from short story
collection, "hap & hazard highland"
By Keenan Norris
Wonderful the way it shone in the
rusted chandeliers and Christmas candles they set on
shelves and mantles, the greens and reds and little gold
of it making the small, low-ceilinged house of narrow
snaking halls, little rooms and crowded tension seem a
little magical, in Touissant's eyes. Golden and shaded
luster. Needful nostalgic light. He could see the light
in the steam and smoke that filtered from the kitchen,
smell it burning behind the door like an unattended
ache. People's images misted over and their voices
slowed and thickened with the hot old air. It was
Christmas night, it was the family house, he was six
years old and yet this world already seemed dark and
distant to him.
"They did him dirty," his gramps
proclaimed, remembering his own dad, who was his son's
granddad and Touissant's great-granddad, who had been
dead the boy had no idea how long. "They did him dirty,"
he intoned again.
"He was a criminal, how you expect he
get done?" granny's gummy voice rose up in tired
opposition. Touissant had heard the story once for every
Christmas in his life; how many times had she heard it?
Hundreds, probably. She might even know its words by
"They did him dirty: just 'cause he
wadn't tryin to fight in no World War they made like he
hated his government 'n chased him across the South to
put him on the chain gang. It didn't have nothin to do
with no government, it had to do with he wadn't tryin to
die in Timbuktu. So one day he woke his woman up, said,
'Love, this is one man won't take it lyin down. You keep
still now, get yo rest. Don't fret over me now. I'm free
'n plannin to stay that way.' Then he left.
"He left his life in Lousiana, never
looked back: if he had, all he'd 'a seen would been them
dogs 'n federal agents on his tail. He told me how he
evaded them slave catchers, 'cause that's what they
called 'em, slave catchers, by hookin on with these
travel crews, then have hisself the time 'a his fugitive
life. Ain't matter, white, black or green, them crews
courted his services 'cause too many they boys was gone
overseas 'n not enough was comin back. So he'd get a
train ticket for work in the next county, freight over
there wit whatever work-crew, then sell the ticket for
somethin 'n get a new one so's to keep hustlin. Always
snuck away first chance he got—them chasers on his tail.
Seen the whole entire South that way. Womens e'rywhere,
he tol' me. So many husbands, boyfriends, lovers gone,
they womens was lonely onto restlessness.
"So one night he was stopped in South
Carolina, had got down to business with this beau-ti-ful
bird, 'n right while he's obligin her, his ears
commences to hearin this rustle-noise outside the house.
Gets to thinkin it's them dogs 'n federal agents: he
disengages from her, jumps out the bed, jumps out the
window two-three stories down, 'n what do you know, on
the backside 'a that broad's house she been tendin her a
graveyard! Her old man must had been a coffin-maker
'cause there's all these empty coffins just a-sittin out
brand new, all 'n whatnot. So he scared as hell, you
gotta understand: he jumps hisself down in one 'a these
coffins, closes the lid, 'cause, what'd he always tell
me, Ain't no James Hellens Freeman dyin in no Si-beria,
or wherever it was they fought that mother.
"So he waits out the night, falls
asleep in that coffin, 'n when he wake up it's darkness
on all sides. But he knowin it gots to be light outside.
Then he remembers the girl. He wonders what it is she do
wit the coffins. He tries to open the thing but he
cain't, it ain't openin near as easy as it closed. So he
starts to flustration. It's bad times now. He feels
hisself gettin borne up 'n there's voices, man-voices
talkin 'n hollerin away, 'n after a while they commences
to singin them ol' field songs. He thinks, they done
took me back to slave times, oh Death. But then he gets
a-hold 'a his brain, realizes that he bein borne along
by the chain gang. He can hear they chains a-rattlin, he
can hear they voices a-singin, 'n he can feel where it
is he headed. So he musters all his strength, 'n he
wadn't no small man, 'n straight pushes that coffin-top
clean off. Breaks it off like it were a feather or
somethin. Now he in the open air 'n the mens jus' lookin
at him like he Christ returned: don't nobody touch him,
not even the authorities. He jus' walk off nice as you
please. He come back, finds the girl whose daddy had had
him such a lucrative venture, 'n he tells her how he
done lived through death. She laughs at his story, tells
him the real news: e'rybody who was still alive had
lived through the end-time, the Great War was over, it
was safe to come out into the light again. So then he
proposed to her, fell to his knees."
"And then he divorced her. Moved on
some more and finally married your great granny," granny
said; she nodded at Touissant and at his sisters and
added, "Your gramps a storyteller, he know what to put
in, what not to put in. But me, I done forgot my
"How did you forget your manners,
granny?" Kia asked.
"Got old and got smart," granny said.
"Isn't gramps older than you?" Dea
wondered, in her delicate voice.
"Yes and no," granny said, "Yes and
"Why yes?" Kia asked. She twisted her
beatific face into an expression of sheer beatific
"Because he was born in '27 whereas
I's born in '32," granny answered with thinning
"Why no?" the twins asked in one
"Because he ain't made use of the
head-start God given him." She closed her eyes halfway
and leaned back in her chair: "Don't try to reason it
out." Her half-closed eyes were big and warm and sad,
and golden-brown in the golden half-light. The skin
around those eyes was worn and wrinkled, as if God had
composed her face from old brown-paper bags or something
else just as absurd. The twins counted the decades and
the years on their hands and both girls came to the
silent conclusion that their granny shouldn't look so
old at fifty-seven.
Touissant saw none of this. He was
such a quiet, to-himself child that he could come and go
and people would rarely notice his presence or absence.
They only became aware when they wanted him for
something. Since he was only six years old himself they
only wanted him around to give him gifts and since poor
people could only give each other so many gifts their
awareness of him fluctuated with their income. He
drifted in and out of the lives of his grandparents and
aunts and uncles, and even his sisters, without much
notice: they hardly knew him, not that there was much to
know just yet, and he hardly knew them. He knew these
people like the fogged and sporadically lighted ghosts
of a highly intense and dazzling dream: they spoke fast
and elaborate, retelling tales too old for him to
comprehend; they sang and danced and showed-out; and
they gave him what they had, their money, their food,
their love. It was a good relationship: he loved them
back in the uncritical way that we love people when
we're young and the world is given to us, before we grow
up and look reflexively backward and measure our
memories against our scars.
So he didn't see the wrinkles around
his granny's eyes, he didn't hear the weariness in her
voice. Instead, he explored the house: its construction
was that of a wooden snake, its head wide and crowded,
its body a tortuous little tunnel of smaller pores and
cuticles open and closed, locked and unlocked: these
rooms were the site of his exploration. Some rooms were
too uninviting even for his curious mind. A makeshift
tool shed that he was afraid to step into for fear that
he would bump into something and his gramps's vast store
of tools and supplies would come raining down on his
little forehead—aside from the physical pain, how would
he explain it when they heard the crash and came
There was a room across the way from
the tool shed that was equally ominous, though he
chanced entrance here: the room had no lights so far as
he could see and he had to stumble around inside it to
find its treasures. Old dismantled rifles, a baseball
bat with an incomprehensible signature scrawled across
it, black mote-crusted books that looked too ugly to
open; magazines with naked women splayed in indecorous
postures. Then, the grandparents' room: a low bed and
bedstand; a picture above the bedstand of them looking
fine on their wedding day; a stained and tattered Bible
opened to its first page where birth and death dates of
Freemans unfamiliar to his eyes were scrawled one after
the next, 1829-1857, 1863-1900, and so on. But the names
were foreign to him. He felt that the dates meant more
than the numbers and names that composed them, that the
numbers and names were the vestiges of some older truth
unknowable to him.
And there were more rooms, stretching
off in seemingly endless succession. It was as if the
house had been built up into the sky or down into the
earth because looking at it from the outside there was
absolutely no way that such a modest little place could
accommodate so many rooms. And behind all the rooms,
back at the very end of the snaking house, there stood a
screen door and then the backyard. In the nights, the
backyard looked haunted, the leaves of its trees
over-wrapping it, branches splaying out like arms and
hands to block the vision, grass grown high and wild to
There were animals living in that
wild garden whose night sounds he could hear, sounds
like songs, a singing that emanated out, an anguished
music. His senses throbbed with it. He wanted to know
what this night music concealed behind its dark veil. He
reached up and began to unlatch the door. Unoiled, the
knob gave out a metallic creak as he turned it.
Then he heard his mother calling for
him: "Touissant. Touissant! Touissant!"
Her voice was an unwanted sunshine
blinding him from premonition.
He let go of the door handle and
headed back to the head of the house.
In the kitchen, closed away from the
house outside, granny and her daughter Lady finished the
Christmas dinner. Fried chicken, cornbread, black-eyed
peas, mashed potatoes, okra, neck bones, pig ears and
whatever the garden had given them: greens, tomatoes,
hard cider and yams for dessert, though the doctors said
that she had to be careful with the sugar and the butter
nowadays with her heart condition and all. No more sweet
potato pies, they advised.
Lady sliced the yams open and filled
half with sugar and butter, half only with butter. Her
eyes misted with the work. Granny had had to sit down
from the heat and the effort and now it was only the
daughter moving about the kitchen, from the cornbread in
the oven and the cornbread batter on the counter, to the
chicken glistening in its grease upon the stove. Only
thirty-six years old, Lady already seemed spinster-like.
Her boys were too grown and damn important to come all
the way up from Los Angeles for the holidays.
And she had no man to fuss at either,
which separated her completely from her sisters and
stepsister, who spent their time before dinner
corralling their men and young even as Lady prepared
their meal. She had been in their place before, a grown
woman at sixteen, a mother and a wife as a teenager, she
had been immature; but now she was older and mature
before her time. Soon she would be a grandmother and
this fact helped to forge a deeper kinship between her
and her mother: two women of age, experience and the
Mahalia sang while they cooked.
Granny sang along, loud and soulful. And now her
strength returned to her and she stood again and picked
the chicken from the greasy pans and laid it out on a
serving platter. She seasoned the tomatoes then poured
them through her fingers into the pans and turned the
burners up to let them cook. She nodded at her daughter,
"Close enough, chil'."
She took the platter of chicken,
cradling it against her breast so that it shone
golden-brown in the half-light like a piece of her own
body, and she kicked the door open and strode into the
dining room, her traditional entrance. Eyes riveted upon
her, the old matriarch of the broken back and bad feet,
the final provider—she still had something to offer her
children and the children of her children. Even her
husband was looking at her now, licking his full,
gorgeous lips at her like it was '45 all over again and
she was the most beautiful girl in the room. Old man,
she thought, you never learnt how to act; and all's I
share with you is my love, not my blood. And that love
ain't what it used to be.
Then Lady was behind her with the
mashed potatoes, the cornbread, the peas, the greens;
granny felt her presence, thought, The girl's a
whirlwind of activity, so young and so smart all at
once, so different from the rest of these girls she's
sharing space with.
Bobby's waify wife Lilly
Jackson-Freeman hadn't even sat down to the table
despite the fact the food was being served. She still
stood at the far edge of the living room her hands on
her hips and calling for Touissant. All the rest were at
least gracious enough to sit down to the table to be
served, even if they lacked much common sense beyond
that. But not Miss Lilly, she had absolutely no manners.
Or maybe she had different-modern manners and she
thought she was somehow above sitting down to eat.
"Lilly, come sit, baby. The boy
fine," granny snapped. "Unless you started sayin grace
some new way. And what's this tune y'all playin?
Somethin bout Freddy dead? I ain't tryin to hear that."
"Curtis Mayfield, momma," someone
"Say 'Mahalia, momma.'" She laughed.
"You start sayin that, I'a start listenin."
After a moment, Touissant revealed
himself, coming forth out of the dark recesses of the
long hallway corridor and staring up at everyone with
his wide uncomprehending eyes. He was just the smallest
stair-step of a thing.
His mother took his hand and jerked
him forward toward the table. She sat him down between
his sisters, "so that at least you'll notice and tell me
the next time he slips off to go exploring where he
"I don't know bout you, old lady,"
gramps nudged granny, "I like what I'm hearin. This
Mayfield can go."
"You ever listen to them words,
though? Listen at what he talkin bout: 'I'm that nigger
in the alley.' "
Gramps shrugged his shoulders at her,
who cares? Then he began to sing along to the next
track, his rich Alabama baritone an interesting contrast
with Curtis' fast falsetto.
"That's because that old man's been
playing the streets," Bobby laughed, "Playing them for
as long as he can remember."
"Playing the streets?" Dea asked.
"Playing the streets?" Kia asked, a
"Uh-huh," her father said, chuckling.
"You can play the street, or sing it," he said
cryptically. Then, to prove his point, he started
singing too, matching and then overmatching his old man
from note to note. Then other voices lifted, one and
then the next until it seemed that the whole table had
joined them in singing to the tragic-electric beat.
When the song ended, Lady said,
"Bobby, your girls sing like two angels—but could you
please bless this food so we can eat it?"
Bobby took his cue. Closed his eyes,
folded his hands: "Dear Lord, we thank you for bringing
us here again this year for another wonderful Christmas
in celebration of Your Son. Thank You for this food and
all and whatnot"—he opened his eyes momentarily and
sneaked a glance at his son, whose eyes were wide open
and bloodshot red—"And Amen," he concluded, opening his
eyes and winking fast before the table could get in on
"Bobby," his wife snapped, "your
prayers are out of practice." She looked down the table.
"Like he couldn't wait to get to his
food." There was general, warmed-over laughter. "My
girls sing like angels, now?" She looked over at Lady,
her gaze a glittering bridge.
"Lord, do they ever!" Lady cried.
Several other family members seconded
"Yes, they do," Bobby said between
Dea and Kia smiled simultaneously.
"Thank you, auntie Lady."
"It's God's gift, not mine," Lady
"Don't go gettin 'em all swole-headed
now," gramps chuckled. "I've heard better, younger."
"Where at, old man?" Lady
"Back home, Alabama. All kinds 'a
singin down there. Shoot."
"Shoot what?" Dea asked him.
"Shoot nothin," gramps laughed.
"Nothing?" Kia asked.
"Y'all cute like some baby
rottweilers." Gramps shook his head. "Cute like I don't
know what." He looked back to Touissant who sat wedged
like something captured between the two girls. "But not
all us tryin to be cutesy-pie singers, right, my man?"
he added, speaking to Touissant with gravity, his voice
lowering to an almost imperceptible hush and drawl. And
Touissant could hardly make out what he was saying now
except that it had something to do with singing, and
with silence. "Some us got different callings," the old
Tone deaf, the twins had speculated,
Maybe that's what's wrong with him.
Gramps raised his voice for the table
to hear. "But Touissant here's a man on his way to big
doins, can see it in the way he carry hisself, that
"Don't you know it," Lady seconded.
Soon, the whole table was echoing
this sentiment: the child was the family's young prince
whether or not he sang and whether or not Curtis could
touch his soul. He’d surely seen through this mere
veneer and on to deeper better truths. This was how it
came to pass that the boy's dead vocal chords were
recast in dreams and gold. And that he kept silent while
the table went on and on about him while his sisters
writhed in their chairs, only enhanced the effect: his
dark and uncommunicative face became a clean slate for
the family to etch hopes upon.
The record finished and granny tapped
Lady on the shoulder, told her to get something gospel.
There ensued a minor scramble toward the record player
after which the Reverend James Cleveland began to
melodically declaim God's grace and unconditional love.
Somewhere well beneath the notes of
the song, gramps kept on and on about his grandchildren:
the boy would be tall and handsome and intelligent, the
twins would be beautiful and fierce and might even sing
as well as the field hands back in Alabama if they put
their joint-held mind to it. The table, respecting his
age and authority, nodded and solemnly agreed. This was
their father pronouncing and predicting. It was one
thing to listen to his scandalous stories, that was just
silliness. You could take it or leave it. But on matters
of the future, the man was not to be taken lightly. He
had passed through the golden light and seen his
children and now his children's children passing too.
And he had moved on from morning and
might-be into that weaker dying light, flicker and fall.
My Lord, what a mourning,
My Lord, what a mourning,
My Lord, what a mourning,
When them stars begin to
"… An' y'all gon' buy the biggest
house on the block, I can see it now. I'ma be up with
y'all in Highland, too, talkin bout, Dad only stoppin
through, food 'n shelter, 'cause you know a parent needs
to recoup. Remember, Bobby, that one time I went 'n
catalogued all the money we had spent on you 'n yo'
siblin's over a whole entire year? You do remember that,
don't you? Well, when that degree comes through for you,
you 'n Lilly livin all high-mighty I don't care how far
away y'all live, I'ma find the appropriate conveyance 'n
take myself out there often as I can. Elderly folks gots
to recoup. An' I can see it right now, boy, I can vision
it like Sund'y mornin: you two laid up all high-mighty,
them girls singin like a whole entire church choir, our
young prince here doin his princely things. Like glory,
I tell ya."
"That sounds so nice, Daddy Freeman,"
Lilly sighed. While she was still sighing happily at the
idea, she managed to shoot a look over at Touissant to
make sure he hadn't disappeared on her again, but he was
sitting still staring straight at her. "I pray," she
said to gramps, "We pray. God willing, Highland's where
"Well," he said, "don't go puttin all
yo' eggs in God's basket. Miracles ain't jus' for the
Granny slapped him across his chest.
"Act right," she snapped.
The reverend continued to sing God's
wonder in the background.
"All's I'm sayin is these two got
they degrees, Bachelor's in this, Bachelor's in that. I
seen the ceremonies, I ain't leanin on no luck."
"Actually, my B.A. got me a job in
the Music Department out there," Bobby said. "But
Lilly's still going, about to get a Master's."
"Like I said," gramps said.
"She's got her editor-job, but she
could go on to law school if she wants. It's out there."
"I just found my dream house, the
place I've been wanting so long and he's talking about
more school." Lilly cut her eyes at the table. "Uh-uh.
It's time to get paid, Bobby, and settle down a little."
"She got her head on straight,"
gramps said. "I always did like her for that. Somebody
in this family got to bring some common sense."
"Seein as you never did." Granny
"Nor Bobby here," Lilly laughed
conspiratorially. She was forever trying to win the
woman over but couldn't seem to do it.
"I got common sense." Granny sniffed
again. "I can tell up from down."
"But what you know bout Highland?"
"Time for dessert?" Lady wondered.
Her face was a hard severe knot of a smile. Her
relatives and step-relatives had never known how to
carry a single thing off proper.
"YES," the table agreed. They were
past ready for their yams.
Lady excused herself and rumbled
through the open kitchen door, where the yams had sat
swelling with butter and sugar and readiness for some
time now. She put them on plates three and four at a
time and divided them into the sugared and sugarless.
Then she returned like granny had through the kitchen
door and into the golden light and anticipating eyes.
The yams smelled that good.
Talk turned to the virtues of Bobby
and Lilly's new home.
Touissant took the opportunity to
sneak off. He was out the dining room and down the dark
hall before Lady even put the plates on the table. He
could hear their metal clatter against the table's old
wood and the music the hungry family made: hoots and
hollers and actual singing, for his was a family of
singers and shouters and carriers-on,
Ooooh need a woman, child/
Don’t wanna be like Freddie now…
He could hear Dea and Kia's angelic
voices glide light and seraphic across the heavy,
fragrant air. It was never hard to get away from them
when they were concentrated on their singing: neither
cared to look after him to begin with and they took
advantage of all excuses not to have to. He was still
too young to like them, to see them as sisters and not
bridges connecting back to his mother and the table and
He expected to hear his mother's
voice sheer across the darkness anytime now, but it
never came, and the night stretched on. He could hear a
new record playing and the sounds of voices and feet in
rhythmic motion. Apparently, they'd forgotten him this
time and his solitude would be his to own. He tucked
himself away in the unlit and unadorned room with the
open Bible with the names and dates in it. He lay on the
sheets of his grandparents' old, creak-ridden bed and
tuned the small, portable radio that sat near the
There were men talking about Jesus on
the first station he found. Jesus had not been a wealthy
man. He had not prized wealth. Jesus, who was God's Son,
was without wealth. The conversation seemed circular.
But if he twisted the knob a little to the left he could
hear mariachis singing. And if he twisted it to the
right he could hear a brave new sound wherein the
singers didn't even sing but simply talked over the beat
as fast and clever as his gramps entertaining the table
at dinnertime. Several stations over there was music
without words, a stately gorgeous sound that moved so
slow and precise he could hear its every tend and drift,
violins to harps, to all the other instruments he was
yet unable to identify.
He heard the sounds of Christmas
night, but ever fainter. He liked it more this way, not
quite so close. It wasn't that he had anything against
his relatives, he simply wanted some space from them. He
wanted to hold them at a distance. Like the way they
sounded now, intimate and distant all at once, like the
sounds of yet another radio station.
Touissant fell asleep and only woke
when he felt his granny tapping her fingers against his
stomach. Her touch was rough: the feel of her hard hands
reminded him of his mother's infrequent touch, so that
he wasn't even sure if she meant to comfort or
reprimand, the feeling was so mixed. He wanted her to
explain to him what he should feel, but she was
whispering to him in an inaudible register. He heard his
gramps' loud voice from down the hall, not his words,
only the voice itself, commanding worldly baritone. It
seemed to make an impression on granny, too, because now
he felt her fingers squeeze him a little tighter and now
he felt her climb into bed beside him.
"That old boy," she said, "that old
boy. Think he got all the stories in the world, don't he
Touissant didn't realize that that
was a question and didn't answer.
"See, Two-saint," she went on, "we
all got our stories, e'ry life got its story, but only
some be yellin our business in the street, you see what
I'm sayin? Yo' grandaddy, he gotta tell the world." Her
fingers had stopped on his shoulder. "But it ain't who
shout the loudest. That's why I like you, Two-saint. Not
too many people be quiet like you."
She paused and he could hear a quick
wind beat its Godlike and reproachful hand upon the low
roof. He grew aware of the outside world, the
"You gon' have yo' own, baby, if you
keep that quietness and don't feel like you ain't got
you somethin important just 'cause you ain't loud,
carryin on." Over the low and sagging sound of her voice
he could hear them singing again: he wondered if his
mother, who reminded him so much of granny, could sing;
and if granny herself could sing. Neither seemed like a
singer to him. In a way, they were more his sisters. "E'rybody
got theirs," granny said again. "E'rybody got stories.
His old man was a criminal runnin from the law; my
daddy, on the other hand, he was good, honest to the
last degree, worked hisself to death out in them Alabama
fields. I still remember his mule carryin him home..."
Keenan Norris has been
published in the Santa Monica, Evansville and Green
Mountains Reviews, as well as Rhapsoidia
magazine, ChickenBones and other journals.
His short stories were nominated for the Pushcart in
2004 and in 2005. The title piece of his short story
collection "hap & hazard highland" will appear in Heyday
Books' Inlandia, an anthology of Inland Empire
literature, in November 2006. He is currently marketing
the book-length collection (which also includes "fresno
gone") to publishers. He teaches at College of Alameda
and lives in Oakland, CA.
Call for Papers on Street Lit
Street Lit Subjects, Controversy, Commercial Phenomenon
By Keenan Norris, Editor
* * *
* * *
Sister Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes, and Black Women in
By Melissa V.
According to the
author, this society has historically exerted
considerable pressure on black females to fit into one
of a handful of stereotypes, primarily, the Mammy, the
Matriarch or the Jezebel. The selfless
Mammy’s behavior is marked by a slavish devotion to
white folks’ domestic concerns, often at the expense of
those of her own family’s needs. By contrast, the
relatively-hedonistic Jezebel is a sexually-insatiable
temptress. And the Matriarch is generally thought of as
an emasculating figure who denigrates black men, ala the
characters Sapphire and Aunt Esther on the television
shows Amos and Andy and Sanford and Son, respectively.
points out how the propagation of these harmful myths
have served the mainstream culture well. For instance,
the Mammy suggests that it is almost second nature for
black females to feel a maternal instinct towards
As for the source
of the Jezebel, black women had no control over their
own bodies during slavery given that they were being
auctioned off and bred to maximize profits. Nonetheless,
it was in the interest of plantation owners to propagate
the lie that sisters were sluts inclined to mate
* * *
A Wreath for Emmett Till
By Marilyn Nelson; Illustrated by
This memorial to
the lynched teen is in the Homeric
tradition of poet-as-historian. It is a
heroic crown of sonnets in Petrarchan
rhyme scheme and, as such, is quite
formal not only in form but in language.
There are 15 poems in the cycle, the
last line of one being the first line of
the next, and each of the first lines
makes up the entirety of the 15th. This
chosen formality brings distance and
reflection to readers, but also calls
attention to the horrifically ugly
events. The language is highly
figurative in one sonnet, cruelly
graphic in the next. The illustrations
echo the representative nature of the
poetry, using images from nature and
taking advantage of the emotional
quality of color. There is an
introduction by the author, a page about
Emmett Till, and literary and poetical
footnotes to the sonnets. The artist
also gives detailed reasoning behind his
choices. This underpinning information
makes this a full experience, eminently
teachable from several aspects,
including historical and literary—School
* * * * *
The White Masters
of the World
The World and Africa, 1965
By W. E. B. Du Bois
W. E. B. Du Bois’
Arraignment and Indictment of White Civilization
* * *
Ancient African Nations
* * * *
If you like this page consider making a donation
* * *
Negro Digest / Black World
Browse all issues
* * *
Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
Only a Pawn in Their Game
Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson Thanks America for Slavery /
George Jackson /
* * * *
The Journal of Negro History issues at Project Gutenberg
Haitian Declaration of Independence 1804
January 1, 1804 -- The Founding
* * * * *
* * * *
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