Pastel
drawing of Hughes by Winold Reiss I was ten in
the spring of '61. It had been a long, cold, oppressive Midwestern
winter... freezing snow, chunks of ice, lots of days spent indoors reading,
like a prisoner. And my teacher was at the blackboard. I gazed out the window at clouds drifting across the
sky, they resembled the chunks of ice floating on the Missouri river,
curving past in the bottomlands. I was sitting at my Lusher Elementary
School desk Florissant, Missouri.
The school was surrounded by patchwork tract homes and farmland. I walked two blocks to
school every day, savoring a fragrance
of spring apple blossoms. I suffered the boredom of each grim and
inglorious day
Lusher was a low, featureless brick building, hemmed in by
cornfields and surrounded by overlapping chain link fences. The suburban
sprawl surrounding the institution was stifling, fixed, and rigid. Not far away, closer
to the riverbank,was a wilderness of
mysterious caves which perforated the the forested bluffs.
The sparsely-populated neighborhoods
were punctuated by crawdad-filled creeks, etched crevices in the
rich, dark, muddy, Missouri riverbottomland
soil.1 On ragged rural roads, unpainted farmhouses stood as
testaments to dying traditions. Most needed paint. This was a
letdown. I longed for the city.
Previously, downtown (about twenty miles to the east), I remembered a frenzy of
streetcars criss-crossing an electric network of magic, invention, and
excitement. Blues sparks cat-danced
from conduits, while streetcars and automobiles
wrestled for control. When the streetcars zigged and
zagged across the city, electrical current surged and ebbed, blue-green snaps
when the conductor braked at intersections, and white-lightening flashes
when we started to gain speed. It was transcendent.
St. Louis was a metropolisin
transition.. It was a grand center of country, continent, and
century. A self-professed gateway to unimagined vistas.
A harbinger of dreams...
The city was overwhelmed. We were in the crux of an inevitable and unrelenting migration.
Thousand of families fled to the countryside, inspired by a meeting of rivers.2
When my family made that journey, I felt like I had been thrown to the
wolves in an unfamiliar hostile place.
I reluctantly wandered the new
Americana. When my explorations took me to the river I took some
solace in those waters, but what kept me sane were excursions with dad to
downtown St. Louis,
the dreamscape.
Gaslight square,
old
Victorians, art galleries, shops, jazz clubs,
and the coffeehouse culture of the era were a thrill. One of the
sweeter hangouts was "The Exit" a coffeehouse on the square. There were art shows and
fragrant clouds of smoke upstairs, while downstairs, the sounds of folk, blues,
poetry, and animated
voices filled the air. The hipsters and hangers on of the "Beatnik era,"
celebrated clueless pundits, explored the limits of perception, plotted
revolution, or engaged in synergistic machinations, communal psychosis,
lynguistic ecstacy, or collective redemption.
In strange
synchronicity, in spite of Kerouac's sad nostalgia,
or because of
Ginsberg's
mad-ravings, underneath the vapid sensationalism, reality artists and jazz musicians,
steeped in the
blues, exchanged
small wisdom. While these seekers broke new ground,
they kept a melancholy faith... planting seeds and nurturing strange
beginnings.
My fifth grade teacher,
Mr. Miller, loved jazz and resembled
Steve Allen. He was generally
clean-cut and conservative-looking, but in sideways glances revealed hints of pathos,
perception, or desperation. Unsettling
depths.
He was a nondescript and unremarkable teacher. This term we we studied poetry
and I had been quiet in class... (Bored
with school, alienated, aching for city-lights. I missed
Forest Park of World's
fair fame, and the zigzag, auto-electric
avenues. But when Mr. Miller asked the class if anyone liked poetry, in spite
of my natural inclinations, I raised my hand. In a moment of courage, I
offered to share something I had heard at the The Exit.
Then I hesitated, uncertain.
Mr. Miller normally
seemed
bored witless by his vocation, but on this occasion he turned in my
direction with a
curious gleam in his eye. It emanated from some locus behind his left
pupil... A grin crept across his
face. I was startled by the transformation and nearly decided to take my seat.
But something kept me standing. When I was asked to continue, I
opened my mouth, the hairs on the back of my neck tingled, and I recited one
poem from memory. . "I went down
to the river. I set down on the bank. I tried to think but
couldn't. So I jumped in and sank..." I meandered through the
music of the verses, dazed, amazed, and fearless. Mr. Miller and the rest of the
class, in rapt attention or undisguised wonder, remained alert and attentive until
the
final lines..."Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll
be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine
as wine! Life is fine!*"
Mr. Miller was
simultaneously wide-eyed, terrified, and thrilled. My classmates
cheered and jeered, alternating between fright, delight,
horror, and confusion. After some moments, in its
own good time, the
class moved along. The world turned and rivers rushed to
the sea. I was triumphant, celebratory, and once more invisible.
While my teacher retreated to grading papers, I was dizzy with hope.
The hard-edged small wisdom of Langston
Hughes sanctified that classroom in joy. I will not
forget.
~~Timothy Flanagan
Box 22
Lake Oswego, Oregon 97034-0003
503.697.1670
A Dream Deferred (by Langston Hughes) A Dream Deferred. by Langston Hughes. Hughes homepage.
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in
the sun? ...
www.cswnet.com/~menamc/langston.htm
Analysis of "Harlem - A Dream Deferred"
The question, “What happens to a dream deferred?”
appears to be answered with nothing but more questions.
But if we analyze
each question we get an idea ...
webpages.charter.net/classicpoetry/ harlemadreamdeferred.htm
Collected Works of Langston Hughes #01:
The Poems: 1921-1940 ISBN:
0826213391
Pastel
drawing of Hughes by Winold Reiss
