Black Boy (1945) by Richard Wright - Nonfiction

Richard Wright holds nothing back in this classic autobiography directed at the heart of America

Black Boy is deservingly a cornerstone of American Literature. It’s a masterfully crafted literary achievement that dives deep into the psychological condition of African Americans in the early to mid 20th century. Richard Wright begins with his impoverished childhood in the Jim Crow South and moves though his young adulthood as a struggling artist in Southside Chicago. In Black Boy he explores a wide range of complex themes and topics while keeping it a very accessible read for anyone in their teens to nineties.

All through his life Wright was an ardent reader. After reflecting on French literature that so lucidly embodied the lives of its people he contemplated his own purpose for writing, “But it crushed me with hopelessness, for I wanted to write of the people of my environment with an equal thoroughness, and the burning example before my eyes made me feel that I never could” (282). Despite not having any personal literary role models as a child Black Boy and other works are evidence that he undoubtedly persevered.

Wright’s sharpened artist skills are on full display as he makes stylistic choices that deepen the text’s meaning. As an angst-filled teenager Wright recalls conversations with neighborhood friends all of whom felt similar resentment towards the White world. Their dialogue is immediately followed by a clipped description–clearly showing the flow of thought and emotion, “‘The first white sonofabitch that bothers me is gonna get a hole knocked in his head!’ Naive rebellion…‘Man, you reckon these White folks is ever gonna change?’ Timid, questioning hope. ‘Hell no! They was just born that way.’ Rejecting hope for fear that it could never come true [underlining added for emphasis]” (80). This continues for three pages helping readers see the underlying psychology of the characters.

Wright opens Black Boy by recounting the time he accidentally burned down his family’s home and almost died while hiding underneath it. He feared the beating of his father more than the flames above his head. Fear is a common thread throughout the book and Wright has a keen ability to capture the sense of a child’s mind–recalling events and feelings that have an unnerving chilling effect. He reflects on moments he overheard stories about Black people being lynched, “I had already grown to feel that there existed men against whom I was powerless, men who could violate my life at will...I had already been conditioned to their existence as though I had been the victim of a thousand lynchings'” (73-74). He remains relentless, however, pestering his mother for answers about White-Black relations. She shoos away most of his inquiries, but still he feels that “[a]nxiety entered my body. Somewhere in the unknown the white threat was hovering again” (66). Like a scalpel it’s this constant fear that incessantly impales his body and mind.

Not only is Wright fearful of the White people but also his unstable family. Their religious zealotry repels him from Christianity and poisons his relationships with them. They are pompous and physically abusive. Even as a child one thing that enrages him is feeling ashamed or embarrassed and this is exactly how his family makes him feel, especially at church. At a revival meeting they guilt him into accepting Jesus into his heart by employing his mother’s affection and fear of rejection. Wright reflects, “This business of saving souls had no ethics; every human relationship shamelessly exploited.” His mother pleads with him, “‘Don’t you love your old crippled mother, Richard?’...‘Don’t leave me standing here with my empty hands.’” He adds, “If I refused it meant I didn’t love my mother” (154). His family’s unrelenting religious fanaticism broods more retribution and violence–two things Wright does not need more of.

His memories of growing up fearful are facts of generational trauma. His family’s fundamentalists religious views, ruthless beatings, and destructive child-raising habits are all elements passed down through his family line. And his ceaseless fear of the White world leaves little guesswork in how easily the emotional and physical effects of trauma are passed down through future generations.

Wright is eventually able to migrate north to Chicago and believes the Communist Party will be a saving grace by giving him a microphone from which to tell the story of African Americans. However, he hits wall after wall of resistance because the Communist Party is not sincerely interested in art or actually hearing everyone’s voice. Wright informs a powerful Communist leader, “I’m not trying to fight you with my writing. I’ve no political ambitions. I’m not trying to hurt or help any particular comrade. You must believe that. I’m trying to depict Negro life” (354). For anyone interested in the relationship between Communism and America’s disenfranchised people Black Boy is a must read. Wright does not present a Red Scare kind of denouncement of Communism. He recognizes its strong appeal for oppressed peoples and ways it could be successful; however, the power of autobiographies like Black Boy is that they depict life as it really is–nuanced and deserving of our full contemplative powers. The nuance for Wright is the dilemma between art and politics. Art by its very nature is pensive and requires a certain degree of self-determination; however, “The Communist party did not recognize the values it has sworn to save when it saw them; the slightest sign of any independence of thought or feeling, even if it aided the party in its work, was enough to make one suspect, to brand one as a dangerous traitor” (370).

Black Boy ebbs and flows flawlessly between memories of lived experiences with social commentary on everything from the effects of starvation, religious militancy, education, poverty and of course, the plight of being Black in American. Wright’s commentary is poignant and tragic–sinking the reader’s soul a bit deeper with each line. In his signature despondent tone Wright states, “I knew that Negros had never been allowed to catch the full spirit of Western civilization, that they lived in it but somehow not of it. And when I brooded upon the cultural barrenness of black life, I wondered if clean, positive tenderness, love, honor, loyalty, and the capacity to remember were native with man” (37).

In Imani Perry’s article she recounts how two other prominent African American writers, Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin “criticized Wright for his insistence on dramatizing this ineluctable subjugation...They believed, each in his own fashion, that Black literature ought to capture hope, possibility, beauty, and endurance.” It’s true that Wright's Black Boy is despairing. His memories offer few glimmers of hope. Essentially, he’s a realist. He takes aim at America’s heart and his words still resonnate for today’s race-relation growing pains, “Culturally the Negro represents a paradox: Though he is an organic part of nation, he is excluded by the entire tide of and direction of American culture...Our America is frightened by fact, of history, of process, of necessity. It hugs the easy way of damning those whom it can not understand” (272). If there’s one silver lining optimists will appreciate it’s in the fact that Wright does not elevate himself above the rest, “Am I damning my native land? No; for I, too, share these faults of character! And I really do not think America, adolescent and cocksure...is ready to probe into its most fundamental beliefs” (272-273). This leaves readers pondering: is America finally ready?

Beyond the issues explicitly discussed in the book are broader implied questions such as: through what lens do we view history? How do we remain open-minded to learning about all facets of history? And what do we actually do with what we read? This all begins first with a contemplative reading of the book while doing our best to disengage ourselves from political headlines.

Similar sociopolitical problems that were present in Wright’s America are still debated today. However, the appeal of autobiographies like Black Boy is that they are the purest form of a People’s History. There’s no way to learn this history by having it interpreted through any political pundit. Black Boy deserves to permeate our hearts and minds before we drop the hammer of judgement. That’s what reading in general does–it slows us down, tempting us with the opportunity to be silent and listen. We can’t insert our voice into someone else’s story, so the alternative is to listen. There is, nevertheless, a third option: walk away. But that’s the antithesis of Black Boy’s purpose and in large part it’s the underlying reason why our country has found itself in such a vehemently divisive condition. Like a prophet Wright states, “Therefore if, within the confines of its present culture, the nation ever seeks to purge itself of its color hate, it will find itself at war with itself, convulsed by a spasm of emotional and moral confusion” (272). There are few words more eerily relevant for our violent times today. Reading Black Boy with earnest hearts and ears will not solve all our nation’s challenges, but it is undoubtedly a step in the right direction.

Despite Black Boy’s heavy content it’s a very accessible book for students as young as mature 9th graders. Wright’s life revolved around his craft so finding the right word for the right situation was his obsession, “I stove to master words, to make them disappear, to make them important by making them new...and all ending in an emotional climax that would drench the reader with a sense of a new world. That was the single aim of my living” (280). His pursuit of literary excellence is palpable in Black Boy. His stories will haunt readers and his commentary will weigh heavy on their hearts. It’s an intellectually invigorating book whose narrative glides nimbly through moments of atrocious history leaving readers examining their own souls and the soul of America.