We watch strange moods fill our children, and our hearts swell with pain. The streets, with their noise and flaring lights, taverns, automobiles, and poolrooms claim them, and no voice of ours can call them back.... We cannot keep them in school; more than 1,000,000 of our black boys and girls of high school age are not in school.... It is not their eagerness fight that makes us afraid, but that they go death on city pavements faster than even disease and starvation can take them. As courts and morgues become crowded with our lost children, hearts of officials of city grow cold toward us. (Wright 136) I GIVE YOU MY GALLERY. So many boys. Boys. Lincoln West. Merle. Ulysses. Shabaka. Martin D. The Near- Johannesburg Boy. Diego. Kojo. Seven boys in a poolroom during schooltime. The Pool Players, Seven at The Golden Shovel- We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die Die Today, many such boys--their girl friends, too--EXPECT die soon. In Chicago. In New York. In Springfield, in Philadelphia. In Whatalotago, Alabama. In Detroit. (In Washington D.C.?) They do not expect become twenty-one. They are designing their funerals. Their caskets will be lined with Kente cloth. They choose their music: they want rap, they want Queen Latifah. (Brooks, Rep art from Part Two 123-24) In Report from Part One, Gwendolyn Brooks gives an account of her conversion Black [1] militancy at 1967 Fisk Writers' Conference. Impressed by energy and anger in work of Amiri Baraka (then LeRoi Jones) and others, Brooks recognized that there is indeed a new black today. Acknowledging that for most of her life secretly [she] had felt that be black was good, she writes that she had 'gone gamut' from an almost angry rejection of my dark skin by some of my brainwashed brothers and sisters a surprised queenhood in new black sun. I...am qualified, Brooks proclaims, to enter at least of new now (84). Since In Mecca (1968), Brooks has published her work exclusively with Black presses such as Broadside, Third World Press, and her own David Company, work characterized by a turn toward free verse as well as increasingly direct political content. Although kindergarten of new consciousness fostered in Brooks a new Black identity an d a new sense of Black people as her primary audience, her poetry, as she insisted in an interview with Claudia Tate, has always been 'politically aware' (42). Part of her political project has been a clear-eyed, tough, and compassionate look at plight of children. From A Street in Bronzeville (1945) present, Brooks's work has used image and voice of child negotiate a complex poetic strategy that explores as a position from which critique prevailing constructs of class and race. For Brooks, subject of childhood represents a means through which she can interrogate and unmask dominant notions of domesticity and child-rearing as part of her own radical social and poetic agenda. Childhood as a subject would gain force in '40s and '50s for other American poets, including Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, and Randall Jarrell. But for most poets subject of childhood was steeped in nostalgia, indicative of growing trend toward introspection among White intellectuals occasioned by rise of a newly psychologized self. By contrast, Brooks chose write about the children of poor, borrow title of her sonnet sequence from Annie Allen. Critic Gary Smith argues that, if Brooks's poetry about adults is bleak, her poetry about children is even more so (130): Her children do not exist in a pastoral world apart from socioeconomic and psychological problems that beset her adult characters. …
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