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We smelted iron, danced, made music and folk poems; we sculpted, worked in glass, spun cotton and wool, wove baskets and cloth.

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Basket Cloth Cotton Dance Folk Glass Iron Music Poem Smelted Spun Wool Work

Bagwalas

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I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true […].
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Emotionally Factually Knows Stories True
It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling something new, of being affected by something that made the look of the world different.
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Affect Being Believe Different Disbelieve Feeling Matter New Something
Reading was like a drug, a dope. The novels created moods in which I lived for days.
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Make up your mind, Snail! You are half inside your house, And halfway out!
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Each day when you see us black folk upon the dusty land of your farm or upon the hard pavement of your city streets.
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there are times when life’s ends are so raveled that reason and sense cry out that we stop and gather them together again before we can proceed
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Again Cry End Gather Reason Revealed Sense Stop Together
The locomotive of my heart was rushing down a dangerously steep slope, heading for a collision, heedless of the warning red lights that blinked all about me, the sirens and the ells and the screams that filled the air.
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And they do not know why; they are powerless pawns in a blind play of social forces.
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If a man confessed anything on his death bed, it was the truth; for no man could stare death in the face and lie.
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I listened, vaguely knowing now that I had committed some awful wrong that I could not undo, that I had uttered words I could not recall even though I ached to nullify them.
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In me was shaping a yearning for a kind of consciousness.
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At the age of twelve I had an attitude toward life that was to endure, that was to make me seek those areas of living that would keep it alive, that was to make me skeptical of everything while seeking everything, tolerant of all and yet critical.
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The holy and the evil, the high and the low, the white and the black; our America is frightened of fact, of history, of processes, of necessity.
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Violence is a personal necessity for the oppressed…It is not a strategy consciously devised. It is the deep, instinctive expression of a human being denied individuality.
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I knew that I lived in a country in which the aspirations of black people were limited, marked-off. Yet I felt that I had to go somewhere and do something to redeem my being alive.
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You usually take it for granted and think you know us, but our history is far stranger than you suspect, and we are not what we seem.
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