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 then 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.

1951