"You know where the white folks live?"
"Yeah," Gus said, pointing eastward. "Over
across the 'line' over there on
Cottage Grove Avenue."
"Naw, they don't" Bigger said.
"What do you mean?" Gus asked, puzzled. "Then,
where do they live?"
Bigger doubled his fist and struck his solar plexus. "Right
down here in my stomach," he said.
Gus looked at Bigger searchingly, then away, as though
ashamed. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he whispered.
"Every time I think of 'em, I feel 'em," Bigger
said.
"Yeah, and in your chest and throat too" Gus
said. "It's like fire."
"And sometimes you can't hardly breathe." Bigger’s eyes were wide and placid,
gazing into space.
Richard Wright, Native Son. Page 24
If we must die — let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die —oh, let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;
Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one dath blow!
What though before us lied the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying but fighting back.
Claude McKay. Summer 1919. Liberator , 21.
