Black Boy

by Richard Wright

Of an afternoon when school had let out I would saunter down the street, idly kicking an empty tin can, or knocking a stick against the palings of a wooden fence, or whistling, until I would stumble upon one or more of the gang loitering at a corner, standing in a field, or sitting upon the steps of somebody’s house. “Hey.” Timidly “You eat yet?” Uneasily trying to make conversation. “Yeah, man. I done really fed my face.” Casually. “I had cabbage and potatoes.” Confidently. “I had buttermilk and black-eyed peas.” Meekly informational. “Hell, I ain’t gonna stand near you, nigger!” Pronouncement. “How come?” Feigned innocence. “’Cause you gonna smell up this air in a minute!” A shouted accusation. Laughter runs through the crowd. “Nigger, your mind’s in a ditch.” Amusingly moralistic. “Ditch, nothing! Nigger, you going to break wind any minute now!” Triumphant pronouncement creating suspense. “Yeah, when them black-eyed peas tell that buttermilk to move over, that buttermilk ain’t gonna wanna move and there’s gonna be war in your guts and your stomach’s gonna swell up and bust!” Climax. The crowd laughs loud and long. “Man, them white folks oughta catch you and send you to the zoo and keep you for the next war!” Throwing the subject into a wider field. “Then when that fighting starts, they oughta feed you on buttermilk and black-eyed peas and let you break wind!” The subject is accepted and extended. “You’d win the war with a new kind of poison gas!” A shouted climax. There...