Black Boy

by Richard Wright

  I was so eager to be gone that when I stood in the front hallway, packed and ready, I did not even think of saying good-bye to the boys and girls with whom I had eaten and slept and lived for so many weeks. My mother scolded me for my thoughtlessness and bade me say good-bye to them. Reluctantly I obeyed her, wishing that I did not have to do so. As I shook the dingy palms extended to me I kept my eyes averted, not wanting to look again into faces that hurt me because they had become so thoroughly associated in my feelings with hunger and fear. In shaking hands I was doing something that I was to do countless times in the years to come: acting in conformity with what others expected of me even though, by the very nature and form of my life, I did not and could not share their spirit.

  (After I had outlived the shocks of childhood, after the habit of reflection had been born in me, I used to mull over the strange absence of real kindness in Negroes, how unstable was our tenderness, how lacking in genuine passion we were, how void of great hope, how timid our joy, how bare our traditions, how hollow our memories, how lacking we were in those intangible sentiments that bind man to man, and how shallow was even our despair. After I had learned other ways of life I used to brood upon the unconscious irony of those who felt that Negroes led so passional an existence! I saw that what had been taken for our emotional strength was our negative confusions, our flights, our fears, our frenzy under pressure.

  (Whenever I thought of the essential bleakness of black life in America, I knew that Negroes had never been allowed to catch the full spirit of Western civilization, that they lived somehow in it but not of it. And when I brooded upon the cultural barrenness of black life, I wondered if clean, positive tenderness, love, honor, loyalty, and the capacity to remember were native with man. I asked myself if these human qualities were not fostered, won, struggled and suffered for, preserved in ritual from one generation to another.)

  Granny’s home in Jackson was an enchanting place to explore. It was a two-story frame structure of seven rooms. My brother and I used to play hide and seek in the long, narrow hallways, and on and under the stairs. Granny’s son, Uncle Clark, had bought her this home, and its white plastered walls, its front and back porches, its round columns and banisters, made me feel that surely there was no finer house in all the round world.

  There were wide green fields in which my brother and I roamed and played and shouted. And there were the timid children of the neighbors, boys and girls to whom my brother and I felt superior in worldly knowledge. We took pride in telling them what it was like to ride on a train, what the yellow, sleepy Mississippi River looked like, how it felt to sail on the Kate Adams, what Memphis looked like, and how I had run off from the orphan home. And we would hint that we were pausing for but a few days and then would be off to even more fabulous places and marvelous experiences.

  To help support the household my grandmother boarded a colored schoolteacher, Ella, a young woman with so remote and dreamy and silent a manner that I was as much afraid of her as I was attracted to her. I had long wanted to ask her to tell me about the books that she was always reading, but I could never quite summon enough courage to do so. One afternoon I found her sitting alone upon the front porch, reading.

  “Ella,” I begged, “please tell me what you are reading.”

  “It’s just a book,” she said evasively, looking about with apprehension.

  “But what’s it about?” I asked.

  “Your grandmother wouldn’t like it if I talked to you about novels,” she told me.

  I detected a note of sympathy in her voice.

  “I don’t care,” I said loudly and bravely.

  “Shhh—You mustn’t say things like that,” she said.

  “But I want to know.”

  “When you grow up, you’ll read books and know what’s in them,” she explained.

  “But I want to know now.”

  She thought a while, then closed the book.

  “Come here,” she said.

  I sat at her feet and lifted my face to hers.

  “Once upon a time there was an old, old man named Bluebeard,” she began in a low voice.

  She whispered to me the story of Bluebeard and His Seven Wives and I ceased to see the porch, the sunshine, her face, everything. As her words fell upon my new ears, I endowed them with a reality that welled up from somewhere within me. She told how Bluebeard had duped and married his seven wives, how he had loved and slain them, how he had hanged them up by their hair in a dark closet. The tale made the world around me be, throb, live. As she spoke, reality changed, the look of things altered, and the world became peopled with magical presences. My sense of life deepened and the feel of things was different, somehow. Enchanted and enthralled, I stopped her constantly to ask for details. My imagination blazed. The sensations the story aroused in me were never to leave me. When she was about to finish, when my interest was keenest, when I was lost to the world around me, Granny stepped briskly onto the porch.

  “You stop that, you evil gal!” she shouted. “I want none of that Devil stuff in my house!”

  Her voice jarred me so that I gasped. For a moment I did not know what was happening.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilson,” Ella stammered, rising. “But he asked me—”

  “He’s just a foolish child and you know it!” Granny blazed.

  Ella bowed her head and went into the house.

  “But, granny, she didn’t finish,” I protested, knowing that I should have kept quiet.

  She bared her teeth and slapped me across my mouth with the back of her hand.

  “You shut your mouth,” she hissed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “But I want to hear what happened!” I wailed, dodging another blow that I thought was coming.

  “That’s the Devil’s work!” she shouted.

  My grandmother was as nearly white as a Negro can get without being white, which means that she was white. The sagging flesh of her face quivered; her eyes, large, dark, deep-set, wide apart, glared at me. Her lips narrowed to a line. Her high forehead wrinkled. When she was angry her eyelids drooped halfway down over her pupils, giving her a baleful aspect.

  “But I liked the story,” I told her.

  “You’re going to burn in hell,” she said with such furious conviction that for a moment I believed her.

  Not to know the end of the tale filled me with a sense of emptiness, loss. I hungered for the sharp, frightening, breathtaking, almost painful excitement that the story had given me, and I vowed that as soon as I was old enough I would buy all the novels there were and read them to feed that thirst for violence that was in me, for intrigue, for plotting, for secrecy, for bloody murders. So profoundly responsive a chord had the tale struck in me that the threats of my mother and grandmother had no effect whatsoever. They read my insistence as mere obstinacy, as foolishness, something that would quickly pass; and they had no notion how desperately serious the tale had made me. They could not have known that Ella’s whispered story of deception and murder had been the first experience in my life that had elicited from me a total emotional response. No words or punishment could have possibly made me doubt. I had tasted what to me was life, and I would have more of it, somehow, someway. I realized that they could not understand what I was feeling and I kept quiet. But when no one was looking I would slip into Ella’s room and steal a book and take it back of the barn and try to read it. Usually I could not decipher enough words to make the story have meaning. I burned to learn to read novels and I tortured my mother into telling me the meaning of every strange word I saw, not because the word itself had any value, but because it was the gateway to a forbidden and enchanting land.

  One afternoon my mother became so ill that she had to go to bed. When night fell Granny assumed the task of seeing that my brother and I bathed. She set two tubs of water in our room and ordered us to pull off our clothes, which we did. She sat at one end of the room, knitting, lifting her eyes now and then from the wool to watch u
s and direct us. My brother and I splashed in the water, playing, laughing, trying our utmost to fling suds into each other’s eyes. The floor was getting so sloppy that Granny scolded us.

  “Stop that foolishness and wash yourselves!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” we answered automatically and proceeded with our playing.

  I scooped up a double handful of suds and called to my brother. He looked and I flung the suds, but he ducked and the white foam spattered on to the floor.

  “Richard, stop that playing and bathe!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, watching my brother to catch him unawares so that I could fling more suds at him.

  “Come here, you Richard!” Granny said, putting her knitting aside.

  I went to her, walking sheepishly and nakedly across the floor. She snatched the towel from my hand and began to scrub my ears, my face, my neck.

  “Bend over,” she ordered.

  I stooped and she scrubbed my anus. My mind was in a sort of daze, midway between daydreaming and thinking. Then, before I knew it, words—words whose meaning I did not fully know—had slipped out of my mouth.

  “When you get through, kiss back there,” I said, the words rolling softly but unpremeditatedly.

  My first indication that something was wrong was that Granny became terribly still, then she pushed me violently from her. I turned around and saw that her white face was frozen, that her black, deep-set eyes were blazing at me unblinkingly. Taking my cue from her queer expression, I knew that I had said something awful, but I had no notion at that moment just how awful it was. Granny rose slowly and lifted the wet towel high above her head and brought it down across my naked back with all the outraged fury of her sixty-odd-year-old body, leaving an aching streak of fire burning and quivering on my skin. I gasped and held my breath, fighting against the pain; then I howled and cringed. I had not realized the meaning of what I had said; its moral horror was unfelt by me, and her attack seemed without cause. She lifted the wet towel and struck me again with such force that I dropped to my knees. I knew that if I did not get out of her reach she would kill me. Naked, I rose and ran out of the room, screaming. My mother hurried from her bed.

  “What’s the matter, mama?” she asked Granny.

  I lingered in the hallway, trembling, looking at Granny, trying to speak but only moving my lips. Granny seemed to have gone out of her mind, for she stood like stone, her eyes dead upon me, not saying a word.

  “Richard, what have you done?” my mother asked.

  Poised to run again, I shook my head.

  “What’s the matter, for God’s sake?” my mother asked of me, of Granny, of my brother, turning her face from one to another.

  Granny wilted, half turned, flung the towel to the floor, then burst into tears.

  “He…I was trying to wash him,” Granny whimpered, “here,” she continued, pointing, “and…that black little Devil…” Her body was shaking with insult and rage. “He told me to kiss him there when I was through.”

  Now my mother stared without speaking.

  “No!” my mother exclaimed.

  “He did,” Granny whimpered.

  “He didn’t say that,” my mother protested.

  “He did,” Granny sighed.

  I listened, vaguely knowing now that I had committed some awful wrong that I could not undo, that I had uttered words I could not recall even though I ached to nullify them, kill them, turn back time to the moment before I had talked so that I could have another chance to save myself. My mother picked up the wet towel and came toward me. I ran into the kitchen, naked, yelling. She came hard upon my heels and I scuttled into the back yard, running blindly in the dark, butting my head against the fence, the tree, bruising my toes on sticks of wood, still screaming. I had no way of measuring the gravity of my wrong and I assumed that I had done something for which I would never be forgiven. Had I known just how my words had struck them, I would have remained still and taken my punishment, but it was the feeling that anything could or would happen to me that made me wild with fear.

  “Come here, you little filthy fool!” my mother called.

  I dodged her and ran back into the house, then again into the hallway, my naked body flashing frantically through the air. I crouched in a dark corner. My mother rushed upon me, breathing hard. I ducked, crawled, stood, and ran again.

  “You may as well stand still,” my mother said. “I’m going to beat you tonight if it is the last thing I do on this earth!”

  Again she charged me and I dodged, just missing the stinging swish of the wet towel, and scooted into the room where my brother stood.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, for he had not heard what I had said.

  A blow fell on my mouth. I whirled. Granny was upon me. She struck me another blow on my head with the back of her hand. Then my mother came into the room. I fell to the floor and crawled under the bed.

  “You come out of there,” my mother called.

  “Naw,” I cried.

  “Come out or I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life,” she said.

  “Naw,” I said.

  “Call Papa,” Granny said.

  I trembled. Granny was sending my brother to fetch Grandpa, of whom I was mortally afraid. He was a tall, skinny, silent, grim, black man who had fought in the Civil War with the Union Army. When he was angry he gritted his teeth with a terrifying, grating sound. He kept his army gun in his room, standing in a corner, loaded. He was under the delusion that the war between the states would be resumed. I heard my brother rush out of the room and I knew it was but a matter of minutes before Grandpa would come. I balled myself into a knot and moaned:

  “Naw, naw, naw…”

  Grandpa came and ordered me from under the bed. I refused to move.

  “Come out of there, little man,” he said.

  “Naw.”

  “Do you want me to get my gun?”

  “Naw, sir. Please don’t shoot me!” I cried.

  “Then come out!”

  I remained still. Grandpa took hold of the bed and pulled it. I clung to a bedpost and was dragged over the floor. Grandpa ran at me and tried to grab my leg, but I crawled out of reach. I rested on all fours and kept in the center of the bed and each time the bed moved, I moved, following it.

  “Come out and get your whipping!” my mother called.

  I remained still. The bed moved and I moved. I did not think; I did not plan; I did not plot. Instinct told me what to do. There was painful danger and I had to avoid it. Grandpa finally gave up and went back to his room.

  “When you come out, you’ll get your whipping,” my mother said. “No matter how long you stay under there, you’re going to get it. And no food for you tonight.”

  “What did he do?” my brother asked.

  “Something he ought to be killed for,” Granny said.

  “But what?” my brother asked.

  “Shut you up and get to bed,” my mother said.

  I stayed under the bed far into the night. The household went to sleep. Finally hunger and thirst drove me out; when I stood up I found my mother lurking in the doorway, waiting for me.

  “Come into the kitchen,” she said.

  I followed her and she beat me, but she did not use the wet towel; Grandpa had forbade that. Between strokes of the switch she would ask me where had I learned the dirty words and I could not tell her; and my inability to tell her made her furious.

  “I’m going to beat you until you tell me,” she declared.

  And I could not tell her because I did not know. None of the obscene words I had learned at school in Memphis had dealt with perversions of any sort, although I might have learned the words while loitering drunkenly in saloons. The next day Granny said emphatically that she knew who had ruined me, that she knew I had learned about “foul practices” from reading Ella’s books, and when I asked what “foul practices” were, my mother beat me afresh. No matter how hard I tried to convince them that I had not read the words
in a book or that I could not remember having heard anyone say them, they would not believe me. Granny finally charged Ella with telling me things that I should not know and Ella, weeping and distraught, packed her things and moved. The tremendous upheaval that my words had caused made me know that there lay back of them much more than I could figure out, and I resolved that in the future I would learn the meaning of why they had beat and denounced me.

  The days and hours began to speak now with a clearer tongue. Each experience had a sharp meaning of its own.

  There was the breathlessly anxious fun of chasing and catching flitting fireflies on drowsy summer nights.

  There was the drenching hospitality in the pervading smell of sweet magnolias.

  There was the aura of limitless freedom distilled from the rolling sweep of tall green grass swaying and glinting in the wind and sun.

  There was the feeling of impersonal plenty when I saw a boll of cotton whose cup had spilt over and straggled its white fleece toward the earth.

  There was the pitying chuckle that bubbled in my throat when I watched a fat duck waddle across the back yard.

  There was the suspense I felt when I heard the taut, sharp song of a yellow-black bee hovering nervously but patiently above a white rose.

  There was the drugged, sleepy feeling that came from sipping glasses of milk, drinking them slowly so that they would last a long time, and drinking enough for the first time in my life.

  There was the bitter amusement of going into town with Granny and watching the baffled stares of white folks who saw an old white woman leading two undeniably Negro boys in and out of stores on Capitol Street.

  There was the slow, fresh, saliva-stimulating smell of cooking cotton seeds.

  There was the excitement of fishing in muddy country creeks with my grandpa on cloudy days.