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Harlem
Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
“I just tried to find the nicest place for the least amount of money for my family”--Mama
“Americans suffer from an ignorance that is not only colossal, but sacred”---James Baldwin
A Raisin in the Sun, by Lorraine Hansberry, first produced in 1959, is one of the great American plays, set in Chicago and pertaining to racist housing practices, something Hansberry’s family actually experienced when they moved, suffering rocks through their windows and a (failed) lawsuit against their moving in. Hansberry faced years of no one wanting to publish this play, then no one wanted to produce the play, then no one actually wanted to rent space for a theatrical production of the play, but when it was finally produced it met popular and critical acclaim, the first commercially successful play by an African American author.
One can actually say this play helped to create some of the conditions for The Fair Housing Act of 1968 that prohibits discrimination concerning housing based on race, religion, national origin or sex. The Fair Housing Act is one of the great legislative achievements of the civil rights era. Yet in 1975, the cast of Raisin, the musical, became involved in defense of a family whose home in Queens, New York City, had been fire-bombed, and the 1972 City Commissioner of Human Rights Report became public, citing “eleven cases in the last eighteen months in which minority-owned homes had been set afire or vandalized, a church had been bombed, and a school bus had been attacked”—and all this in presumed-left-leaning New York City alone.
What’s the play about? Mama, Walter and Ruth, Beneatha, Travis, living in a dingy south side Chicago apartment and their American dream to buy a house with some inheritance money. And some pushback they get from their new white “neighbors.” It’s also about Beneatha’s growing feminist and Africanist identity and her dream to become a doctor. It’s about Walter’s (he’s described as a volcano) dream to run a liquor store after years of driving a limo. It’s about Mama’s dream to keep the family together.
It’s about questions of assimilation, and hair and identity.
It’s also a play of crackling dialogue:
Walter: There you are. Man say to his woman: I got me a dream. His woman say: Eat your eggs.
Walter: Sometimes it’s like I can see the future stretched out in front of me—just plain as day. The future, Mama. Hanging over there at the edge of my days. Just waiting for me—a big, looming blank space—full of nothing. Just waiting for me. But it don’t have to be.
Mama: Son—how come you talk so much ’bout money?
Walter (With immense passion): Because it is life, Mama!
This play is a kind of cultural forum on the black experience in the late fifties as a foundation for the black power movements of the sixties. And is still mightily relevant today. I read it with my English teaching methods class in conjunction with ninth graders who were also reading it in a school near my campus.
Ruth: Clybourne Park? Mama, there ain’t no colored people living in Clybourne Park.
Mama: Well, I guess there’s going to be some now.
(Neighbor) Mrs. Johnson: You mean you ain’t read ’bout them colored people that was bombed out their place out there?
Later, after Johnson leaves, Beneatha: Mama, if there are two things we, as a people, have got to overcome, one is the Ku Klux Klan—and the other is Mrs. Johnson.
Walter’s liquor license deal falls through, somewhat predictably, and he nearly gives up, in despair, but it is his confrontation with Mr. Lindner of the “Welcoming Committee” that gives the ending it’s peculiar hopefulness. Family!
In Raisin, wrote James Baldwin, “never before in the entire history of the American theater had so much of the truth of black people’s lives been seen on the stage.” It paved the way for the cycle of plays from August Wilson, and many others. Racist killing in Buffalo? It's as if the war never ended; because it hasn't.
Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
“I just tried to find the nicest place for the least amount of money for my family”--Mama
“Americans suffer from an ignorance that is not only colossal, but sacred”---James Baldwin
A Raisin in the Sun, by Lorraine Hansberry, first produced in 1959, is one of the great American plays, set in Chicago and pertaining to racist housing practices, something Hansberry’s family actually experienced when they moved, suffering rocks through their windows and a (failed) lawsuit against their moving in. Hansberry faced years of no one wanting to publish this play, then no one wanted to produce the play, then no one actually wanted to rent space for a theatrical production of the play, but when it was finally produced it met popular and critical acclaim, the first commercially successful play by an African American author.
One can actually say this play helped to create some of the conditions for The Fair Housing Act of 1968 that prohibits discrimination concerning housing based on race, religion, national origin or sex. The Fair Housing Act is one of the great legislative achievements of the civil rights era. Yet in 1975, the cast of Raisin, the musical, became involved in defense of a family whose home in Queens, New York City, had been fire-bombed, and the 1972 City Commissioner of Human Rights Report became public, citing “eleven cases in the last eighteen months in which minority-owned homes had been set afire or vandalized, a church had been bombed, and a school bus had been attacked”—and all this in presumed-left-leaning New York City alone.
What’s the play about? Mama, Walter and Ruth, Beneatha, Travis, living in a dingy south side Chicago apartment and their American dream to buy a house with some inheritance money. And some pushback they get from their new white “neighbors.” It’s also about Beneatha’s growing feminist and Africanist identity and her dream to become a doctor. It’s about Walter’s (he’s described as a volcano) dream to run a liquor store after years of driving a limo. It’s about Mama’s dream to keep the family together.
It’s about questions of assimilation, and hair and identity.
It’s also a play of crackling dialogue:
Walter: There you are. Man say to his woman: I got me a dream. His woman say: Eat your eggs.
Walter: Sometimes it’s like I can see the future stretched out in front of me—just plain as day. The future, Mama. Hanging over there at the edge of my days. Just waiting for me—a big, looming blank space—full of nothing. Just waiting for me. But it don’t have to be.
Mama: Son—how come you talk so much ’bout money?
Walter (With immense passion): Because it is life, Mama!
This play is a kind of cultural forum on the black experience in the late fifties as a foundation for the black power movements of the sixties. And is still mightily relevant today. I read it with my English teaching methods class in conjunction with ninth graders who were also reading it in a school near my campus.
Ruth: Clybourne Park? Mama, there ain’t no colored people living in Clybourne Park.
Mama: Well, I guess there’s going to be some now.
(Neighbor) Mrs. Johnson: You mean you ain’t read ’bout them colored people that was bombed out their place out there?
Later, after Johnson leaves, Beneatha: Mama, if there are two things we, as a people, have got to overcome, one is the Ku Klux Klan—and the other is Mrs. Johnson.
Walter’s liquor license deal falls through, somewhat predictably, and he nearly gives up, in despair, but it is his confrontation with Mr. Lindner of the “Welcoming Committee” that gives the ending it’s peculiar hopefulness. Family!
In Raisin, wrote James Baldwin, “never before in the entire history of the American theater had so much of the truth of black people’s lives been seen on the stage.” It paved the way for the cycle of plays from August Wilson, and many others. Racist killing in Buffalo? It's as if the war never ended; because it hasn't.