Our Spiritual Struggles

Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. They approach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel to be a problem? they say, I know an excellent colored man in my town; or, I fought at Mechanicsville; or, Do not these Southern outrages make your blood boil? At these I smile, or am interested, or reduce the boiling to a simmer, as the occasion may require. To the real question, How does it feel to be a problem? I answer seldom a word.

Between me and the other world, there is always an unasked question. Some leave it unasked out of tact. Others struggle to find the right words. Still, all circle around the question. They approach me with some hesitation and look at me with curiosity or pity. Then, instead of asking directly, How does it feel to be a problem? they say something else. I know an excellent Black man in my town. Or, I fought at Mechanicsville. Or, Don’t these Southern outrages make your blood boil? In response, I smile, show interest, or turn my boiling anger down to a simmer, as the occasion requires. To the real question, How does it feel to be a problem? I rarely say a word.

And yet, being a problem is a strange experience,—peculiar even for one who has never been anything else, save perhaps in babyhood and in Europe. It is in the early days of rollicking boyhood that the revelation first bursts upon one, all in a day, as it were. I remember well when the shadow swept across me. I was a little thing, away up in the hills of New England, where the dark Housatonic winds between Hoosac and Taghkanic to the sea. In a wee wooden schoolhouse, something put it into the boys’ and girls’ heads to buy gorgeous visiting-cards—ten cents a package—and exchange. The exchange was merry, till one girl, a tall newcomer, refused my card,—refused it peremptorily, with a glance. Then it dawned upon me with a certain suddenness that I was different from the others; or like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil. I had thereafter no desire to tear down that veil, to creep through; I held all beyond it in common contempt, and lived above it in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows. That sky was bluest when I could beat my mates at examination-time, or beat them at a foot-race, or even beat their stringy heads. Alas, with the years all this fine contempt began to fade; for the words I longed for, and all their dazzling opportunities, were theirs, not mine. But they should not keep these prizes, I said; some, all, I would wrest from them. Just how I would do it I could never decide: by reading law, by healing the sick, by telling the wonderful tales that swam in my head,—some way. With other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youth shrunk into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale world about them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in a bitter cry, Why did God make me an outcast and a stranger in mine own house? The shades of the prison-house closed round about us all: walls strait and stubborn to the whitest, but relentlessly narrow, tall, and unscalable to sons of night who must plod darkly on in resignation, or beat unavailing palms against the stone, or steadily, half hopelessly, watch the streak of blue above.

And yet, being a problem is a strange experience. It is strange even for someone who has never been anything else, except perhaps as a baby and in Europe. The realization first hits in the early days of carefree boyhood, seemingly all at once. I remember well when the shadow fell over me. I was a small child in the hills of New England. There, the dark Housatonic winds between Hoosac and Taghkanic toward the sea. In a tiny wooden schoolhouse, something gave the boys and girls the idea to buy colorful calling cards and exchange them. The cards cost ten cents a package. The exchange was cheerful until one girl, a tall newcomer, refused my card. She refused it firmly, with a glance. Then I suddenly realized that I was different from the others. Or perhaps I was like them in heart, life, and longing, but a vast veil shut me out of their world. Afterward, I had no desire to tear down that veil or creep through it. I looked down on everything beyond the veil and lived above it, among blue skies and great wandering shadows. That sky was bluest when I could beat my classmates on exams or in a footrace, or even hit their scraggly heads. Sadly, as the years passed, all this proud contempt began to fade. For the words I longed for, and all their dazzling opportunities, belonged to them, not me. But they would not keep these prizes, I told myself. I would seize some, or all, from them. I could never decide exactly how. I might study law, heal the sick, or tell the wonderful stories that swam in my head. Somehow, I would do it. For other black boys, the struggle was not so fiercely hopeful. Their youth shrank into empty efforts to please others. Or it turned into silent hatred of the white world around them and mocking distrust of everything white. Or their youth wasted away in a bitter cry: Why did God make me an outcast and stranger in my own home? The shadows of the prison closed around us all. Its walls were tight and unyielding even for the whitest among us. But for the sons of night, those walls were relentlessly narrow, high, and impossible to climb. We had to trudge on in darkness, accepting our fate, or beat our palms uselessly against the stone. Or we had to keep watching, almost without hope, the streak of blue above.

After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world,—a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.

After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a kind of seventh son. He is born with a veil and gifted with second-sight in this American world. This world gives him no true sense of himself. Instead, he can see himself only through what the other world reveals to him. This double-consciousness is a strange feeling, a sense of always looking at yourself through other people’s eyes. It means measuring your soul by the standards of a world that watches with amused contempt and pity. He always feels his two identities: an American, a Negro. He has two souls, two thoughts, two conflicting ambitions. Two ideals fight within one dark body, and only his stubborn strength keeps that body from being torn apart.

The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife,—this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He would not Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa. He would not bleach his Negro soul in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American, without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without having the doors of Opportunity closed roughly in his face.

The history of the American Negro is the history of this struggle. It is a longing to become a fully self-aware man, to unite his divided self into something better and truer. In bringing his two selves together, he wants neither to be lost. He would not make America African, because America has too much to teach the world and Africa. He would not wash away his Negro soul in a flood of white American identity. For he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wants a man to be both a Negro and an American without others cursing and spitting on him. He wants this without having the doors of opportunity slammed in his face.

This, then, is the end of his striving: to be a co-worker in the kingdom of culture, to escape both death and isolation, to husband and use his best powers and his latent genius. These powers of body and mind have in the past been strangely wasted, dispersed, or forgotten. The shadow of a mighty Negro past flits through the tale of Ethiopia the Shadowy and of Egypt the Sphinx. Through history, the powers of single black men flash here and there like falling stars, and die sometimes before the world has rightly gauged their brightness. Here in America, in the few days since Emancipation, the black man’s turning hither and thither in hesitant and doubtful striving has often made his very strength to lose effectiveness, to seem like absence of power, like weakness. And yet it is not weakness,—it is the contradiction of double aims. The double-aimed struggle of the black artisan—on the one hand to escape white contempt for a nation of mere hewers of wood and drawers of water, and on the other hand to plough and nail and dig for a poverty-stricken horde—could only result in making him a poor craftsman, for he had but half a heart in either cause. By the poverty and ignorance of his people, the Negro minister or doctor was tempted toward quackery and demagogy; and by the criticism of the other world, toward ideals that made him ashamed of his lowly tasks. The would-be black savant was confronted by the paradox that the knowledge his people needed was a twice-told tale to his white neighbors, while the knowledge which would teach the white world was Greek to his own flesh and blood. The innate love of harmony and beauty that set the ruder souls of his people a-dancing and a-singing raised but confusion and doubt in the soul of the black artist; for the beauty revealed to him was the soul-beauty of a race which his larger audience despised, and he could not articulate the message of another people. This waste of double aims, this seeking to satisfy two unreconciled ideals, has wrought sad havoc with the courage and faith and deeds of ten thousand thousand people,—has sent them often wooing false gods and invoking false means of salvation, and at times has even seemed about to make them ashamed of themselves.

This, then, is the goal of his struggle: to work alongside others in the world of culture. He seeks to escape both death and isolation, to preserve and use his greatest abilities and hidden genius. In the past, these powers of body and mind have been strangely wasted, scattered, or forgotten. The shadow of a mighty Black past flickers through the stories of Ethiopia the Shadowy and Egypt the Sphinx. Throughout history, the talents of individual Black men flash here and there like falling stars. Sometimes those men die before the world has fully recognized their brilliance. Here in America, only a short time has passed since Emancipation. The Black man has turned from one direction to another, struggling with hesitation and doubt. His uncertainty has often weakened the effect of his strength, making that strength look like powerlessness or weakness. Yet the problem is not weakness. It is the conflict between two aims. The Black artisan struggled toward two goals. On one hand, he sought to escape white contempt for a people seen as nothing but manual laborers. On the other, he had to plow, hammer, and dig for a vast number of desperately poor people. This divided struggle could only make him a poor craftsman, because his heart was only half in either cause. His people's poverty and ignorance tempted the Black minister or doctor toward fraudulent practices and appeals to popular prejudice. Meanwhile, criticism from the white world pushed him toward ideals that made him ashamed of his humble work. The aspiring Black scholar faced a paradox. The knowledge his people needed was already an old story to his white neighbors. Yet the knowledge that could teach the white world was incomprehensible to his own people. An inborn love of harmony and beauty moved the less refined among his people to dance and sing. But that same love brought only confusion and doubt to the Black artist's soul. The beauty he saw expressed the soul of a race his wider audience despised. And he could not express the message of another people. This waste caused by divided aims, this effort to satisfy two conflicting ideals, has done terrible harm. It has damaged the courage, faith, and actions of ten million people. It has often led them to seek false gods and turn to false ways of finding salvation. At times, it has even seemed close to making them ashamed of themselves.

Away back in the days of bondage they thought to see in one divine event the end of all doubt and disappointment; few men ever worshipped Freedom with half such unquestioning faith as did the American Negro for two centuries. To him, so far as he thought and dreamed, slavery was indeed the sum of all villainies, the cause of all sorrow, the root of all prejudice; Emancipation was the key to a promised land of sweeter beauty than ever stretched before the eyes of wearied Israelites. In song and exhortation swelled one refrain—Liberty; in his tears and curses the God he implored had Freedom in his right hand. At last it came,—suddenly, fearfully, like a dream. With one wild carnival of blood and passion came the message in his own plaintive cadences:—

Back in the days of slavery, enslaved Black Americans hoped one divine event would end all doubt and disappointment. For two centuries, few people ever worshipped Freedom with half the unquestioning faith of the American Negro. In his thoughts and dreams, slavery was the sum of all evils, the cause of all sorrow. It was the root of all prejudice. Emancipation was the key to a promised land more beautiful than any the weary Israelites had ever seen. In songs and urgent appeals, one refrain rose: Liberty. Through tears and curses, he pleaded with God, who held Freedom in his right hand. At last Freedom came, suddenly and terrifyingly, like a dream. With a wild carnival of blood and passion, the message came in the mournful rhythms of his own voice:

Years have passed away since then,—ten, twenty, forty; forty years of national life, forty years of renewal and development, and yet the swarthy spectre sits in its accustomed seat at the Nation’s feast. In vain do we cry to this our vastest social problem:—

Years have passed since then, ten, twenty, forty. Forty years of national life, forty years of renewal and development. Yet the dark-skinned ghost still sits in its usual seat at the Nation’s feast. In vain we cry out to this, our greatest social problem:

The Nation has not yet found peace from its sins; the freedman has not yet found in freedom his promised land. Whatever of good may have come in these years of change, the shadow of a deep disappointment rests upon the Negro people,—a disappointment all the more bitter because the unattained ideal was unbounded save by the simple ignorance of a lowly people.

The nation has not yet found peace from its sins. Those freed from slavery have not yet found their promised land in freedom. Whatever good may have come during these years of change, deep disappointment casts a shadow over Black people. The disappointment is all the more bitter because their unrealized ideal had almost no limits. Its only limits came from the limited knowledge of a people of low social standing.

The first decade was merely a prolongation of the vain search for freedom, the boon that seemed ever barely to elude their grasp,—like a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp, maddening and misleading the headless host. The holocaust of war, the terrors of the Ku-Klux Klan, the lies of carpet-baggers, the disorganization of industry, and the contradictory advice of friends and foes, left the bewildered serf with no new watchword beyond the old cry for freedom. As the time flew, however, he began to grasp a new idea. The ideal of liberty demanded for its attainment powerful means, and these the Fifteenth Amendment gave him. The ballot, which before he had looked upon as a visible sign of freedom, he now regarded as the chief means of gaining and perfecting the liberty with which war had partially endowed him. And why not? Had not votes made war and emancipated millions? Had not votes enfranchised the freedmen? Was anything impossible to a power that had done all this? A million black men started with renewed zeal to vote themselves into the kingdom. So the decade flew away, the revolution of 1876 came, and left the half-free serf weary, wondering, but still inspired. Slowly but steadily, in the following years, a new vision began gradually to replace the dream of political power,—a powerful movement, the rise of another ideal to guide the unguided, another pillar of fire by night after a clouded day. It was the ideal of “book-learning”; the curiosity, born of compulsory ignorance, to know and test the power of the cabalistic letters of the white man, the longing to know. Here at last seemed to have been discovered the mountain path to Canaan; longer than the highway of Emancipation and law, steep and rugged, but straight, leading to heights high enough to overlook life.

The first decade merely prolonged the futile search for freedom, a blessing that always seemed just beyond their grasp. Like a teasing will-o’-the-wisp, freedom tormented and misled the leaderless masses. The devastation of war, the terrors of the Ku-Klux Klan, and the lies of carpet-baggers left the freed people bewildered. So did the breakdown of industry and the conflicting advice of friends and enemies. Still living like serfs, they had no new rallying cry beyond the old cry for freedom. As time passed, however, they began to grasp a new idea. Achieving the ideal of liberty required powerful tools, and the Fifteenth Amendment gave them those tools. Before, they had seen the ballot as a visible sign of freedom. Now they saw voting as the chief way to gain and complete the liberty that war had partly granted them. And why not? Had not votes brought about war and freed millions? Had not votes given the freedmen the right to vote? Was anything impossible for a power that had done all this? A million black men set out with renewed enthusiasm to vote their way into the promised kingdom. So the decade flew by, and the revolution of 1876 came. That revolution left the half-free former serfs weary and uncertain, but still inspired. Slowly but steadily, in the following years, a new vision began to replace the dream of political power. A powerful movement arose, offering another ideal to guide those without direction. Here was another pillar of fire by night after a clouded day. This was the ideal of “book-learning”. Forced ignorance had awakened a curiosity about the white man’s mysterious letters and a desire to test their power. It was a longing to know. Here, at last, they seemed to have discovered the mountain path to Canaan. The path was longer than the highway of Emancipation and law, steep and rugged, but straight. It led to heights high enough to look out over life.

Up the new path the advance guard toiled, slowly, heavily, doggedly; only those who have watched and guided the faltering feet, the misty minds, the dull understandings, of the dark pupils of these schools know how faithfully, how piteously, this people strove to learn. It was weary work. The cold statistician wrote down the inches of progress here and there, noted also where here and there a foot had slipped or some one had fallen. To the tired climbers, the horizon was ever dark, the mists were often cold, the Canaan was always dim and far away. If, however, the vistas disclosed as yet no goal, no resting-place, little but flattery and criticism, the journey at least gave leisure for reflection and self-examination; it changed the child of Emancipation to the youth with dawning self-consciousness, self-realization, self-respect. In those sombre forests of his striving his own soul rose before him, and he saw himself,—darkly as through a veil; and yet he saw in himself some faint revelation of his power, of his mission. He began to have a dim feeling that, to attain his place in the world, he must be himself, and not another. For the first time he sought to analyze the burden he bore upon his back, that dead-weight of social degradation partially masked behind a half-named Negro problem. He felt his poverty; without a cent, without a home, without land, tools, or savings, he had entered into competition with rich, landed, skilled neighbors. To be a poor man is hard, but to be a poor race in a land of dollars is the very bottom of hardships. He felt the weight of his ignorance,—not simply of letters, but of life, of business, of the humanities; the accumulated sloth and shirking and awkwardness of decades and centuries shackled his hands and feet. Nor was his burden all poverty and ignorance. The red stain of bastardy, which two centuries of systematic legal defilement of Negro women had stamped upon his race, meant not only the loss of ancient African chastity, but also the hereditary weight of a mass of corruption from white adulterers, threatening almost the obliteration of the Negro home.

The first pioneers struggled up the new path, slowly, heavily, stubbornly. Only those who watched and guided the Black pupils in these schools knew how faithfully, how painfully, they struggled to learn. Their steps were uncertain, their minds clouded, their understanding slow. The work was exhausting. The detached statistician recorded the inches of progress here and there. He also noted where a foot had slipped or someone had fallen. For the weary climbers, the horizon was always dark, the mists often cold, and Canaan always faint and distant. Yet if the views ahead still revealed no goal or resting place, they offered little beyond flattery and criticism. The journey at least allowed time for reflection and self-examination. The child of Emancipation became a young person beginning to develop self-awareness, self-understanding, and self-respect. In the dark forests of his struggle, his own soul appeared before him. He saw himself dimly, as through a veil. Yet he glimpsed in himself some hint of his power and his mission. He began to sense that, to find his place in the world, he must be himself, not someone else. For the first time, he tried to understand the burden on his back. That burden was the dead weight of social degradation, partly hidden behind the vaguely named Negro problem. He felt his poverty. He had entered competition with wealthy, landowning, skilled neighbors without a cent, a home, land, tools, or savings. Being a poor man is hard. But being a poor race in a land ruled by dollars is the hardest hardship of all. He felt the weight of his ignorance, not just of reading and writing, but of life, business, and the humanities. The accumulated idleness, avoidance of work, and lack of skill from decades and centuries shackled his hands and feet. Nor was his burden limited to poverty and ignorance. Two centuries of systematic, legally sanctioned sexual violation of Negro women had marked his race with the shame of illegitimacy. That shame meant not only the loss of ancient African chastity. It also meant an inherited burden of widespread corruption from white adulterers, threatening almost to wipe out the Negro home.

A people thus handicapped ought not to be asked to race with the world, but rather allowed to give all its time and thought to its own social problems. But alas! while sociologists gleefully count his bastards and his prostitutes, the very soul of the toiling, sweating black man is darkened by the shadow of a vast despair. Men call the shadow prejudice, and learnedly explain it as the natural defence of culture against barbarism, learning against ignorance, purity against crime, the “higher” against the “lower” races. To which the Negro cries Amen! and swears that to so much of this strange prejudice as is founded on just homage to civilization, culture, righteousness, and progress, he humbly bows and meekly does obeisance. But before that nameless prejudice that leaps beyond all this he stands helpless, dismayed, and well-nigh speechless; before that personal disrespect and mockery, the ridicule and systematic humiliation, the distortion of fact and wanton license of fancy, the cynical ignoring of the better and the boisterous welcoming of the worse, the all-pervading desire to inculcate disdain for everything black, from Toussaint to the devil,—before this there rises a sickening despair that would disarm and discourage any nation save that black host to whom “discouragement” is an unwritten word.

A people held back in this way should not be asked to race against the world. Instead, they should be allowed to devote all their time and thought to their own social problems. But alas! While sociologists gleefully count his children born outside marriage and his prostitutes, the hardworking, sweating black man suffers. The shadow of a vast despair darkens his very soul. People call this shadow prejudice. Scholars explain it as the natural defense of culture against barbarism, learning against ignorance, and purity against crime. They also call it the defense of the “higher” against the “lower” races. To this the Negro cries Amen! He swears he humbly bows to whatever part of this strange prejudice rests on genuine respect for civilization, culture, righteousness, and progress. But he stands helpless, dismayed, and almost speechless before the nameless prejudice that goes beyond all these defenses. He faces personal disrespect and mockery, ridicule and systematic humiliation, twisted facts and recklessly invented stories. He faces cynical disregard for the better and loud enthusiasm for the worse. He faces the all-pervading desire to teach contempt for everything black, from Toussaint to the devil. In the face of all this, a sickening despair rises. Such despair would rob any people of strength and hope, except that black multitude for whom “discouragement” is an unwritten word.

But the facing of so vast a prejudice could not but bring the inevitable self-questioning, self-disparagement, and lowering of ideals which ever accompany repression and breed in an atmosphere of contempt and hate. Whisperings and portents came home upon the four winds: Lo! we are diseased and dying, cried the dark hosts; we cannot write, our voting is vain; what need of education, since we must always cook and serve? And the Nation echoed and enforced this self-criticism, saying: Be content to be servants, and nothing more; what need of higher culture for half-men? Away with the black man’s ballot, by force or fraud,—and behold the suicide of a race! Nevertheless, out of the evil came something of good,—the more careful adjustment of education to real life, the clearer perception of the Negroes’ social responsibilities, and the sobering realization of the meaning of progress.

But facing such vast prejudice inevitably brought self-doubt, self-criticism, and lowered ideals. These always accompany repression and grow in an atmosphere of contempt and hate. Whispers and warning signs arrived from every direction: Look! We are diseased and dying, cried the Black masses. We cannot write, and our votes are useless. Why seek education when we must always cook and serve? And the Nation echoed and reinforced this self-criticism, saying: Be content to be servants and nothing more. Why should half-men need higher learning? Take away the Black man’s vote, by force or fraud. And look at a race destroying itself! Nevertheless, some good came out of the evil. Education was more carefully adapted to real life. The Negroes’ social responsibilities became clearer. And there came a sobering understanding of what progress means.

So dawned the time of Sturm und Drang: storm and stress to-day rocks our little boat on the mad waters of the world-sea; there is within and without the sound of conflict, the burning of body and rending of soul; inspiration strives with doubt, and faith with vain questionings. The bright ideals of the past,—physical freedom, political power, the training of brains and the training of hands,—all these in turn have waxed and waned, until even the last grows dim and overcast. Are they all wrong,—all false? No, not that, but each alone was over-simple and incomplete,—the dreams of a credulous race-childhood, or the fond imaginings of the other world which does not know and does not want to know our power. To be really true, all these ideals must be melted and welded into one. The training of the schools we need to-day more than ever,—the training of deft hands, quick eyes and ears, and above all the broader, deeper, higher culture of gifted minds and pure hearts. The power of the ballot we need in sheer self-defence,—else what shall save us from a second slavery? Freedom, too, the long-sought, we still seek,—the freedom of life and limb, the freedom to work and think, the freedom to love and aspire. Work, culture, liberty,—all these we need, not singly but together, not successively but together, each growing and aiding each, and all striving toward that vaster ideal that swims before the Negro people, the ideal of human brotherhood, gained through the unifying ideal of Race; the ideal of fostering and developing the traits and talents of the Negro, not in opposition to or contempt for other races, but rather in large conformity to the greater ideals of the American Republic, in order that some day on American soil two world-races may give each to each those characteristics both so sadly lack. We the darker ones come even now not altogether empty-handed: there are to-day no truer exponents of the pure human spirit of the Declaration of Independence than the American Negroes; there is no true American music but the wild sweet melodies of the Negro slave; the American fairy tales and folklore are Indian and African; and, all in all, we black men seem the sole oasis of simple faith and reverence in a dusty desert of dollars and smartness. Will America be poorer if she replace her brutal dyspeptic blundering with light-hearted but determined Negro humility? or her coarse and cruel wit with loving jovial good-humor? or her vulgar music with the soul of the Sorrow Songs?

So began the time of Sturm und Drang: storm and stress. Today, our little boat rocks on the wild waters of the world’s ocean. Conflict sounds within us and around us. Bodies burn and souls tear apart. Inspiration struggles with doubt, and faith with fruitless questions. The bright ideals of the past have each risen and faded in turn. These ideals were physical freedom, political power, education for the mind, and training for the hands. Now even the last grows dim and clouded. Are these ideals all wrong, all false? No, but each ideal alone was too simple and incomplete. They were the dreams of a race in its trusting childhood. Or they were the wishful imaginings of the world outside, which neither knows nor wants to know our power. To be truly sound, all these ideals must be melted down and forged into one. Today, we need education in schools more than ever. We need training for skillful hands, sharp eyes and ears. Above all, we need a broader, deeper, higher education for gifted minds and pure hearts. We need the power of the vote simply to defend ourselves. Otherwise, what will save us from a second slavery? And we still seek the freedom we have sought so long. We seek freedom over our lives and bodies, freedom to work and think, freedom to love and aspire. Work, culture, liberty: we need all of these, not separately but together, not one after another but together. Each must grow and help the others grow. All must strive toward the greater ideal that shimmers before the Negro people: human brotherhood, achieved through racial unity. This means nurturing and developing the traits and talents of the Negro. It means neither opposing nor looking down on other races. Instead, it means broadly following the greater ideals of the American Republic. Then, someday on American soil, two great races may each give the other the qualities both so sadly lack. Even now, we darker people do not come entirely empty-handed. Today, no one expresses the Declaration of Independence’s pure human spirit more truly than American Negroes. There is no truly American music except the wild, sweet melodies of the Negro slave. American fairy tales and folklore are Indian and African. And, all in all, we black men seem the only oasis of simple faith and reverence. Around us lies a dusty desert of dollars and cleverness. Will America be poorer if she replaces her brutal, ill-tempered blundering with lighthearted but determined Negro humility? Or her coarse and cruel wit with loving, cheerful good humor? Or her vulgar music with the soul of the Sorrow Songs?

Merely a concrete test of the underlying principles of the great republic is the Negro Problem, and the spiritual striving of the freedmen’s sons is the travail of souls whose burden is almost beyond the measure of their strength, but who bear it in the name of an historic race, in the name of this the land of their fathers’ fathers, and in the name of human opportunity.

The Negro Problem is simply a concrete test of the great republic’s basic principles. And the spiritual struggles of the sons of freed slaves are the agonies of souls burdened almost beyond their strength. But these sons carry that burden in the name of a race with a historic legacy. They carry it in the name of this land of their ancestors, and in the name of human opportunity.

And now what I have briefly sketched in large outline let me on coming pages tell again in many ways, with loving emphasis and deeper detail, that men may listen to the striving in the souls of black folk.

I have now briefly sketched the broad outline. In the coming pages, let me tell it again in many ways, with loving emphasis and greater detail. I do so that people may hear the striving in the souls of black folk.