later?

I also asked my cousin because she is religious but has recently found her own way back to her faith and was raised Catholic so closer to my state of spirituality (ish). She responded that she didn’t think of it as a location but more of a state: peace.

I love that response. It doesn’t assume acceptance into heaven but doesn’t discount the ever-after either. Could be religious but doesn’t have to be. I think I’m stealing that outlook.  I’m working towards peace.

[anewhope4change-blog]

Protest and the Erotic

“America” by Claude McKay is a relatively short and incredibly compact poem.  America, to McKay, is a cruel woman who feeds him “bread of bitterness” and sinks into his throat “her tiger’s tooth”, likely implying that America is trying to silence him and people like him. Although despite her flaws, America is a place that he both loves and hates, writing that he “love(s) this cultured hell that tests my youth”. At a glance, this poem’s meaning appears to be one of resistance. McKay tells us he will continue to exist, to live in spite of the hatred and bitterness he receives from the land he hates to love. This stance is not unlike Langston Hughes, who, rather than wanting America, as the racist society it was, torn to shreds, simply wanted it to live up to its founding ideals and become a nation of equals. 

McKay was considered then, even today, as one of America’s finer protest poets. The manner in which he wrote his protest poetry is different than say, Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston. Despite his unabashed pride about his Jamaican and African heritage (Drayton) and the fact this poem was written at the height of the Harlem Renaissance, he doesn’t mention race a single time. The language of the poetry makes it clear he is talking about race, but regardless, the fact he chose to omit any language about race speaks volumes. McKay decides to make the poem about criticizing America the nation, not through the lens of a black American, but simply as an American. This speaks to McKay’s writing style and poetic philosophy, which is described as him “...protesting as a Negro and uttering a cry for the race of mankind as a member of that race.” (Drayton). It is possible this aspect of his poetry is due to his early attraction to Communism (Smethurst). Many of the thinkers and poets that were around towards the closing years of the Harlem Renaissance, specifically the year 1920 onwards, became infatuated with Communism similar to McKay (Smethurst) due to its revolutionary and egalitarian appeal. However, McKay, despite his love-hate relationship with America, never fully committed himself to the ideology, even going so far as to virulently criticize it a few years after the Harlem Renaissance “ended” (Smethurst). 

Why would McKay opt not to embrace radicalism, be it political or poetic, despite many of his peers deciding to do so? Fortunately, McKay answers this for us. His answer is a lot more interesting than one would expect, to say the least. Personally, this required a couple more readings before I could find McKay’s answer. 

Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,

Giving me strength erect against her hate,

Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.

Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state

I stand within her walls with not a shred

Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer

McKay stands “erect” in the face of America’s “hate”, whose “bigness” overwhelms him. Despite being overwhelmed, he “stand(s) within her walls”, unafraid of what might happen to him. McKay could have just as easily used different words to get the idea across he will stand resolute in spite of the country’s racism. Why would he eroticize this entire section of the poem? It all has to do with the love-hate relationship he has with America. Relationships between couples can get very complicated - I doubt further description is needed in that subject. McKay is using that dynamic between certain couples to describe his relationship with America. He does not like America, America does not like him. Yet they still have sex all the same, as couples generally do. The answer to why McKay rebuffed and rejected the radicalism which had influenced other artists from the Harlem Renaissance is that he, against all odds, loved the country too much - like a man loyal to his woman, or vice versa. 

After reading that part of the poem over for the third time, I was surprised I didn’t pick up on McKay’s erotic language the first time. However, after picking up on it, I encountered a new problem. “How can I use this information to discuss a protest poem?” I thought. “It’s not like eroticism has anything to do with protest... or does it?” In the span of 5 minutes, I was hit with two major “aha!” moments. First from realizing you could use eroticism in protest and second from realizing that we have been using it for quite some time. Although this might be common knowledge to some people, humor me for a few minutes. It is possible I and possibly many others, did not realize the nature of this section of the poem because of how widespread eroticism has become. 

Even beyond protest, eroticism - sex in general - has permeated society at almost every conceivable level. Eroticism, for better or worse, has been intrinsically linked with the idea of protest for decades. This is especially relevant when looking at recent events, such as Donald Trump’s Presidential campaign in 2016, as well as the protests that occurred before and after his election. Eroticism as protest has been particularly popular against Trump, due to a leaked tape which recorded him making several sexist comments, chief among them being the famous “grab her by the pussy” line. This tape, as well as a few other questionable past comments by Trump, prompted waves protests following his ascension to the Presidency in 2017. The most famous of these protests occurred on January 21, the day after Trump’s inauguration. The Women’s March, which became the single largest protest day in American history, was defined by the sheer amount of protesters, as well as the “pussyhats” worn by many of them. Although the hats are not necessarily eros in the form of protest, many of the signs employed by the protesters were sexual (sexually derogatory towards Trump to be precise) in nature - at least in Richmond. Another example was the Trump statues that popped up overnight in multiple states in August of 2018 (Snyder). These statues were designed to resemble a naked Trump, depicting him as an overweight, unhealthy, and unattractive man, with a micropenis (Snyder). 

This trend of anti-Trump, sexually-based insults and protest slogans/signs employed by protesters has increased in popularity and absurdity. While the original meaning of the protest is still present, the protest messages have degenerated into the realm of ineffectiveness and pettiness. A brief journey to one of the political hashtags on Twitter or other social media platforms is proof of that. 

While eros is not something Claude McKay should be remembered by, his use of erotic language in “America” and other poems helps shed a light on its usage in modern protest. The Greeks believed the idea of eros came from the god Eros. They recognized that eros, as an idea, was extremely powerful, divinely so. While there are certainly many ideas made, or inspired by, the ancient Greeks that are worth forgetting, perhaps their concept of eros is worth remembering. It is an immensely powerful idea, one that should be applied in the form of protest against the most worthy of opponents. In his time, McKay used these ideas to fight the racism and discrimination he and other African-Americans encountered. In our time, it was used effectively, however briefly, against Trump. While politics and discrimination are worthy subjects to use eros as protest, it is important not to overuse the idea. The key aspect of protest is the hope that change will come as a result. By using the same idea to protest, no matter how powerful that idea is, it is hypocritical and foolish to believe that any change can be made.

Works Cited:

Drayton, Arthur. "Claude Mckay's Human Pity: A Note on His Protest Poetry." Introduction to African Literature: an Anthology of Critical Writing. (1979): 86-98. Print.Smethurst, J. (February 19, 2009). 

"The Red Is East: Claude McKay and the New Black Radicalism of the Twentieth Century". American Literary History. 21 (2): 355–367. DOI:10.1093/alh/ajp011. ISSN 0896-7148.

Snyder, Chris. “Naked Donald Trump Statues Are Popping up across America.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 18 Aug. 2016, https://www.businessinsider.com/naked-donald-trump-statues-video-2016-8.

[awesomecoolnutstudentthings]

6 Questions.

Ethiel Antonio Vega-Padilla

English 215

 I guess that my first question would pertain to that of the Harlem Renaissance, why didn’t we dive deeper into the black poets such as Langston Hughes, Marcus Garvey, Claude McKay, Alice Dunbar Nelson. All pioneers who contributed greatly to the arts with their works. By diving deeper into the Renaissance with writers such as Marcus Garvey, we see that he offers a completely different dynamic in his “Go back to Africa” movement, and linking it to such topics such as the beat movement like Kerouac’s On the road narrative and compare both journey’s and how they both set their sights on their journey’s into the unknown.  

My second question would be concerned with why wouldn’t we dive deeper into short stories? I understand that we have books like in water melon sugar, and on the road, where the stories are artistically elongated and masterfully descriptive, but what left an even deeper impression was the short story by James Baldwin Sunny’s Blue’s where in just a short number of pages he could craft a story that takes you to a place you never knew you needed. Like longer novels, short stories are just as intricate and complex as the next and I think without having to cover so many chapters we can get to the point rather quickly.

My question would be why wouldn’t documentary cinema not be a bigger focal point within the course? I think that with today’s student; I apologize for steering from the prompt but, I know as a student I love learning about relevant topics in art, not through power point slides but through informational documentaries. I think that they are more influential, especially in today’s generation where all the kids have grown up with some sort of access to the internet, and we both know how influential that thing is.

I question why we didn’t go into more of the beat poetry. My feelings towards the beat’s movement would have been great in the aspect of how the beat’s where more of a sociopolitical outlet more than anything. I say this because like my blog post, Skin Head by Patricia Smith understandably was part of the earlier section of class where we were focused on poetry in general, but that post I wrote about really stuck with me. The dichotomy that is a Black Women and her doing a poem about an aspect of America which in this case (drum roll please), is racism; and in a way rewriting it in a light of sympathy and understanding that in the black and brown community is unheard of, which is powerful.

In the third part of class I wish we would have dived deeper into movies. I enjoyed smoke signals very much, and if I’m honest with you and myself, I really love buddy narratives and how they translate on film. But the spiritual dueling that one goes through throughout the film was something that I can relate to and others. Like for the instance of Shannon, her sharing of her relationship with her distant father and how she dealt with his passing is a testament to the power of a film such as Smoke Signals and the path that films like this set for us to walk and discuss and progress on. I also think that expressing how one feels is an important part of societal functions and pertains to the course heavily.

I guess the last question that I would bring up would be in the fact of discussions and why we didn’t get into more dialogs on heated topics. I get that like a butthole, everyone has an opinion but I think that we should have discussed religion a little more and also spirituality, and their differences and similarities. And like in parable of the sower how does one define God if you believe so. I hoped we would have dived into more of the education system and on hypothetical situations dealing with what our ideal educational system would be. I guess what I’m trying to get at here would be to get the juices flowing, not just for discussion but the blog post and writing in general.  

[aviscline68916-blog]

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