Several years ago I read Richard Wright's Native Son. I liked that novel and think about many of the themes quite often. Much of the imagery from that book stays with me.
Ever since reading that text, I have wanted to read more of Wright's work, but never seemed to find the time. So, on a recent trip to Powell's, I grabbed a copy of Black Boy, which is Wright's autobiography of his formative years.
Black Boy covers his life from the time he was four (1912) into the late thirties, and though it was written more than sixty years ago, it speaks with a passion, eloquence and relevance that makes it feel as though it was written yesterday.
At first, I found it hard to believe that Wright could recall so many details of his early childhood, but the more I read, the more I realized I didn't care how much was "factually" accurate, and how much was embellishment on Wright's part. The book reads like fiction, and at times I found myself having to remind myself that these things actually happened.
Born on a plantation, by the time Wright was ten, he had set fire to his grandparents house in Mississippi, moved to Memphis where his father abandoned him, nearly starved to death, became an alcoholic, wound up in an orphanage, reunited with his mother who then fell ill with an apparent stroke, moved to Arkansas with his Uncle who was then murdered by whites that wanted his liquor business, fled with the family back to Mississippi, and then quit school to earn money for the family. And that is just the first ten years.
Somehow, in the midst of all of this chaos, Wright managed to learn how to read, and in reading freed himself from the oppressive world in which he lived. He read everything he could get his hands on. In his late teens he was forced to "pretend" to be checking out books for his white employer, so he could get his hands on the books he wanted to read, books most whites didn't want him reading.
The thing that came back to me again and again as I read the book, is that Wright was clearly saved by literature. It gave him the tools he needed to survive, but it also made him a wonderful human being: self confident, compassionate, observant and thoughtful. He used literature to explore himself, to dig deep within his own psyche and save what was still good in him. He found himself through reading, and as he learned to articulate himself, in turn, he became a masterful writer as well.
Wright's thoughts are vivid, clear and passionate. He is able to uncover people's motives in a way of which I can only dream. In reading this text, I found myself saying to myself ... "my God, I can't write like this."
The depth and breadth of Wright's experiences are nearly unbelievable, yet, in the end, it all has to be true. And I am left with these terrible questions: "Who among us is striving so hard to be a great human being?" "Who among us is working everyday to better themselves and the lives of those around them?" "Who among us looks so deeply within themselves to see the world?"
Please tell me there is someone, for I know it is not I.
