Let America Be America Again (Langston Hughes)

LangstonHughes

In October of 1859, the abolitionist John Brown led a band of 22 men on a raid of Harper’s Ferry, Virginia (now WV). There was a government arsenal housed there, and Brown had hoped to arm slaves and abolitionists in a sweeping battle of southern slave liberation.

They succeeded in seizing the town, but were quickly pinned down and suppressed by Marines under the command of Robert E. Lee.

Brown was arrested, and, several weeks later, hanged for treason. His life was a spectral portent of our nation’s imminent collapse into civil conflict and prompted Henry David Thoreau to pen the following:

Some eighteen hundred years ago Christ was crucified; this morning, perchance, Captain Brown was hung. These are the two ends of a chain which is not without its links. He is not Old Brown any longer; he is an angel of light.

The poem, “John Brown’s Body” became a Union marching hymn.

A free black man named Lewis Sheridan Leary was one of the men who lost their life under Brown’s command during the ill-fated raid. His widow Mary would later remarry Charles Langston. Their daughter Caroline would then have a son, and he would receive her maiden name as one of his two middle names. His full name was James Mercer Langston Hughes. The world would know him as the famed Harlem Renaissance poet Langston Hughes.

Hughes was born in Joplin, MO, but lived most of his childhood in Lawrence, KS. In early adulthood he lived everywhere: Mexico, France, England, Chicago. He died in New York City in 1967 at the age of 65.

He was a proponent of the embrace of black identity and of a clear eyed view of our complicated national story.

Nowhere is the latter more ringing than in his poem, “Let America Be America Again.” I think you’ll find its theme very timely; both searching and amazingly resilient its longings.

Here it is.

Let America Be America Again

by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

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