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Multi-Ethinic Literature of the USMELUS
African-American
Arab-American
Asian-American
Cuban American
Italian-American
Jewish-American
Chicano
Native American
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African-American Poetry
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KABA Amiri Baraka
A closed window looks downon a dirty courtyard, and black peoplecall across or scream or walk acrossdefying physics in the stream of their will
Our world is full of soundOur world is more lovely than anyone'stho we suffer, and kill each otherand sometimes fail to walk the air
We are beautiful peoplewith african imaginationsfull of masks and dances and swelling chants
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with african eyes, and noses, and arms,though we sprawl in grey chains in a placefull of winters, when what we want is sun.
We have been captured,
brothers. And we laborto make our getaway, intothe ancient image, into a new
correspondence with ourselvesand our black family. We read magic
now we need the spells, to rise upreturn, destroy, and create. What will be
the sacred words?
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I, TOO, SING AMERICALangston Hughes
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.
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BEFORE YOU KNEW YOU OWNED ITAlice Walker
Expect nothing. Live frugallyOn surprise.
become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enoughStop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.
Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul.
Discover the reason whySo tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
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NO IMAGESWaring Cuney
She does not knowHer beauty,She thinks her brown bodyHas no glory.If she could danceNakedUnder palm treesAnd see her image in the river,She would know.
But there are no palm treesOn the street,And dish water gives back no images.
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MADAM AND HER MADAM
I worked for a woman,
She wasn't mean--
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.
Had to get breakfast,
Dinner, and supper, too--
Then take care of her
children
When I got through.
Wash, iron, and scrub,
Walk the dog around--
It was too much,
Nearly broke me down.
I said, Madam,
Can it be
You trying to make a
Pack-horse out of me?
She opened her mouth.
She cried, Oh, no!
You know, Alberta,
I love you so!
I said, Madam,
That may be true--
But I'll be dogged
If I love you!
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African-American Novel
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A COR PRPURAAlice Walker
O padrasto de Celie, o estuprador, adverte a menina,para no contar a ningum, a no ser a Deus que tinhasido estuprada. Mas a comunidade em que Celie viviaj se encarregara de evitar que ela usasse at mesmo
palavras que conhecia. Naquela comunidade atrasadado comeo do sculo, as palavras pnis e vaginano existiam. Na verdade, a idia de pnis estava forados limites permitidos, que a expresso mais prximapermitida era a coisa do homem. Quanto vagina
bem, aqui est como a minha av ensinava as filhas atomar banho.Lave o mais para baixo possvel, depoiso mais para cima possvel, depois lave o possvel.(WALKER, 1988, p.66)
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I see Sofia and I dont know why she still
alive. They crack her skull, they crack her ribs.
They tear her nose loose on one side. They
blind her in one eye. She swole from head to
foot. Her tongue the size of my arm, it stick
out tween her teef like a piece of rubber. She
cant talk. And she just about the color ofeggplant . (WALKER, 1986, p.103)
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Dear God,
I ast him to take me instead of Nettie while
our new mammy sick. But he just ast me what
I'm talking bout. I tell him I can fix myself up
for him. I duck into my room and come out
wearing horsehair, feathers, and a pair of our
new mammy high heel shoes. He beat me fordressing trampy but he do it to me anyway.
(WALKER, 1986, p. 18).
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You better not never tell nobody but God. It'd kill your mammy.
Dear God,
I am fourteen years old. I am I have always been a good girl.
Maybe you can give me a sign letting me know what ishappening to me.
Last spring after little Lucious come I heard them fussing. He was
pulling on her arm. She say It too soon, Fonso, I ain't well. Finally
he leave her alone. A week go by, he pulling on her arm again.She say Naw, I ain't gonna. Can't you see I'm already half dead,
an all of these chilren. (WALKER, 1986, p. 9).
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Now, now, I say. Sleep on it some, maybe it come back.But I say this just to be saying something. I dont knownothing bout it. Mr.__________ clam on top of me, dohis business, in ten minutes us both sleep. Only time I
feel something stirring down there is when I think boutShug. And that like running to the end of the road andit turn back on itself.You know the worst part? she say. The worst part is Idont think he notice. He git up there and enjoy himself
just the same. No matter what Im thinking. No matterwhat I feel. It just him. Heartfeeling dont even seem toenter into it. She snort. The fact he can do it like thatmake me want to kill him. (WALKER, 1986: 15-17)
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Native-American Poetry
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A PRETTY WOMANSimon Ortiz
We came to the edge
of the mesa
and looked below.
We could see
the shallow wash
snaking downfrom the cut
between two mesas,
all the way from Black Mountain;
and the cottonwoods
from that distance
looked like a string of turquoise,
and the land was a pretty woman
smiling at us
looking at her.
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THE MARGINS WHERE WE LIVE
Overnight, the air froze.
Crystallized. Now, a thin breath
lies on the prairie hills.
Light becomes certain in cold,
not glazing, not luminous,
only captured and stilled.
The margin of reality
is the margin of illusion.
In that margin between
the prairie and us lies space,
vastness that confirms existence.It's the air frozen
and it's our awareness.
Nothing more, nothing less
confirms our belief.
The road will be deadly
and will still take icy skill
to drive on.
We will have safe passage.
The margins will always be the space
where we live.
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GREATEST BELIEVERS GREATEST DISBELIEVERS
To believe or not to believe,
this was the question.
And THE ANSWER.
Asked and answered and believed
by the greatest believers
and disbelievers the world hasever known.
Where are the Indians?
Where are the real Indians?
There are no Indians.There are no real Indians.
There were never any Indians.
There were never any Indians.
There were never any real Indians.
You mean... you mean, there werenever any Indians? No real Indians?No Indians?
None.Never.
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MAKING QUILT WORK
Like the coat of many colors, the letters, scraps,
all those odds and bits we live by, we have come
to know. Folks here live by the pretty quilts
they make, more than make actually, more than pretty.
They are histories, their lives and their quilts.
Indian people who have been scattered, sundered
into odds and bits, determined to remake whole cloth.Nothing quits. It changes many times, sometimes
to something we don't want, but we again gather
0the pieces, study them, decide, make decisions again,
yes, and fit them to color, necessity, conditions,
taste and choice, and start again. Our lives are quilts,
letters, odds and bits, scraps, but always the thread
loving through them, compassionate knowledge
that what we make is worth it and will outlast
anything that was before and will be worthy
of any people's art, endeavor, and final triumph.
Here, look at my clothes, quilts, coats of many colors!
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I DON'T KNOW IF HISTORY REPEATS ITSELFYehuda Amichai
I don't Know if history repeats itselfBut I do know that you don't.
I remember that city was didvidedNot only between Jews and Arabs,But Between me and you,
When we were there together.
We made ourselves a womb of dangersWe built ourselves a house of deadening warsLike men of far northWho build themselves a safe warm house of deadening ice.
The city has been reunitedBut we haven't been there together.By now I knowThat History doesn't repeat itself,As I always knew that you wouldn't.
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HALFBREED GIRL IN THE CITY SCHOOL
Jo Whitehorse Cochran
are you Mexican
are you Italian
are you Chinese
are you Japanese
spic wetback greaseball slant-eye
you are dark enough to questionyou are light enough to ask
you have near black hair brown eyes
and speak slow-english
we are blonde blue eyed
and wear store bought sweaters skirts or pants
you are in homemade clothes out of style
we circle round you and your sister
you hug your sister close she's small and even darker
we kick we tug at braids and coats
we pull "I'm Indian!" out of you
the social worker wants
you to describe your family
she asks
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does your father beat you
does your mother
does your father drink
does your mother
do you hate your parents
do you cry
tell me tell me do you
like the reservation better
are you ashamed in the classroom
when you wet your pants
why don't you speak up
why don't you get excusedwhy don't you go at recess
tell me tell me speak!
you stare out the window
turn an alphabet block in your hands
speak english speak english
the social worker caws
outside Canadian geese pass through yourimmediate sky
six in an arc going south
if you were a Changer like Star Boy
you could fly with those long-necks
but you must stay and look out this window
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Grandma's words pound in your head
they want to strip us of our words
they want to take our tongues
so we forget how to talk to each other
you swallow the rock
that was your tongue
you swallow the song
that was your voice
you swallow you swallow
in the silence
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