Cultural Exchange
In the Quarter of the Negroes
Where the doors are doors of paper
Dust of dingy atoms
Blows a scratchy sound.
Amorphous jack-o'-Lanterns caper
And the wind won't wait for midnight
For fun to blow doors down.
By the river and the railroad
With fluid far-off goind
Boundaries bind unbinding
A whirl of whisteles blowing.
No trains or steamboats going--
Yet Leontyne's unpacking.
In the Quarter of the Negroes
Where the doorknob lets in Lieder
More than German ever bore,
Her yesterday past grandpa--
Not of her own doing--
In a pot of collard greens
Is gently stewing.
Pushcarts fold and unfold
In a supermarket sea.
And we better find out, mama,
Where is the colored laundromat
Since we move dup to Mount Vernon.
In the pot begind the paper doors
on the old iron stove what's cooking?
What's smelling, Leontyne?
Lieder, lovely Lieder
And a leaf of collard green.
Lovely Lieder, Leontyne.
You know, right at Christmas
They asked me if my blackness,
Would it rub off?
I said, Ask your mama.
Dreams and nightmares!
Nightmares, dreams, oh!
Dreaming that the Negroes
Of the South have taken over--
Voted all the Dixiecrats
Right out of power--
Comes the COLORED HOUR:
Martin Luther King is Governor of Georgia,
Dr. Rufus Clement his Chief Adviser,
A. Philip Randolph the High Grand Worthy.
In white pillared mansions
Sitting on their wide verandas,
Wealthy Negroes have white servants,
White sharecroppers work the black plantations,
And colored children have white mammies:
Mammy Faubus
Mammy Eastland
Mammy Wallace
Dear, dear darling old white mammies--
Sometimes even buried with our family.
Dear old
Mammy Faubus!
Culture, they say, is a two-way street:
Hand me my mint julep, mammny.
Hurry up!
Make haste!
poem by Langston Hughes
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Related quotes
When It's Sleepy Time Down South
Pale moon shining on the fields below
Folks are crooning songs soft and low
Needn't tell me so because I know
It's sleepy time down south
Soft winds blowing through the pinewood trees
Folks down there like a life of ease
When old mammy falls upon her knees
It's sleepy time down south
Steamboats on the river a coming or a going
Splashing the night away
Hear those banjos ringing, the people are singing
They dance til the break of day, hey
Dear old southland with his dreamy songs
Takes me back there where I belong
How I'd love to be in my mammy's arms
When it's sleepy time way down south
Dear old southland with his dreamy songs
Take me back there where I belong
How I'd love to be in my mammy's arms
When it's sleepy time down south
Sleepy time down south
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Angry Soup Of Racism
ain't it a shame:
when hate lynches
a 14 year old, Colored boy
in 1955, Mississippi,
and blows away the dreams of
(four innocent little Negroe girls) ,
in 1963, Birmingham, Alabama.
yeah,
bus that to your segregated thoughts:
as I “interracially” walk you,
through Little Rock, Arkansas
with Daisy Bates & nine Black Children,
to march along side the National Guard,
on their way to a lily white school,
as the message of this-
un-segregates & un-tangles
the history of hate;
attackin’ Negroes in 1957,
whose only desire was to be educated;
and schooled too.
racism & hate
doesn’t try to guide,
the white citizen council back,
to their good senses,
‘cause racism-
don’t care ‘bout nobody,
being Jew or Colored,
when it needs to fire-bomb;
Negroe churches with... Negroes in them
or feels the need to “hang” somebody;
from a tree out of existence.
racism even devours… its own kkklan
as the innocent,
pay the ultimate price.
racism doesn’t care,
if, your church is the 16th Street Baptist,
and 14 yr old, Addie Mae Collins
( is one of the four black Alabama children):
killed in attendance.
racism ain’t concerned,
about you being Caucasian either
or your last name being:
Jewish
White
Black
B rown
Till
Schwerner
Evers
Liuzzo
Mandela
Martin or Rodney King,
and so many other names,
that we’ll never know of,
that racism wounded or buried six feet;
under hate.
racism doesn’t care,
about what kinda NAACP dream
you’re having,
or concerned about your last name;
being “Parks, ” in 1955
when it attempts to guide you back;
to the “Colored” section of the bus,
where you know,
your civil-rights will be denied,
every time you allow,
“ segregation & discrimination, ”
to collect its fare.
racism and its hateful followers,
have no regard at all,
for one’s race/religion
or sexual persuasion.
especially, when racism peeps
into its discriminating mirror,
century after century;
time after time,
day after day,
and tells itself, in 2006
“it’s better than you, '
because you’re 'cultured' different
from “them.”
yeah,
racism stirs an “ugly pot” of soup;
that no one should ever have to taste.
poem by Ronald Stroman
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But I think it is more difficult to do a career as a lieder singer, and there have been less lieder singers.
quote by Victoria de los Angeles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lullaby
Rock-a-by baby, woolly and brown…
(There's a shout at the door an' a big red light…)
Lil' coon baby, mammy is down…
Han's that hold yuh are steady an' white…
Look piccaninny - such a gran' blaze
Lickin' up the roof an' the sticks of home -
Ever see the like in all yo' days!
- Cain't yuh sleep, mah bit-of-honey-comb?
Rock-a-by baby, up to the sky!
Look at the cherries driftin' by -
Bright red cherries spilled on the groun' -
Piping-hot cherries at nuthin' a poun'!
Hush, mah lil' black-bug - doan yuh weep.
Daddy's run away an' mammy's in a heap
By her own fron' door in the blazin' heat
Outah the shacks like warts on the street…
An' the singin' flame an' the gleeful crowd
Circlin' aroun'… won't mammy be proud!
With a stone at her hade an' a stone on her heart,
An' her mouth like a red plum, broken apart…
See where the blue an' khaki prance,
Adding brave colors to the dance
About the big bonfire white folks make -
Such gran' doin's fo' a lil' coon's sake!
Hear all the eagah feet runnin' in town -
See all the willin' han's reach outah night -
Han's that are wonderful, steady an' white!
To toss up a lil' babe, blinkin' an' brown…
Rock-a-by baby - higher an' higher!
Mammy is sleepin' an' daddy's run lame…
(Soun' may yuh sleep in yo' cradle o' fire!)
Rock-a-by baby, hushed in the flame…
(An incident of the East St. Louis Race Riots, when some white women flung
a living colored baby into the heart of a blazing fire.)
poem by Lola Ridge
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You's Sweet to Yo' Mammy de Same
(Lullaby)
Shet yo' eyes, ma little pickaninny, go to sleep
Mammy's watchin' by you all de w'ile;
Daddy is a-wukin' down in de cott'n fiel',
Wukin' fu' his little honey child.
An' yo' mammy's heart is jes a-brimmin' full o' lub
Fu' you f'om yo' head down to yo' feet;
Oh, no mattah w'at some othah folks may t'ink o' you,
To yo' mammy's heart you's mighty sweet.
You's sweet to yo' mammy jes de same;
Dat's why she calls you Honey fu' yo' name.
Yo' face is black, dat's true,
An' yo' hair is woolly, too,
But, you's sweet to yo' mammy jes de same.
Up der in de big house w'ere dey lib so rich an' gran'
Dey's got chillen dat dey lubs, I s'pose;
Chillen dat is purty, oh, but dey can't lub dem mo'
Dan yo' mammy lubs you, heaben knows!
Dey may t'ink you's homely, an' yo' clo'es dey may be po',
But yo' shinin' eyes, dey hol's a light
Dat, my Honey, w'en you opens dem so big an' roun',
Makes you lubly in yo' mammy's sight.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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With a Readiness to Assassinate Characters
There are many trapped Negroes,
Still left behind.
And sitting on verandas, waiting...
To define themselves with wishes.
With dismissals picked,
That are easy to find!
As they pray to reopen doors...
Long abandoned,
On closed plantations.
Desperate were their needs then,
To be freed and released...
From an increase of oppressive treatment.
But mental struggles kept,
And harvested by those purists of bigotted limits.
Believing they are God's gifts.
And annointed to suppress and punish others...
As perceived from their own restricted lives lived.
In a valued wicked sickness.
And has left their land and taken stances,
Accepted as racist.
Showing their grievances on their bitter faces.
There are many trapped Negroes,
Still left behind.
With mindsets confined and enslaved.
Praying that an obeying.
Will deliver them with souls saved.
In the heavens suspended,
With harps and wings.
And praises to sing!
There are many trapped Negroes,
On expanding lazy butts!
And loving unaccountable responsibility...
That leave generations,
Annoyingly spoiled and absent of guts!
But strutting their vacant beliefs...
On filthy streets that reflect their philosophies.
There are many trapped Negroes,
Crying on the outside.
Yet denying on the inside...
They have no identities at all!
And they are lost.
There are many trapped Negroes,
Hating the fact they call themselves 'black'.
With desires to be found as clowning 'nigguhs'.
And doing their best to 'Step 'n Fetchit'.
On a backward track.
And sustaining a hip-hop gladness about that!
'Whoa...Hey!
Don't you feel some will find what you reveal offensive? '
Of course!
Especially those who oppose being referred to as Negroes.
And those African-Americans who can't stand to be called 'black'.
But not those mulattos who are thrilled to represent...
Just what it means,
To be descendents of Queens and Kings.
And proud it's digested.
Confessed and expressed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It is incontestable and deplorable that Negroes have committed crimes; but they are derivative crimes. They are born of the greater crimes of the white society.
quote by Martin Luther King, Jr.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, the teacher I studied with for nineteen and a half years was a man named Paul Gavert. He was a great lieder singer, so basically I'm a trained lieder singer because of that teacher. The teacher I currently study with - since 1995 - is Joan Lader, who also studied with Gavert.
quote by Betty Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Grievance
Wen de snow 's a-fallin'
An' de win' is col'.
Mammy 'mence a-callin',
Den she 'mence to scol',
'Lucius Lishy Brackett,
Don't you go out do's,
Button up yo' jacket,
Les'n you 'll git froze.'
I sit at de windah
Lookin' at de groun',
Nuffin nigh to hindah,
Mammy ain' erroun';
Wish 't she would n' mek me
Set down in dis chaih;
Pshaw, it would n't tek me
Long to git some aih.
So I jump down nimble
Ez a boy kin be,
Dough I 's all a-trimble
Feahed some one 'll see;
Bet in a half a minute
I fly out de do'
An' I 's knee-deep in it,
Dat dah blessed snow.
Den I hyeah a pattah
Come acrost de flo'.
Den dey comes a clattah
At de cabin do';
An' my mammy holler
Spoilin' all my joy,
'Come in f'om dat waller,
Don't I see you, boy?'
Wen de snow 's a-sievin'
Down ez sof ez meal,
Whut 's de use o' livin'
'Cept you got de feel
Of de stuff dat's fallin'
'Roun' an' white an' damp,
'Dout some one a-callin',
'Come in hyeah, you scamp!'
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Negro Schools
Please be silent now, my country, while I fill the speaker's place;
While I point out some abuses that we constantly embrace,
Listen with your best attention to the words that I shall say,
How the Negro schools are managed, in this Commonwealth today.
All the officers are white men and together they conspire,
To undo the schools for Negroes, of such deeds they never tire;
Oft we find among the trustees men who cannot read a word,
But when speaking of the Negro, they are certain to be heard.
Education for the Negro they discourage, and they say,
'It will bring dissatisfaction to such people ev'ry day,
Make them crave for something higher, such as white men should enjoy,
Which will spoil the other Negroes that we have in our employ.'
Shorter terms are recommended many times as low as two
Are the months to Negroes given, in a year—now this is true,
Longer terms the whites are given in the same communities—
They conform to such a standard of the right with perfect ease.
Poorer pay to Negro teachers, driving good ones from the field,
Schools are let to lowest bidders to the same they're forced to yield,
Higher pay and better teachers for the white schools is the cry.
While encouragement is given Negro schools to starve and die.
Rural libraries established for the whites on ev'ry side,
But when application's made for Negro schools it is denied,
Thus they deal with education for the mass of Negro youth,
Posing still as great exponents and conservers of the truth.
From the sword of fierce Goliath we may all a lesson learn,
How while planning death to others on your head it may return,
In regard to schools for Negroes, cease their welfare to neglect,
For the same will come upon you in a way you least expect.
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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Flight
Outside my window the wasps
are making their slow circle,
dizzy flights of forage and return,
hovering among azaleas
that bob in a sluggish breeze
this humid, sun-torn morning.
Yesterday my wife held me here
as I thrashed and moaned, her hand
in my foaming mouth, and my son
saw what he was warned he might.
Last night dreams stormed my brain
in thick swirls of shame and fear.
Behind a white garage a locked shed
full of wide-eyed dolls burned,
yellow smoke boiling up in huge clumps
as I watched, feet nailed to the ground.
In dining cars white table cloths
unfolded wings and flew like gulls.
An old German in a green Homburg
sang lieder, Mein Herz ist müde.
In a garden in Pasadena my father
posed in Navy whites while overhead
silver dirigibles moved like great whales.
And in the narrowing tunnel
of the dream’s end I flew down
onto the iron red road
of my grandfather’s farm.
There was a white rail fence.
In the green meadow beyond,
a small boy walked toward me.
His smile was the moon’s rim.
Across his egg-shell eyes
ran scenes from my future life,
and he embraced me like a son
or father or my lost brother.
poem by B.H. Fairchild
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What I did not yet know so intensely was the hatred of the white American for the black, a hatred so deep that I wonder if every white man in this country, when he plants a tree, doesn't see Negroes hanging from its branches.
quote by Jean Genet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New Year
WHITE year, white year,
Muffled soft in snow,
A diamond spray whose gems are gone
Before their grace we know,
A crystal-coated spray whose hours
Melt when looked upon,
Hoarfrost stars and hoarfrost flowers,
White year!
Green year, green year,
Sweet with sun and showers,
A windblown spray whose blossoms bright
Are the seven-colored hours,
A dancing spray whose leaves are days,
A spray whose leaves delight
In azure gleam and silver haze,
Green year!
New Year, new year
From rosy leaf to gold,
A shining spray on the Tree of Time
Where myriad sprays unfold,
A spray so fair that God may see
And gather it, bloom and rime,
To deck the doors of Eternity,
New Year!
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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Must Be Freed
The ante-bellum Negro prayed,
For God to intercede,
And God in answer to him said,
'Your children shall be freed.'
The hand was seen upon the wall,
The fates at once decreed
That Negro bondsmen one and all,
Should soon be free, indeed.
'If Abraham Lincoln's president'
The South said, 'we'll secede;'
They apprehended he'd consent,
For Negroes to be freed.
To battle North against the South,
O'er states rights was agreed,
But echo from the cannon's mouth,
Said, 'Negroes must be freed.'
Confed'rates did with marked success,
McClellan's steps impede,
Till Abr'm Lincoln did confess,
That Negroes must be freed.
The Union boys with heaven's strength,
From that time did succeed;
And fought with valor till at length,
The Negro slaves were freed.
The Jim Crow car for Negroes made,
To crush their pride, indeed,
Has on the harps of thinkers played,
Those people must be freed.
The right of suffrage from the men,
Is taken out of greed;
A better day is coming when
They shall from this be freed.
Black men before the lyncher's rope,
In vain for mercy plead,
But justice cries, 'There is a hope,
From such you shall be freed.'
From ignorance and poverty,
From superstition's creed,
From those who crush his liberty,
The Negro must be freed.
The hand has written on the wall,
The clouds must all recede,
For God Whose word can never fall,
Says,'Negroes must be freed.'
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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Highway 13
Traveling eastward on highway 13, alongside
uninhabited-it seems- railroad track
Quickly passing quaint white churches,
steeples humbly making signs of the cross.
Looking down at her black skin, and wondering
Why not one white church is followed
by a single colored one…Hmm?
god's design or man's...
white churches, colored churches...Hmm?
The poetic architect quickly dismantles such thoughts
and centers her mind on nature's creation:
The confiers bearing brown cones,
neddles dropping off
brown grass dead asleep.
the evening progressed
as we pressed on passing
life's winter.
Passing by red, green, and white illuminated homes;
luminous reindeers and round-belly Santas,
Seeming to announce a Ho, Ho, Ho, and a Merry Christmas!
Unawakening the sleeping children in the back.
We continued eastward…
Merry Christmas everyone!
December 27,2007
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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Jim Crow Cars
If within the cruel Southland you have chanced to take a ride,
You the Jim Crow cars have noticed, how they crush a Negro's pride,
How he pays a first class passage and a second class receives,
Gets the worst accommodations ev'ry friend of truth believes.
'Tis the rule that all conductors, in the service of the train,
Practice gross discriminations on the Negro—such is plain—
If a drunkard is a white man, at his mercy Negroes are,
Legalized humiliation is the Negro Jim Crow car.
'Tis a license given white men, they may go just where they please,
In the white man's car or Negro's will they move with perfect ease,
If complaint is made by Negroes the conductor will go out
Till the whites are through carousing, then he shows himself about.
They will often raise a riot, butcher up the Negroes there,
Unmolested will they quarrel, use their pistols,rant and swear,
They will smoke among the ladies though offensive the cigar;
'Tis the place to drink their whiskey, in the Negro Jim Crow car.
If a Negro shows resistance to his treatment by a tough,
At some station he's arrested for the same, though not enough,
He is thrashed or lynched or tortured as will please the demon's rage,
Mobbed, of course, by 'unknown parties,' thus is closed the darkened page.
If a lunatic is carried, white or black, it is the same,
Or a criminal is taken to the prison-house in shame,
In the Negro car he's ushered with the sheriff at his side,
Out of deference for white men in their car he scorns to ride.
We despise a Negro's manhood, says the Southland, and expect,
All supremacy for white men—black men's rights we'll not protect,
This the Negro bears with patience for the nation bows to might,
Wrong has borne aloft its colors disregarding what is right.
This is called a Christian nation, but we fail to understand,
How the teachings of the Bible can with such a system band;
Purest love that knows no evil can alone the story tell,
How to banish such abuses, how to treat a neighbor well.
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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The Southern Press
When a Negro comes in question you may watch the Southern press,
See how bias its opinions, how his ills are given stress,
Prominence is given headlines, when accused he is of crime,
Emphasizes all the evils of the Negro ev'ry time.
If a white man comes in question you may watch the press again,
How its dignity it loses in a compromise with sin,
Down in some secluded corner you the story may behold,
Where the public may not find it, sadly there the tale is told.
It condemns the sins of Negroes which in white men 'twill excuse,
If a Negro's crime is grievous here's the heading it will use:
'He's a candidate for lynching,' in a type that's bold and plain,
If a heinous crime's committed by a white man, 'he's insane.'
When the Negroes prove their manhood and their homes protection give,
They're pronounced as desperadoes and too desperate to live,
Nothing like its ever published of a white man, though his case
May be ten times more revolting and far deeper the disgrace.
At some public place if Negroes are mistreated by the whites,
When policemen won't arrest them or defend a Negro's rights,
Though the proof is overwhelming and the public ear it gains.
How conspicuous the silence that the Southern press maintains.
When a good is done by Negroes of the same you will not hear,
With their ills the press is busy and the good cannot appear,
Wrong, if found upon a Negro, will be charged up to the race,
But if white, with him 'tis ended, brings his people no disgrace.
See! the Southern press is bowing to a god that's made of gold!
And the populace is crying in a way that's passing bold,
'It must run to suit our fancy or the gold we'll take away!'
So the press can rise no higher than the common people say.
Humbleness will be exalted, exaltation be abased,
To the press it sounds a warning blest humility to taste.
Exaltation in a measure waves its banner over all,
But such pride will bring destruction, haughty spirits bring a fall.
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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Twenty-One
A Birthday cake for you,
A Slice of Chocolate Heaven,
It may be too sweet for you,
That's why it's a fake one.
Today you get your keys
Can open many doors,
Watch out for cheeky monkeys,
That hide behind the doors.
Sometimes you get donkeys,
You better slam the doors!
If it is a wolly wookie,
Dash quickly out the doors!
If it turns out Chucky,
You better lock the doors!
I hope that you are lucky,
Waiting behind the doors,
If that is your destiny,
He will find you and be yours.
Happy Birthday Dear!
My Collard Green Romance
At one time...
One would have to beg grocers
To get collard greens in their stores.
Now the major food chains,
Have them propped up like kings and queens...
Among the lettuce, cabbage and corn!
They have obtained such notoriety today,
You have to have patience when someone
Grabs the last bundle.
And that person would not have admitted,
A leaf of a collard green bush in their neighborhood!
I saw these times coming.
'Cleo' didn't have the market on this!
When I finally can find Collard Greens...
Stocked like precious gems near the avacados.
I go to the suburbs.
Pig feet, chitlins', hamhocks, snouts and hoofs,
Are there!
Like it's a Negro Christmas going on!
Or...
Someone's been passing around my grandma's recipes!
When I cook my Collard Greens...
I season the water with dashes of salt, pepper
And garlic powder.
I slice one vadalia onion and a small potato.
I add three teaspoons of apple cider vinegar,
One teaspoon of lemon juice.
Two tablespoons of Olive Oil...virgin!
Cover and bring this crap to a boil.
Fill kitchen sink for the Collard Green bath.
This is where the true romance begins!
With baking powder, salt and celery seasoning...
Gently lift your Collard Greens and place them,
Stalk first into the warm and inviting water!
Rub each leaf between your hands under the water.
And while you are there...
Alone with your Collard Greens,
Glad you did not have to go to battle to get them.
You rinse them and begin to slice their leaves,
Grabbing them into a bunch...
And placing those cut leaves in a bowl.
When this task is done,
Put those greens in a pot that, hopefully...
Smells like an exotic preparation for royalty!
Turn down that boiled heat...under the pot!
To medium cook...
And let them do so for about 45mins to an hour.
Never rush cooking Collard Greens.
Oh...
When I want my Collard Greens,
To taste better than any on the scene!
I use baby smoked turkey butts.
In the boiled prepped water,
With the other sizzling seasons!
Any turkey butt will do...
But those baby butted turkeys,
Make gobbling up Collard Greens so delicious.
Enjoy!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Curiosity
MAMMY'S in de kitchen, an' de do' is shet;
All de pickaninnies climb an' tug an' sweat,
Gittin' to de winder, stickin' dah lak flies,
Evah one ermong us des all nose an' eyes.
'Whut's she cookin', Isaac?' 'Whut's she cookin', Jake?'
'Is it sweet pertaters? Is hit pie er cake?'
But we couldn't mek out even whah we stood
Whut was mammy cookin' dat could smell so good.
Mammy spread de winder, an' she frown an frown.
How de pickaninnies come a-tumblin' down!
Den she say: 'Ef you-all keeps a-peepin' in,
How I'se gwine to whup you, my! 't 'ill be a sin!
Need n' come a-sniffin' an' a-nosin' hyeah,
'Ca'se I knows my business, nevah feah.'
Won't somebody tell us — how I wish dey would! —
Whut is mammy cookin' dat it smells so good?
We know she means business, an' we dassent stay,
Dough it's mighty tryin' fuh to go erway;
But we goes a-troopin' down de ol' wood-track
'Twell dat steamin' kitchen brings us stealin' back,
Climbin' an' a-peepin' so's to see inside.
Whut on earf kin mammy be so sha'p to hide?
I'd des up an' tell folks w'en I knowed I could,
Ef I was a-cookin' t'ings dat smelt so good.
Mammy in de oven, an' I see huh smile;
Moufs mus' be a-wat'rin' roun' hyeah fuh a mile;
Den we almos' hollah ez we hu'ies down,
'Ca'se hit's apple dumplin's, big an' fat an' brown!
W'en de do' is opened, solemn lak an' slow,
Wisht you see us settin' all dah in a row
Innercent an' p'opah, des lak chillun should
W'en dey mammy's cookin' t'ings dat smell so good.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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