Langston Hughes stands as a literary and cultural translation of the political resistance and venture of black consciousness leaders such as Martin Luther King to restore the rights of the black citizenry thence fulfilling the ethos of the American dream, which is celebrated universally each year around February to April.

Hughes’ overriding sense of a social and cultural intent tied to his sense of the past, the present and the future of black America commends his life and works as having much to learn from to inspire us to move forward and to inform and guide our steps as we move forward to fabricate a great future.

Hughes is likewise substantial since he seems to have conveniently spanned the genres: poetry, drama, novel and criticism leaving an indelible stamp on each. At 21 years of age he had published in all four (4) areas. For he always considered himself an artisan in words who would venture into each single area of literary creativity, because there were readers for whom a story meant more than a poem or a song lyric meant more than a story and Hughes wanted to reach that person and his kind.

But firstborn and foremost, he considered himself a poet. He wanted to be a poetical who could address himself to the worries of his persons in poems that could be read with no formal training or extensive literary background. In spite of this Hughes wrote and staged dozens of short stories, in regards to a dozen books for children, a history of the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured Peoples (NAACP), two volumes of autobiography, opera libretti, song lyrics and so on. Hughes was driven by a sheer selfconfidence in his skillfulness and in the power of his craft.

Hughes” dedication to Africa was real and concretized in both words and deeds. The fact of his Negro-ness (though light-complexioned) has aroused in him a desire to challenge those from the other side of the color line that reject it:

My old man’s a white old man

And my old mother’s black

My old ma passed from physical life in a fine huge house

My crazy passed from physical life in a shack

I wonder where I’m gonna die

Being neither white nor black?

His search for his roots was given impetus when in 1923 Hughes met and heard Marcus Garvey exhort Negroes to go back to Africa to escape the wrath of the white man. Hughes then became one of the poets who thought they felt the beating of the jungle tom-toms in the Negroes’ pulse. Their verse took on a nostalgic mood, and a heap of even imagined that they were infusing the rhythms of African dancing and music into their verse like we could sense in the reading of this poem: ‘Danse Africaine’:

The low beating of the tom toms,

The slow beating of the tom toms,

Low …slow

Slow …low -

Stirs your blood.

Dance!

A night-veiled girl

Whirls softly into a

Circle of light.

Whirls softly …slowly,

Born in Joplin, Missouri in 1902, Hughes grew up in Lawrence, Kansas and Lincoln, Illinois, before going to high school in Cleveland, Ohio in of which places, he was share of a little community of blacks to whom he was notwithstanding profoundly attached from early in his life. Though descending from a discerned family his infancy was disrupted by the separation of his parents not long after his birth. His father then emigrated to Mexico where he hoped to gain the success that had eluded him in America. The color of his skin, he had hoped, would be less of a contemplation in determining his future in Mexico. There, he broke new ground. He gained success in business and lived the rest of his life there as a prosperous attorney and landowner.

In contrast, Hughes’ mother lived the transitory life mutual for black mothers oftentimes leaving her son in the care of her mother while searching for a job.

His maternal grandmother, Mary Langston, whose original husband had passed from physical life at Harpers Ferry as a fellow member of John Brown’s band, and whose second husband (Hughes’s grandfather) had also been a militant abolitionist. instilled in Hughes a sense of commitment most of all. Hughes lived successively with family friends, then respective relatives in Kansas.

Another essential family figure was John Mercer Langston, a brother of Hughes’s grandfather who was one of the best-known black Americans of the nineteenth century.

Hughes later joined his mother even though she was now with his new stepfather in Cleveland, Ohio. At the same time, Hughes was struggling with a sense of desolation fostered by parental neglect. He himself recalled being driven early by his loneliness ‘to books, and the wondrous world in books.’ He became disillusioned with his father’s materialistic values and contemptuous faith that blacks, Mexicans and Indians were lazy and ignorant.

At Central High School Hughes excelled academically and in sports. He wrote poetry and short fiction for the school’s literary magazine and edited the school year book. He returned to Mexico where he taught English briefly and wrote poems and prose pieces for publication in The Crisis the magazine of the NAACP.

Aided by his father, he arrived in New York in 1921 ostensibly to attend Columbia University but in truth it was to see Harlem. One of his greatest poems, “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” had just been published in The Crisis. His talent was without delay spotted even though he only lasted one year at Columbia where he did well but never felt comfortable.

On campus, he was subjected to bigotry. He was assigned the worst dormitory room because of his color. Classes in English creative writing of recognized artisti value were all he could endure. Instead of attending classes which he found boring he would frequent shows, lectures and readings sponsored by the American Socialist Society. It was then that he was primary introduced to the laughter and pain, hunger and heartache of blues music. It was the night life and culture that lured him out of college. Those sweet sad blues songs captured for him the intense pain and yearning that he saw around him, and that he integrated into such poems as “The Weary Blues”.

To keep himself going as a poetical and aid his mother, Hughes served in turn as: a deliverance boy for a florist; a vegetable farmer and a mess boy on a ship up the Hudson River. As part of a dealer steamer crew he sailed to Africa. He then traveled the same way to Europe, where he jumped Ship in Paris only to spend assorted months working in a night-club kitchen and then wandering off to Italy.

By 1924 his poetry which he had all along been working on showed the powerful influence of the blues and jazz. His poem “The Weary Blues” which best exemplifies this influence helped launch his career when it won basi prize in the poetry division of the 1925 literary contest of Opportunity magazine and likewise won another literary prize in Crisis.

This landmark poem, the firstborn of any poetical to make use of that basic blues form is part of a volume of that same title whose entire collection reflects the frenzied atmosphere of Harlem nightlife. Most of it is selections just as “The Weary Blues” approximate the phrasing and meter of blues music, a genre extrapolated in the early 1920s by rural and urban blacks. In it and such other pieces as “Jazzonia” Hughes evoked the frenzied hedonistic and glittering atmosphere of Harlem’s widely known and esteemed night-clubs. Poetry of social commentary such as “Mother to Son” show how hardened the blacks have to be to face the innumerable hurdles that they have to battle through in life.

Hughes’ earliest influences as a mature poetical came interestingly from white poets. We have Walt Whitman the man who through his artistic violations of old conventions of poetry opened the boundaries of poetry to new forms like free verse. There is likewise the highly populist white German Émigré Carl Sandburg, who as Hughes’ ” guiding star,” was decisive in leading him toward free verse and a radically democratic modernist aesthetic

But black poets Paul Laurence Dunbar, a master of both dialect and general verse, and Claude McKay, the black radical socialist an emigre from Jamaica who likewise wrote accomplished lyric poetry, stood for him as the embodiment of the cosmopolitan and yet racially convinced and devoted black poetical Hughes hoped to be. He was also indebted to older black literary figures such as W.E.B. Dubois and James Weldon Johnson who admired his work and aided him. W.E.B. Dubois’ collection of Pan-Africanist essays Souls of Black Folks has markedly influenced some black writers like Hughes, Richard Wright and James Baldwin.

Such colour-affirmative images and sentiments as that in “people”: The night is beautiful,/So the faces of my people and in ‘Dream Variations: Night coming tenderly,/ Black like me. endeared his work to a wide range of African Americans, for whom he delighted in writing,.

Hughes had always shown his determination to experiment as a poetical and not slavishly follow the tyranny of tight stanzaic forms and precise rhyme. He seemed, like Watt Whitman and Carl Sandburg, to prefer to write verse which captured the realities of American speech rather than “poetic diction”, and with his ear peculiarly attuned to the varieties of black American speech.

“Weary Blues” combines these respective parts the mutual speech of ordinary people, jazz and blues music and the established forms of poetry adapted to the African American and American subjects. In his adaptation of established poetic forms original to jazz then to blues occasionally using dialect but in a way radically dissimilar from earlier writers, Hughes was well served by his early experimentation with a loose form of rhyme that many times gave way to an inventively rhythmic free verse:

Ma an ma baby

Got two mo’ ways,

Two mo’ ways to do de buck!

Even more radical experimentation with the blues form led to his next collection, Fine Clothes to the Jew. Perhaps his finest single book of verse, including various ballads, Fine Clothes was also his least favourably welcomed.

Several reviewers in black newsprints and magazines were distressed by Hughes’ fearless and, ‘tasteless’ evocation of constituents of lower-class black culture, including it is once in a while raw eroticism, never before treated in severe poetry.

Hughes expressing his determination to write when it comes to such humans and to experiment with blues and jazz wrote in his essay “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” Published in the Nation in 1926

‘We younger artists…intend to express our person dark-skinned selves Without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they Are not, it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful, And ugly too.’

Hughes conveyed his determination to write fearlessly, shamelessly and unrepentantly regarding low-class black life and humans inspite of opposition to that. He likewise exercised much freedom in experimenting with blues as well as jazz.

The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If coloured persons are pleased we are glad. If they are not their displeasure doesn’t matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we recognise how and we stand on top of the mountains, free within ourselves.

With his espousal of such thoughts defending the freedom of the black writer Hughes became a beacon of light to younger writers who likewise wished to assert their right to explore and exploit allegedly degraded distinct elements of black people. He therefore provided the motion with a manifesto by so skillfully arguing the need for both race pride and artistic independence in this his most unforgettable essay,

In 1926 Hughes returned to school in the throughout history black Lincoln University in Pennsylvania where he continued publishing poetry, short stories and essays in mainstream and black-oriented periodicals

In 1927 together with Zora Neal Hurston and other writers he founded Fire a literary diary devoted to African -American culture and purposed at demolishing the older forms of black literature. The effort itself was short-lived. It was engulfed in fire along with it is editorial offices.

Then a 70 – year old wealthy white patron entered his life. Charlotte Osgood Mason, who started directing nearly each aspect of Hughes’ life and art. Her ardent faith in parapsychology, intuition and folk culture was brought into supervising the writing of Hughes’ novel: Not Without Lauqhter in which his boyhood in Kansas is drawn to depict the life of a sensible black child, Sandy, growing up in a representative, middle-class.mid-western African-American home.

Hughes’ kinship with Mason came to an explosive end in 1930. Hurt and baffled by Mason’s rejection, Hughes applied cash from a prize to spend various weeks recovering in Haiti. From the intense personal unhappiness and depression into which the break had sunk him.

Back in the U.S., Hughes made a sharp turn to the political left. His verses and essays were now being published in New Masses, a diary controlled by the Communist Party. Later that year he started out touring.

The renaissance which was long over was substituted for Hughes by a sense of the need for political struggle and for an art that reflected this radical approach. But his career, different from others then, effortlessly pulled through the end of that movement. He kept on developing his art in keeping with his sense of himself as a exhaustively professional writer. He then published his primary collections, the oftentimes acerbic and even embittered The Ways of White Folks.

Hughes’ main concern was now, the theatre. Mulatto, his drama of race-mixing and the South was the longest running play by an African American on Broadway until Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun appeared in the 1960′s. His dramas – comedies and ramas of domestic black American life, for the most part – were also ordinary with black audiences. Using such inventions as theatre-in-the-round and invoking audience participation, Hughes envisioned the work of later avant-garde dramatists like Amiri Baraka and Sonia Sanchez. In his drama Hughes combines urban dialogue, folk idioms, and a thematic special importance and significance on the dignity and strength of black Americans.

Hughes wrote other plays, including comedies such as Little Ham (1936) and a historical drama, Emperor of Haiti (1936) most of which were only moderate successes. In 1937 he expended assorted months in Europe, including a long stay in besieged Madrid. In 1938 he returned home to found the Harlem Suitcase Theater, which staged his agitprop drama Don’t You Want to Be Free? employing assorted of his poems, vigorously blended black nationalism, the blues, and socialist exhortation. The same year, a socialist institution published a pamphlet of his radical verse, “A New Song.”

With the commence of World War II, Hughes returned to the political centre. The Big Sea, his initial volume of his autobiography work with it is unforgettable portrait of the renaissance and his African voyages written in an episodic, lightly comic style with almost no mention of his leftist sympathies appeared.

In his book of verse Shakespeare in Harlem (1942) he once again sang the blues. On the other hand, this collection, as well as another, his Jim Crow’s Last Stand (1943), strongly attacked racial segregation.

In poetry, he revived his interest in numerous of his old themes and forms, as in Shakespeare in Harlem (1942).the South and West, taking poetry to the people. He read his poems in churches and in schools. He then sailed from New York for the Soviet Union. He was amid a band of young African-Americans invited to take part in a film when it comes to American race relations.

This filmmaking venture, even though unsuccessful, proved instrumental to heightening his short story writing. For whilst in Moscow he was struck by the correspondings amongst D. H. Lawrence’s reputation in a title story from his collection The Lovely Lady and Mrs Osgood Mason. Overwhelmed by the power of Lawrence’s stories, Hughes started out writing short fiction of his. On his return to the U. S.. by 1933 he had sold three stories and had begun compiling his primary collection.

Perhaps his finest literary accomplishment for the duration of the war came in writing a weekly column in the Chicago Defender from 1942 to 1952. the spotlight of which was an offbeat Harlem reputation called Jesse B. Semple, or Simple, and his exchanges with a staid narrator in a neighborhood bar, where Simple commented on a assortment of matters but principally regarding race and racism. Simple became Hughes’s most celebrated and beloved fictional creation. and one of the freshest, most arousing and attention holding and enduring Negro characters in American fiction Jesse B Simple, is a Harlem Everyman, whose comic manner scarcely obscured a good deal of of the severe themes raised by Hughes in relating Simple’s exploits in the quintessential “wise-fool’ whose experience and uneducated perceptivities capture the foilings of being black in America.. His honorable and uncomplicated eye sees through the shallowness, hypocrisy and phoniness of white and black Americans alike. From his stool at Paddy’s Bar, in a delightful brand of English, Simple remarks both wisely and hilariously on galore things but primarily on race and women.

His bebop-shaped poem Montage of a Dream Deferred (1991) projects a altering Harlem, fertile with humanity but in decline. In it, the drasti deteriorated state of Harlem in the 1950s is contrasted to the Harlem of the 20s. The a feeling of excitement of night-club life and the vitality of cultural renaissance has now gone. An urban ghetto plagued by poverty and crime has taken it is place. A modify in rhythm parallels the modify in tone. The smooth patterns and tame melancholy of blues music are substituted by the abrupt, fragmented structure of post-war jazz and bebop. Hughes was alert to what was happening in the African-American world and what was coming. This is why this volume of verse reflected so much the new and comparatively new be-bop jazz rhythms that emphasized dissonance They thence reflected the new pressures that were straining the black communities in the cities of the North.

Hughes’ living much of his life in basements and attics brought much realism and humanity to his writing particularly his short stories. He therefore remained close to his immense public as he held moving figuratively through the basements of the world where his life is thickest and where mutual persons struggle to make their way. At the same time, writing in attics, he rose to the long perspective that enabled him to radiate a humanizing, beautifying, but still truthful light on what he saw.

Hughes’ short stories reflect his entire aim as a writer. For his art was aimed at interpreting “the beauty of his own people,” which he felt they were taught either not to see or not to take pride in. In all his stories, his humanity, his faithful and artistic demonstrations of both racial and national truth – his successful mediation amid the beauties and the terrors of life around him all shine out. Certain themes, technical excellencies or social perceptivenesses loom out.

“Slave in the Block” for example, a simple but bright tale reveals the lack of respect and even humane communication, amongst Negroes and those patronizing and cosmetic whites.

Hughes likewise took time to write for children manufacturing the successful Popo and Fifina (1932), a tale set in Haiti with Arna Bontemps. He at last published a dozen children’s books, on subjects such as jazz, Africa, and the West Indies. Proud of his versatility, he likewise wrote a commissioned history of the NAACP and the text of a much praised pictorial history of black America The Sweet Flypaper of Life (1955), where he explicated photographs of Harlem by Roy DeCarava, which was judged masterful by reviewers, and confirmed Hughes’s reputation for an unrivaled command of the subtle differences in meaning or opinion or attitude of black urban culture.

Hughes’s suffered uninterrupted harassment regarding his ties to the Left. In vain he protested he had never been a Communist having severed all such links. In 1953 he was subjected to public humiliation at the hands of Senator Joseph McCarthy, when he was forced to appear in Washington, D.C., and testify officially when it comes to his politics. Hughes refused that he had ever been a communist but conceded that a great deal of of his radical verse had been ill-advised.

Hughes’s career scarcely suffered from this. Within a short time McCarthy himself was discredited. Hughes now wrote at length in I Wonder as I Wander (1956), his much-admired second volume of autobiography. in regards to his years in the Soviet Union. He became prosperous, altho he always had to work hard for his measure of prosperity. In the 1950s he turned to the musical stage for success, as he sought to repeat his major success of the 1940s, when Kurt Weill and Elmer Rice had chosen him as the lyricist for their Street Scene (1947). This production was hailed as a breakthrough in the development of American opera; for Hughes, the apparently endless cycle of poverty into which he had been locked came to an end. He purchased a home in Harlem.

By the end of his life Hughes was closely universally recognized as the most representative writer in the history of African American creative writing of recognized artisti value and likewise as in all likelihood the most basi of all black American poets. He therefore became the widely acknowledged “Poet Laureate” of the Negro Race!

According to Arnold Rampersad, an authority on Hughes:

Much of his work celebrated the beauty and dignity and Humanity of black Americans. Unlike other writers Hughes basked in the glow of the evidently high regard of his crucial audience, African Americans. His poetry, with it is original jazz and blues influence and it is powerful democratic commitment, is almost surely the most influential written by any person of African dissent in this century. Certain of his poems; “Mother to Son” are virtual anthems of black American life and aspiration. His plays alone… could secure him a place in AfroAmerican literary history. His reputation Simple is the most unforgettable single figure to emerge from black journalism. ‘The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain’ is timeless, “it seems as a statement of continuous dilemma facing the young black artist, caught amid the contending forces of black and white culture’

Liberated by the examples of Carl Sandburg’s free verse Hughes’ poetry has always aimed for utter directness and simplicity. In this regard, is the notion that he closely never revised his work seeming like romantic poets who believe and demonstrate that poetry is a ‘spontaneous overflow of emotions”.

Like Walt Whitman, Hughes’s outstanding poetic forefather in America’s poetry…, Hughes did believe in the poetry of Emotion, in the power of ideas and sensations that went beyond matters of technical crafts. Hughes never wanted to be a writer who cautiously sculpted rhyme and stanzas and in so doing lost the aroused heart of what he had set out to say.

His poems imbued with the distinguishable diction and cadences of Negro idioms in simple stanza patterns and rigorous rhyme systems derived from blues songs enabled him to capture the ambience of the setting as well as the rhythms of jazz music.

He wrote largely in two modes/directions:

(i) lyrics with regards to black life using rhythms and refrains from jazz and

blues.

(ii) Poems of racial protest

exploring the boundaries amongst black and white America. thence contributing to the strengthening of black cognizance and racial pride than even the Harlem Renaissance’s bequest for it is most militant decades. While never militantly repudiating co-operation with the white community, the poems which protest versus white racism are boldly direct.

In “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” the simple direct and free verse makes clear that Africa’s dusky rivers run concurrently with the poet’s soul as he draws spiritual strength as well as person identity from the collective experience of his ancestors. The poem is according to Rampersad “reminding us that the syncopated beat which the captive Africans brought with them “that found it is introductory expression here in “the hand clapping, feet stamping, drum-beating rhythms of the humane heart (4 – 5), is as ‘ancient as the world.”

But what Hughes is better known for is his treatment of the possiblenesses of African-American experiences and identities. Like Walt Whitman, he produced a persona that speaks for more than himself. His voice in “I too” for instance absorbs the depiction of a whole race into his central knowingness as he laments:

I, too, sing America

I am the darker brother.

I, too, am America.

The “darker brother” celebrating America is sure of a better future when he will no longer be shunted isolated by “company”. The poem is characteristic of Hughes’s faith in the racial cognizance of African Americans, a consciousness that reflects their integrity and beauty while simultaneously demanding respect and acceptance from others as in particular when: Nobody ‘/I dare Say to me, Eat in the kitchen.

This dogged resistance and the optimisti feeling that all is going to turn out well in facing adversity is what Hughes’ life centred on.thus enabling him to survive and achieve in spite of the obstacles facing him. as Rampersad affirms:.

‘Toughness was a major characteristic of Hughes’ life. For his life was hard. He surely knew poverty and humiliation at the hands of people with far more power and cash than he had and little respect for writers, exceptionally poets. Through all his poverty and hurt, Hughes kept on a steady keel. He was a gentleman, a soft man in a good deal of ways, who was sympathetic and affectionate, but was tough to the core.

Hughes’s poetry reveals his hearty appetite for all humanity, his insistence on justice for all, and his faith in the transcendent possiblenesses of joy and hope that make room as he aspires in ‘I too’, for everyone at America’s table.

This deep love for all humanity is echoed in one of his poems: ‘My People” galore lines of which were earlier referred to:

The night is beautiful,

so the faces of my people,

the stars are beautiful,

so the eyes of my people

Beautiful, also, is the sun

Beautiful also, are the souls of my people

Arnold Rampersad’s last word on Hughes’s humanity, is anchored on three necessary attributes: his tenderness; generosity and his sense of humour.

Hughes was likewise tender. He was a man who lovse other humans and was beloved. It was very hard to find any person who had known him who would say a harsh thing when it comes to him. People who knew him could do not forget little that wasn’t pleasant of him. Evidently, he radiated joy and humanity and this was how he was remembered after his death.

He loved the company of people. He necessitated to have persons around him. He necessitated them perhaps to counter the necessary loneliness instilled in his soul from early in his life and out of which he made his literary art.

Hughes was a man of great generosity. He was generous to the young and the poor, the needy; he was generous even to his rivals. He was generous to a fault, giving to those who did not always is worthy of his kindness. But he was prepared to danger ingratitude in order to aid younger artists in queer and young humans in general.

Hughes was a man of laughter, altho his laughter almost always came in the presence of tears or the threat of the surge of tears. The titles of his original novel Not Without Laughter and a collection of stories Laughing to Keep from Crying. indicate this. This was fundamentally how he believed life ought to be faced – with the noesis of it is inescapable loneliness and pain but with an awareness, too, of the therapy of laughter by which we assert the humane in the face of circumstances. We will have to reach out to people, and one will have to not only have an awful tolerance of life’s sufferings but must likewise exuberantly finish the happy aspect of life.

His sense of humour is again credited by a writer from Africa who was like Hughes also faced with fighting racial discrimination and deprivation, Ezekiel Mphahlele.

Here is a man with a boundless zest for life… He has an irrepressible sense of humour, and to meet him is to come face to face with the essence of humane goodness. In spite of his literary success, he has earned himself the respect of young Negro writers, who never find him unwilling to aid them along. And yet he is not condescending. Unlike most Negroes who become widely known and esteemed or prosperous and move to high-class residential areas, he has continued to live in Harlem, which is in sense a Negro ghetto, in a house which he purchased with cash earned as lyricist for the Broadway musical Street Scene.

In explaining and illustrating the Negro condition in America as was his stated vocation, Hughes captured their joys, and the veiled weariness of their lives, the monotony of their jobs, and the veiled weariness of their songs. He accomplished this in poems noteworthy not only for their directness and simplicity but for their economy, lucidity and wit. Whether he was writing poems of racial protest like “Harlem” and “Ballad of the Landlord” or poems of racial affirmation like’ Mother to Son’ and ‘The Negro Speaks of Rivers,’ Hughes was capable to find language and forms to express not only the pain of urban life but likewise it is splendid vitality.

Further Reading:

Gates, Henry, Louis and Mc Kay Nellie, Y. (Gen. Ed) The Norton

Anthology of African American Literature, N.W. Norton & Co; New York & London 1997

Hughes, Langston, “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain” 1926. Rpt

in Nathan Huggins ed. Voices from the Harlem Renaissance Oxford

University Press, New York, 1976

Mphahlele, Ezekiel, “Langston Hughes,” in Introduction to African

Literature (ed) Ulli Beier, Longman, London 1967

Rampersad, Arnold, The life of Langston Hughes Vol. 1 & 11 Oxford

University Press, N. York, 1986

Trotman, James, (ed), Langston Hughes: The Man, His Art and His

Continuing Influence Garland Publishing Inc. N.

York & London 1995

Black Literature Criticism

The Oxford Companion to African American Literature., Oxford University Press,.1997

Famous Stars Straps Color Me Girls Tee

Stay warm this winter with this Famous Stars and Straps thermal.

Famous Stars Straps Color Me Girls Tee Pic

Famous Stars Straps Color Me Girls Tee Picture

Famous Stars Straps Color Me Girls Tee Picture

Famous Stars Straps Color Me Girls Tee Pic

Famous Stars Straps Color Me Girls Tee Image

Famous Stars Straps Color Me Girls Tee Picture

Childhood memories – those seminal, bittersweet moments of our youth burned indelibly into our consciousness. Few things in the running timeline that is our ‘life’ burn with the intensity of our early memories. I grew up in the 1960′s and 70′s in a typical Northern Virginia suburb on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. In those days, you got your amusement wherever you could find it. For the grown-ups, there was Redskins football (if you were lucky sufficient to be a season ticket holder or, pre-Ebay, recognise sufficient of the right people to get tickets). There were a wealth of bars and restaurants, and a handful of museums and cultural tourist attractions. Born in a fiscally conservative household, we settled for Washington Diplomats season tickets. The Diplomats were an NASL (North American Soccer League) soccer franchise who played at RFK Stadium, whenever the Redskins weren’t using it that is, and when no major swap meets necessitated the space. It was a poor alternate for Sonny, Billy, and George Allen, but we enjoyed the likes of Alan Green, Sonny Askew, and Johan Cruyff all the same. If you were a kid in D.C. in those days, the choices were less exotic, even though for the imaginative, almost limitless.

In the Winter, most of our days and nights were expended praying for snow. It seldom came, but even an inch or two was sufficient to gleefully paralyze the Fairfax County Public School System for days, and fabricate a bread and milk shortage of epic proportions. Few things rivaled the excitement of expectantly listening to local radio stations for the proclamation that school had been cancelled. When it did snow, there were life threatening rides down steep ice-covered hills in ‘saucers’ or ‘flexible flyers’, which continued until frostbite set in, or somebody hit a tree, whichever came first. It was the pre-acid rain era, so we’d run out in the front yard at night, scoop up a bowl of the white stuff (we hoped it was white anyway), and adding vanilla and milk, make ‘snow-cream’, which to an 8-10 year old, was the nectar of the Gods.

In the Summer, we caught insects. None of us genuinely knew why. It just seemed like the most agreeably diverting option. In fact, catching bugs was such a usual action amongst 1960-1970′s era kids, you could actually buy bug-catching kits at Toys-R-Us. We didn’t mess with beetles, potato bugs, or other ‘boring’ bugs. Bee’s were what we were after, because, lets face it – we were growing up on the mean streets of Alexandria – danger was our middle name. My personal favorites were bumblebees. They were black and green, looked like space aliens, and got genuinely pissed off when you trapped them in your empty mayonnaise jar (or if you were a lucky little bastard, a Toys-R-Us official bugcatcher!). But really, any bee would do. I don’t genuinely do not forget what we did after catching bees, but it was a sudden intense sensation we never tired of. The pinnacle of bee-catching accomplishment was to catch multiple bees in the same container, increasing exponentially, the odds that either you or an innocent bystander, would be stung. Heady stuff. I even do not forget the strange alien smell of insects, something I wonder whether today’s kids would even recognize? When the bees weren’t buzzing, there was the less politically rectify substitute – roasting insects alive with your magnifying glass.

Occupying that special strata amongst actually having disposable income, and not having it, my parents were the proud and fortunate owners of an above ground pool. Constructed with aluminum siding and paperclips, this miracle of 1970′s engineering seemed always on the verge of collapsing. Water in our pool mysteriously defied the basi law of thermodynamics, it is temperature staying at a near neverending -20 degrees Fahrenheit, even smack dab in the middle of the infamously hot and humid DC Summers. When our lips had achieved greatest or most complete or best possible blueness and we had lost sentiment in our extremities, we would escape our arctic refuge, and lay ourselves down, with a satisfying sizzle, on the concrete and metal sewer lid in front of our house. This alternating freezing and frying cycle killed a lot of time in my youth, and likely most of my neuroreceptors. As an adult, I in general no longer grasp temperature.

Once in awhile, when the Gods of Summer and good fortune shined upon us, we heard a noise that sent us into fits of anticipatory glee. The jingle of the ‘Good Humor’ truck could be heard by our young finely tuned ears at least 8 miles away, and sent us into a frenzy like no other (comparable, perhaps, only to the reaction of teenage boys at the beach to the news that an adult female had lost her top in the surf). Depending on how much change you could beg, borrow, or stealthily abscond with, you might take delight in any number of delicacies: a red-white-and-blue rocket pop, creamsicle (the flavor of which still can not be explained nor replicated by innovative science), or if you were peculiarly lucky, the pinnacle of Good Humor offerings, the chocolate eclair or strawberry shortcake.

The rest of the year was less exciting. We built forts in the woods in the most politically faulty manner possible. Sometimes we just dug giant holes in the ground. Sometimes we built lean-to’s with rotting logs and squatted in them. Good times. But the most favored form of fort-building involved climbing to perilous heights while nailing 2×4′s and plywood onto gorgeous and antecedently unmarred trees, therefore creating the mystery sanctums of our youth. The building of forts wasn’t just with regards to material conquest, but required the creation of mystery organizations, passwords, mystery signs and handshakes, and sacred alliances. The building of a fort was naturally and inevitably followed by the tearing down of said fort by other would-be fort builders, commonly for no apparent reason whatsoever. This cycle of creation and destruction taught us perchance the most indispensable life lesson of them all. No matter how beauteous the things you create in life, there will always be a heap of asshole that won’t be happy until they find a way to mess it all up. Life is fort-building.

When we tired of building forts, and when all other seasonally suitable forms of recreation were exhausted, we threw **** at each other. Apples, homemade spears, rocks. It didn’t much matter. Throwing **** at each other was fun. The most desirable and auspicious form of ‘throwing stuff’ was unquestionably the ‘dirt clod battle’. As an aged and wise philosopher once scrawled with his last dying word ‘dirt clods are God’s way of telling us he wants us to pelt each other with ****’. Okay – I’ll confess I made that up (although I believe Ben Franklin may have said something approximate) – but there was no denying, a dirt clod battle was good old-fashioned epic battle fun.

Northern Virginia, experiencing a home construction explosion for the duration of that time, may well have been the dirt clod battle mecca of the Universe. The rules were clear and universal. Find a construction site. Find an enemy (i.e…anyone else you either didn’t recognise or didn’t like who happened to be a kid and there at the time). Commence throwing dirt clods. The goal to be attained was clear – invent drama at any cost. Sometimes this could be achieved by making a in particular spectacular throw, at times by managing to gain control of the precious high ground, from which to dominate your contestant and pummel him into submission. The battles never ended until it got dark, or an individual ran off bleeding and screaming. If the supply of dirt clods was exhausted, the fun could continue, as clod battles could morph into evenly stimulating sessions of ‘King of the Mountain’ and ‘Smear the Queer’ (it was the 60′s and 70′s – there was no such thing as ‘politically correct’ – sorry!). The chances for good old American fun were endless. No doubt our best military leaders of the amount of time honed their attainments on the field of dirt clod battle.

I’m not incisively sure what our parents were doing while these healthful childhood actions were going on. Mostly, they seemed to smoke, drink, argue, cookout, and do yard work. Despite a seeming lack of responsible parental supervision, we someways grew into comparatively normal (*cough*) functioning adults in spite of our rather adventuresome recreational activities. Today I wonder if perhaps the at times rough and tumble exercises of our youth weren’t the perfective training grounds for the challenges of the adult workplace. I may still dodge a good dirt-clod and deliver a well-aimed strike when one is sorely needed.

But in the 1960′s and 70′s, America’s youth yearned for nourishment, not just of the flesh, but of the mind, and I was no exception. Fortunately, Washington DC had 5 channels of television to satisfy our burgeoning intellectual curiosity. I was a huge fan of Channel 20 (you had to turn to that peculiar channel using a discerned UHF dial, a clear indicator that it was ‘special’). My parents dug Channels 4, 5, and 9. No one I knew watched Channel 45. Channel 20 offered a veritable treasure chest of offerings. Where else could you see Will Robinson and Robot traverse the dangers of the galaxy and the diabolical Dr. Smith? What other source of noesis and wisdom could provide the life lessons encapsulated in the adventures of Ultraman and Speed Racer? Channel 20 was a portal to limitless selective information and experience, where I met and fell in love with Herman Munster, Marine Boy, Kimba the White Lion, and innumerable other necessary world influences. And Channel 20 was the only television station that had it is very own spiritual leader, Dick Dyszel, who taught kids everything they necessitated to know as Bozo the Clown, Count Gore De Vol, and ‘Captain 20′.

It was at night however, for the duration of the witching hours, that the TV of my childhood shared it is darkest and most significant secrets. 11:30pm was a magical moment. Either with parental knowledge, or without it, huddled around the 15″ black and white television with it is directional telescoping antenna extended and pointed for greatest or most complete or best possible reception clarity, we were ready to be thrilled. And thrilled we were. I expended a good percentage of my youthful weekend nights transfixed by the horror classics as staged by the antecedently cited Count, or by another of my childhood favorites, all the way from Detroit, Sir Graves Ghastly.

Both fantasti and horrible, the classic movies of my childhood still dominate my childhood memories: Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy, The Invisible Man, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Thing, The Night of the Living Dead, The Incredible Shrinking Man, The Leech Woman, The Little Shop of Horrors, The Wasp Woman, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, The Haunting, Black Sabbath, The Gorgon, Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, and innumerable others…So enthralled with late night fare was I, that my parents started out fondly to call me ‘old weird John’. What they didn’t see were the worthful life-lessons I learned while they slept. Bad things take place to good people. Sometimes it’s smart to run. When you listen voices in your house, get out! Never hitchhike. If it’s dark, and you’re in a lightning storm, something bad’s regarding to happen. Nothings more scary than the everyday. Monsters are real – it is just that grownups are too stupid to see them. And old people are creepy.

Some might look on my childhood in the DC suburbs as strange, warped, or dysfunctional. But to me, it was magical, memorable, an utterly awful chapter of my life. Whether endangering my own or someone else’s life in an epic dirt clod fight, defending a newly traditionalisti fort in the woods as our code of honor required, or staring transfixed at this week’s horror beaming to me live from the Channel 20 studios, my childhood was one to remember. Some say they learned everything they necessitated to recognise in kindergarten. But not me. I learned everything I necessitated to learn when my parents weren’t watching. And I enjoyed each second of it.

Freeze Boys 8 20 Captain America Headless Pic

Freeze Boys 8 20 Captain America Headless Image

Freeze Boys 8 20 Captain America Headless Photo

Freeze Boys 8 20 Captain America Headless Pic

Freeze Boys 8 20 Captain America Headless Pic

Freeze Boys 8 20 Captain America Headless Image