eat, sleep, drink, and be in love

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

~Langston Hughes (1902-1967), Theme for English B. There are many lesser-known Langston Hughes poems that I adore, but this one was my first favorite, and I think it is one of those extra-special poems that just gets better each time.

I came down to the kitchen about an hour ago, planning to make a box of tortellini and possibly bake some cookies while trying to edit this infuriating Francis Bacon letter, and found my flatmate and her Italian boyfriend in the kitchen. Davide was making Bolognese from scratch, and Melanie asked, "would you like some pasta?" I politely demurred until she said, "Are you kidding me, my Italian boyfriend is cooking!" "I suppose I had better make those cookies, then," I replied. Now we have Italian pasta, French bread, Viennese chocolate, American cookies, wine (a nice Chianti, in fact), and excellent company. Soon I will go upstairs, and put away my clean laundry, and let the cool, sweet night air come in through my open window. A perfect evening.