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Copy of E3: The Harlem Renaissance

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Scott Killion

on 11 April 2014

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Transcript of Copy of E3: The Harlem Renaissance

Negro Spirituals
Slave
Field Songs
The
Blues
+
=
JAZZ
The New Negro Movement
Regionalism
Minstrel
Shows
Vaudeville
1860s
1840s
1900s
1920s
1899-1917
Military Marches
live variety shows that traveled across the country and featured music, comedy, and skits
spirited, patriotic songs meant to be played in parades and celebrations.
1880s
Ragtime
A style of music popularized by Scott Joplin that featured "ragged," syncopated rhythms.
traveling shows (typically with performers in blackface) that played up racist stereotypes of African American slaves.
That's just the way it is
Things'll never be the same
That's just the way it is
I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals —
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting —
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
I know why the caged bird sings!
Sympathy
We Wear the Mask
WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
Oh when I think of my long-suffering race,
For weary centuries despised, oppressed,
Enslaved and lynched, denied a human place
In the great life line of the Christian West;
And in the Black Land disinherited,
Robbed in the ancient country of its birth,
My heart grows sick with hate, becomes as lead,
For this my race that has no home on earth.
Then from the dark depths of my soul I cry
To the avenging angel to consume
The white man's world of wonders utterly:
Let it be swallowed up in earth's vast womb,
Or upward roll as sacrificial smoke
To liberate my people from its yoke!
Enslaved
Claude McKay (1889-1948)
The Harlem Dancer
Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!
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.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.
America
Incident
Countee Cullen (1903-1946)
Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That’s all that I remember.
Heritage
(For Harold Jackman)

What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
Jungle star or jungle track,
Strong bronzed men, or regal black
Women from whose loins I sprang
When the birds of Eden sang?
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who all day long
Want no sound except the song
Sung by wild barbaric birds
Goading massive jungle herds,
Juggernauts of flesh that pass
Trampling tall defiant grass
Where young forest lovers lie,
Plighting troth beneath the sky.
So I lie, who always hear,
Though I cram against my ear
Both my thumbs, and keep them there,
Great drums throbbing through the air.
So I lie, whose fount of pride,
Dear distress, and joy allied,
Is my somber flesh and skin,
With the dark blood dammed within
Like great pulsing tides of wine
That, I fear, must burst the fine
Channels of the chafing net
Where they surge and foam and fret.
Africa? A book one thumbs
Listlessly, till slumber comes.
Unremembered are her bats
Circling through the night, her cats
Crouching in the river reeds,
Stalking gentle flesh that feeds
By the river brink; no more
Does the bugle-throated roar
Cry that monarch claws have leapt
From the scabbards where they slept.
Silver snakes that once a year
Doff the lovely coats you wear,
Seek no covert in your fear
Lest a mortal eye should see;
What’s your nakedness to me?
Here no leprous flowers rear
Fierce corollas in the air;
Here no bodies sleek and wet,
Dripping mingled rain and sweat,
Tread the savage measures of
Jungle boys and girls in love.
What is last year’s snow to me,
Last year's anything? The tree
Budding yearly must forget
How its past arose or set—
Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,
Even what shy bird with mute
Wonder at her travail there,
Meekly labored in its hair.
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spice grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who find no peace
Night or day, no slight release
From the unremittant beat
Made by cruel padded feet
Walking through my body’s street.
Up and down they go, and back,
Treading out a jungle track.
So I lie, who never quite
Safely sleep from rain at night—
I can never rest at all
When the rain begins to fall;
Like a soul gone mad with pain
I must match its weird refrain;
Ever must I twist and squirm,
Writhing like a baited worm,
While its primal measures drip
Through my body, crying, “Strip!
Doff this new exuberance.
Come and dance the Lover’s Dance!”
In an old remembered way
Rain works on me night and day.

Quaint, outlandish heathen gods
Black men fashion out of rods,
Clay, and brittle bits of stone,
In a likeness like their own,
My conversion came high-priced;
I belong to Jesus Christ,
Preacher of humility;
Heathen gods are naught to me.
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
So I make an idle boast;
Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,
Lamb of God, although I speak
With my mouth thus, in my heart
Do I play a double part.
Ever at Thy glowing altar
Must my heart grow sick and falter,
Wishing He I served were black,
Thinking then it would not lack
Precedent of pain to guide it,
Let who would or might deride it;
Surely then this flesh would know
Yours had borne a kindred woe.
Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,
Daring even to give You
Dark despairing features where,
Crowned with dark rebellious hair,
Patience wavers just so much as
Mortal grief compels, while touches
Quick and hot, of anger, rise
To smitten cheek and weary eyes.
Lord, forgive me if my need
Sometimes shapes a human creed.

All day long and all night through,
One thing only must I do:
Quench my pride and cool my blood,
Lest I perish in the flood.
Lest a hidden ember set
Timber that I thought was wet
Burning like the dryest flax,
Melting like the merest wax,
Lest the grave restore its dead.
Not yet has my heart or head
In the least way realized
They and I are civilized.
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four
Jean Toomer (1894-1967)
W.E.B. Du Bois (1868-1963)
Of course you have faced the dilemma: it is announced, they all smirk and rise. If they are ultra, they remove their hats and look ecstatic; then they look at you. What shall you do? Noblesse oblige; you cannot be boorish, or ungracious; and too, after all it is your country and you do love its ideals if not all of its realities. Now, then, I have thought of a way out: Arise, gracefully remove your hat, and tilt your head. Then sing as follows, powerfully and with deep unction. They’ll hardly note the little changes and their feelings and your conscience will thus be saved:


My country tis of thee,
Late land of slavery,
Of thee I sing.
Land where my father’s pride
Slept where my mother died,
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring!

My native country thee
Land of the slave set free,
Thy fame I love.
I love thy rocks and rills
And o’er thy hate which chills,
My heart with purpose thrills,
To rise above.
My Country ’Tis of Thee
Let laments swell the breeze
And wring from all the trees
Sweet freedom’s song.
Let laggard tongues awake,
Let all who hear partake,
Let Southern silence quake,
The sound prolong.

Our fathers’ God to thee
Author of Liberty,
To thee we sing
Soon may our land be bright,
With Freedom’s happy light
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God our King.
The Song of the Smoke
I am the Smoke King
I am black!
I am swinging in the sky,
I am wringing worlds awry;
I am the thought of the throbbing mills,
I am the soul of the soul-toil kills,
Wraith of the ripple of trading rills;
Up I’m curling from the sod,
I am whirling home to God;
I am the Smoke King
I am black.

I am the Smoke King,
I am black!
I am wreathing broken hearts,
I am sheathing love’s light darts;
Inspiration of iron times
Wedding the toil of toiling climes,
Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes—
Lurid lowering ’mid the blue,
Torrid towering toward the true,
I am the Smoke King,
I am black.
I am the Smoke King,
I am black!
I am darkening with song,
I am hearkening to wrong!
I will be black as blackness can—
The blacker the mantle, the mightier the man!
For blackness was ancient ere whiteness began.
I am daubing God in night,
I am swabbing Hell in white:
I am the Smoke King
I am black.

I am the Smoke King
I am black!
I am cursing ruddy morn,
I am hearsing hearts unborn:
Souls unto me are as stars in a night,
I whiten my black men—I blacken my white!
What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might?
Hail! great, gritty, grimy hands—
Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands!
I am the Smoke King
I am black.
The Harlem Renaissance
1918-1929
The Rebirth of African American Culture
sonnet:
a 14-line poem with a strict rhyme scheme that deals with a theme of LOVE.
J
A
Z
Z
a spoken language that is unique to a local geographic region or socioeconomic class.
dialect:
Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
I see no changes. Wake up in the morning and I ask myself,
"Is life worth living? Should I blast myself?"
I'm tired of bein' poor and even worse I'm black.
My stomach hurts, so I'm lookin' for a purse to snatch.

Cops give a damn about a negro?
Pull the trigger, kill a n-----, he's a hero.
Give the crack to the kids who the hell cares?
One less hungry mouth on the welfare.
First ship 'em dope & let 'em deal to brothers.
Give 'em guns, step back, and watch 'em kill each other.

"It's time to fight back", that's what Huey said.
2 shots in the dark now Huey's dead.
I got love for my brother,
but we can never go nowhere
unless we share with each other.
We gotta start makin' changes.
Learn to see me as a brother 'stead of 2 distant strangers.
And that's how it's supposed to be.
How can the Devil take a brother if he's close to me?
I'd love to go back to when we played as kids
but things changed, and that's the way it is
That's just the way it is
Things'll never be the same
That's just the way it is
I see no changes. All I see is racist faces.
Misplaced hate makes disgrace to races we under.
I wonder what it takes to make this one better place...
let's erase the wasted.

Take the evil out the people, they'll be acting right.
'Cause both black and white
Are smokin' crack tonight.
And only time we chill is when we kill each other.
It takes skill to be real, time to heal each other.
And although it seems heaven sent,
we ain't ready to see a black President.

It ain't a secret don't conceal the fact...
the penitentiary's packed, and it's filled with blacks.
But some things will never change.
Try to show another way
But they stayin' in the dope game.
Now tell me what's a mother to do?
Bein' real don't appeal to the brother in you.

You gotta operate the easy way.
"I made a G today" But you made it in a sleazy way.
Sellin' crack to the kids. "I gotta get paid,"
Well hey, well that's the way it is.
We gotta make a change...
It's time for us as a people to start makin' some changes.
Let's change the way we eat, let's change the way we live
and let's change the way we treat each other.
You see the old way wasn't working so it's on us to do
what we gotta do, to survive.
And still I see no changes. Can't a brother get a little peace?
There's war on the streets & the war in the Middle East.
Instead of war on poverty,
they got a war on drugs so the police can bother me.

And I ain't never did a crime I ain't have to do.
But now I'm back with the facts givin' 'em back to you.
Don't let 'em jack you up, back you up,
Crack you up and pimp smack you up.
You gotta learn to hold ya own.
They get jealous when they see ya with ya mobile phone.

But tell the cops they can't touch this.
I don't trust this, when they try to rush I bust this.
That's the sound of my tune.
You say it ain't cool, but mama didn't raise no fool.

And as long as I stay black, I gotta stay strapped
And I never get to lay back.
'Cause I always got to worry 'bout the pay backs.
Some buck that I roughed up way back...
Comin' back after all these years.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.
That's the way it is.
Changes
by Tupac Shakur
"The Souls of Black Folk" (essay collection)
First African American Ph.D. from Harvard
Founder of the NAACP (1909)
"The New Negro Movement"
Minstrel Shows
(1830s -mid 1900s)
White performers wearing "blackface" makeup.

Appeared in live theater, vaudeville, and film

Based on racist stereotypes

Black people as are depicted as CARICATURES
1952
1927
2009
1943
1889
2000

Christ is a nigger,
Beaten and black:
Oh, bare your back!

Mary is His mother:
Mammy of the South,
Silence your mouth.
God is His father:
White Master above
Grant Him your love.

Most holy bastard
Of the bleeding mouth,
Nigger Christ
On the cross
Of the South.
Christ in Alabama
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Dreams

been scared and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,
Still Here
Looks like between 'em they done
Tried to make me

Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'--
But I don't care!
I'm still here!
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?
Harlem (A Dream Deferred)
I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
I, Too, Sing America
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway....
He did a lazy sway....
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--
"Ain't got nobody ain all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more--
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.
The Weary Blues
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.
Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads,
Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,
Rumbling in the wind,
Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . .
Full-lipped flowers
Bitten by the sun
Bleeding rain
Dripping rain like golden honey—
And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.
Storm Ending

"Each man should buy five gifts" I once was told
"As luck would have it each one starts with S.
The first is something shiny -- bright and bold
for shows of wealth most surely will impress."

"Next: something soft that she can wear with pride
Then something scented -- flowers or perfume
The soft displays your vulnerable side
While scent will linger long throughout her room."

"And if indeed her heart you seek to win
Then something sweet can never steer you wrong
Like candied hearts with chocolates in a tin
Or simple notes sung sweetly in a song."

As for the final S? That secret's mine.
Though in a pinch -- a sonnet works just fine.
Valentine
November Cotton Flower
Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,
Failed in its function as the autumn rake;
Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take
All water from the streams; dead birds were found
In wells a hundred feet below the ground--
Such was the season when the flower bloomed.
Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed
Significance. Superstition saw
Something it had never seen before:
Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Beauty so sudden for that time of year.

Far from the mad'ning crowd of day to day
To solemn solitude we turn our trust
We listen as the people bow and pray
As last year's branches burn away to dust.

For forty days we pause and we reflect
We fold our hands and hearts in silent prayer
A time for mindfulness and self neglect
This sacrifice reminds us you are there.

The ashen gray of winter keeps us close
All far and wide at this time gathers near.
From worlds above you send your holy Host
Salvation's breath in every word we hear.

Amazing love -- impossible to see.
That you, my sacred King, would die for me.
Sacrifice
juxtapose:
to intentionally place two dissimilar objects into the same setting.
4
3
2
1
THESIS
AREA 1
AREA 2
AREA 3
PRIMARY SOURCE:
In:

the author uses:

in order to:
THESIS
AREA 1
AREA 2
AREA 3
PRIMARY SOURCE:
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
In:
the author uses:

in order to:
create a satire of the 1800s
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
ridiculous characters and events
Duke & King
Huck & Jim
Grangerfords & Shepherdsons
THESIS
AREA 1
AREA 2
AREA 3
PRIMARY SOURCE:
Langston Hughes' poetry
In:
the author uses:

in order to:
Langston Hughes' poetry
"The past is never dead. It's not even past."
"The past isn't dead. Actually, it's not even past."
"The past isn't dead and buried. In fact, it isn't even past."
- Barack Obama,
"A More Perfect Union" (2008)
- William Faulkner
"Requiem for a Nun" (1950)
- Gil Pender (Owen Wilson),
"Midnight in Paris" (2011)
1865
Thirteenth Amendment is adopted as law by the U.S.
(December 8)
2013
(February 7)
Thirteenth Amendment is formally ratified by the state of Mississippi
2012
(October 8)
"Lincoln" movie starring Daniel Day Lewis opens in U.S. theaters
1865
(April 15)
Abraham Lincoln is assassinated by John Wilkes Booth
Henry David Thoreau
Romanticism / Transcendentalism
"Civil Disobedience" (1849)
Langston Hughes
Harlem Renaissance
"Harlem (A Dream Deferred)" (1951)
Mahatma Gandhi
Indian Nationalism
"On Nonviolent Resistance" (1916)
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Civil Rights Movement
"Letter from Birmingham City Jail" (1963)
"Let every man make known what kind of government would command his respect, and that will be one step toward obtaining it."
ETHOS
PATHOS
LOGOS
appeal to credibility
appeal to emotion
appeal to reason
Example: "As a ten-year veteran..."
Example: "After my sister died..."
Example: "Doing [x] will produce [y]..."
"An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind."
"I know this well, that if one thousand, if one hundred, if ten men whom I could name—if ten honest men only—aye, if one HONEST man, in this State of Massachusetts, ceasing to hold slaves, were actually to withdraw from this copartnership, and be locked up in the county jail therefor, it would be the abolition of slavery in America. For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to be: What is once well done is done forever. . . ."
UNIT EXAM
Part I:
Part II:
Part III:
Part IV:
Part V:
unit 10 vocab
quote identification
term identification
timeline
true / false
Due This Friday (2/22/13):
Submit your TYPED reflection paper (3-4 paragraphs) where you trace how ONE theme appears across THREE related sources dealing with Langston Hughes and/or the Harlem Renaissance.

Your finished assignment should contain:

+ ONE paragraph about how a particular poem (or poems) by the author demonstrated the theme you've selected.

+ ONE paragraph incorporating evidence from the printed article you received that discusses this same theme.

+ ONE paragraph incorporating evidence from an article of your choice (from the Gale Databas) that supports your thematic analysis.

+ A properly formatted Works Cited page.
- Mahatma (Mohandas) Gandhi -
(1869-1948)
Read the Gandhi excerpt to identify
ETHOS / PATHOS / LOGOS
and post your findings to Padlet.
Research
Impact & Legacy
The Rebirth
Roots & Origins
Group 1:
Group 2:
Group 3:
1
ethos
pathos
logos
Group 4:
Group 5:
Group 6:
ethos
pathos
logos
2
What are the major THEMES of the Harlem Renaissance?
Making Connections:
Full transcript