Anyway, one semester, the only class that I could take that remotely fit into the set of classes that I had to take was an African-American Lit Class.
Even though I didn't WANT to take the class, even though there were many weeks of arguments, disagreements and discussions this turned out to be one of the best classes I took in college.
I suspect that's the reason why students have to take classes like this and I am glad for the experience....drat!
I said all that to say, the last several days the poem Harlem, by Langston Hughes has been going through my pea brain, so I figured I'd share it:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
