I am repeating this post as my humble contribution to Black History Month. Enjoy, Beautiful People!
Over forty years ago, as I landed in the U.S., I came across a short poem and was stunned by the powerful images:
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?
Written by Langston Hughes, one of the prominent leaders and moving forces of Harlem Renaissance but a total unknown in communist Russia, where I came from, it hit me with a surge of emotion I wasn’t even able to understand at that time.
Next came the play by Lorraine Hansberry, whose title was taken from Hughes’ poem, A Raisin in the Sun. It was the first in many ways: the first play written by a black…
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