Is a black man a raisin in the sun? Oppressed wise?

Answer 1

Harlem: (A Dream Deferred)
By 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?

The original reference to "raisin in the sun" came from Langston Hughes, who commented not only on black issues, but on the human condition in general. I have seen oppression lead to both extremes, from the silent loss of the will to live and dream, to explosive protests that equally cost human lives. So I think this reference applies to the soul in general, regardless of race.

Answer 2

There simply are cracks in the creases of the social and mental cages that oppressed blacks. Now we can all see that they are slowly but surely crawling out of that home that wasn't a home or even supposed to function as such. If blacks had truly devolved into raisins in the sun, they would have only had a sort of ornamental value but never to the extent of the cherry on the pie. Yet it seems that in that light they get their slice and eat it too, make a home of what wasn't one and setting new standards in the process. Then again, the negativity still weighs and is sometimes hard to shake thus influences whatever people see of blacks and even how blacks see themselves.

It's hard to transpose a metaphor in clarity. But basically blacks are still oppressed by a past that weighs heavier than whatever being black means as an experience now. At the same time, blacks are no raisins in the nowadays sun but rather raising themselves under that very sun.

If you read good into Langston Hughes you cannot but understand that oppression is a loss for all, and that when blacks rise that this should consequentially mean a rise for all - black, white, red, yellow and brown. Those with the clearest hearing may be able to understand what time has to tell and pass it along.

Answer 3

Oppressed by who?

Ain't no Black man is oppressed these days, if so you would've seen Rodney King riots E V E R Y D A Y.

Answer 4

From time to time I lose my head and write something for some magazine that actually excites me. Inevitably it bounces back with a request for rewrite from some editor. The comment is usually along the lines of: "I really like this, but we need less writing and description. Could you rewrite it with more facts and figures? We need to get stats and useful info into it. Oh, and compress it too. It's way too long. Thanks. Editor X."

Truth be known, this doesn't surprise nor anger me. It's the business and the gatekeepers are convinced that people no longer read, that they only want what's called "service information." The editors are probably right, though I sometimes I wonder if they're all promoting the same self-fulfilling prophecies.

Anyway, I give them what they want because I need the money. Yeah, I'm a writer of glorified lists. The Ten Best This, the Twelve Top That... Aw well, it beats selling Chevys. Occasionally, I write something that pleases me, just to please me, knowing that it'll come boomeranging back.

This is one of those ditties. You won't see it printed anywhere. So I post it here. Because it pleases me.

Hanging in a privileged spot on the wall of the Orca Adventure Lodge, which serves as base camp of Kevin Quinn’s Points North Heli Adventure operation, is a framed photograph of a slightly younger Quinn meting out fistfuls of puck justice. His hockey helmet is off, his gloves are on the ice, and it looks like he just landed a haymaker on some hack from the other team.
“That’s my favorite picture of Quinner,” says friend and fellow big-mountain skier Micah Black. “When he’s running the heli ski op he’s the nicest guy –– great manners around all the guests –– but you know there’s this other side to the guy. He was a professional cleaner, a guy who could go on the ice and clean house. I think he keeps the picture up there as a nice, friendly reminder to pay your bill.”
The bills for heli time, like the 1,000-mile expanse of raw, wild, Chugach Range that Points North accesses, can be huge. But Points North is not a place you come if you’re not ready to go big in every sense. Sitting on the eastern edge of Cordova, a frontier town on the Orca Inlet of Prince William Sound, this a place where winter nights are long and dreams run big. Always have.
A hundred years ago, gold, silver, and copper miners came out of the hills to blow their fortunes here. Fifty years ago, oilmen came out of Katalla, 47 miles south, to spray oil money like water. A deep port, Cordova’s always been a place of fish and fishermen, of whales and weather, and since Quinn opened up shop in 1997 it’s also a place for skiers who’ve come to find the ultimate.
To get there, you puddle-jump a flight from Anchorage or Seattle, meet the waiting van, and in two minutes you’re at the lodge, a former cannery built in 1887. The great unwinding begins as you shed the traveling clothes and pull out the polypro, the demin, the flannel. Voices are low and the free Gordon Beirsch beer is strong.
Draped around the sprawling lodge are skiers and snowboarders in various pantomimes of relaxation. You notice their calm, the languid fluidity of their movements. They’ve been up there and done it and now they can breathe, full and open. You start to sense that up here there’s nothing to prove to anyone, except maybe yourself. No one here cares about the Lexus or the size of your 401K. This is a new realm, a distant crossroads where adventurers meet to seek adventure, and solace.
Outside, impossible peaks seem to glow even as the night sky goes inky black. They haunt your dreams, bring palm sweats to breakfast, tickle your gut as you clomp out the front door of the lodge and onto the heli pad. Sea otters frolic in the waves as you board the A-Star 350.
Turbines crank, blades throbbing through the moist sea air. And then, in a rush of air and energy, the helicopter heaves itself upward. The lodge spins away and the mountainsides rush in. Ridiculously tall, pencil-pointed, they look like kindergarten crayon drawings. Suddenly that long safety spiel seems too short.
You look at the slopes and wonder how embarrassing it will be to come all the way up here, only to ride back down in the chopper. Then someone shouts “L.Z.” There are hand signals and a soft jolt as the skids touch down. A door is opened. The world is awash in white and you’re ducking your head, covering your goggles, wondering what the hell you’re doing here.
The ship lifts off, and then comes the quiet, everyone too awestruck to say anything; you’re on top of the world. And then with an immense outpouring of nervous energy the blabber starts again. Unstrapping your skis, you drop them in the snow. Click-click, means you’re ready.
A line is discussed, defined, and still it’s not real. It couldn’t be real. Then Quinn is over the edge and you’re following. Somewhere down there is a valley. Somewhere out there is the world. But nothing matters more than the turn beneath your feet. Make it. Breathe. Okay, make another one. And that’s the point of it. This is the moment. It’s now, it’s Alaska, and it’s all yours.

Answer 5

You need to become a writer. Never heard that phrase before.