降央卓玛歌曲大全How It Feels to Be Colored Me
Zora Neale Hurston (1928)挨着的英文
"A genius of the South, novelist, folklorist, anthropologist"--tho are the words that Alice Walker had inscribed on the tombstone of Zora Neale Hurston. In this essay (first published in The World Tomorrow, May 1928), the acclaimed author of ppt格式Their Eyes Were Watching God explores her own n of identity through a ries of striking metaphors.黄河的歌曲
连绵起伏造句I AM COLORED but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States who grandfather on the mother's side was not an Indian chief.
I remember the very day that I became colored. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a colored town. The only white people I knew pasd through the town going to or coming from Orlando. The native whites rode dusty hors, the Northern tourists chugged down the sandy village road in automobiles. Th
e town knew the Southerners and never stopped cane chewing when they pasd. But the Northerners were something el again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The more venturesome would come out on the porch to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.
The front porch might em a daring place for the rest of the town, but it was a gallery at for me. My favorite place was atop the gatepost. Proscenium box for a born first-nighter. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn't mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I'd wave at them and when they returned my salute, I would say something like this: "Howdydo? Well, I thank you. Where you goin'?" Usually automobile or the hor paud at this, and after a queer exchange of compliments, I would probably "go a piece of the way" with them, as we say in farthest Florida. If one of my family happened to come to the front in time to e me, of cour negotiations would be rudely broken off. But even so, it is clear that I was the first "welcome to our state" Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce will plea take notice.
During this period, white people differed from colored to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me speak pieces and sing and wanted to e me dance the par-me-la, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing the things, which emed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop, only they didn't know it. The colored people gave no dimes. They deplored any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the county, everybody's Zora.
But changes came in the family when I was thirteen, and I was nt to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, a Zora. When I dimbarked from the riverboat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It emed that I had suffered a a change. I was not Zora of Orange County any more, I was now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown warranted not to rub nor run.
BUT I AM NOT tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lur
king behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not be long to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and who feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have en that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world--I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said "On the line! " The Reconstruction said "Get t! " and the generation before said "Go! " I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much prai or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the
national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.
I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.
For instance at Barnard. "Beside the waters of the Hudson" I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain mylf. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again. 集美轻工业学校
三国司马懿简介Sometimes it is the other way around. A white person is t down in our midst, but the contrast is just as sharp for me. For instance, when I sit in the drafty bament that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any litt
le nothing that we have in common and are ated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It los no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow tho heathen--follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside mylf; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my asgai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow and my body is painted blue. My pul is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something--give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his at, smoking calmly. "Good music they have here," he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips.
