The Street by Ann Petry
Harlem
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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?
Langston Hughes
There was a
cold November wind blowing through 116th Street. It rattled the tops of garbage cans,
sucked window shades out through the top of opened windows and set them
flapping back against the windows; and it drove most of the people off the
street in the block between Seventh and Eighth Avenues except for a few hurried
pedestrians who bent double in an effort to offer the least possible exposed
surface to its violent assault.
It found every scrap of paper along the
street—theater throwaways, announcements of dances and lodge meetings, the
heavy waxed paper that loaves of bread had been wrapped in, the thinner waxed
paper that had enclosed sandwiches, old envelopes, newspapers. Fingering its way along the curb, the
wind set the bits of paper dancing high in the air, so that a barrage of paper
swirled into the faces of the people on the street. It even took time to rush into doorways and areaways and
find chicken bones and pork-chop bones and pushed them along the curb.
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Described without a
trace of sentimentality or self-pity, in a lucid, hard-edged prose, The Street retails the deeply moving struggles
of an African-American woman battling the odds in her effort to defy the fate
that stalks her. “Written with
cool anger,” writes a critic from Newsday:
“The Street rushes toward its
fatalistic climax like a train toward a washed-out bridge.”
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Also recommended: Miss Muriel
and Other Stories, Dafina Press
Painting by William H. Johnson
[1] Cheryl
Lynn Greenberg, professor of history at Trinity College and author of “‘Or Does It Explode?’: Black Harlem in the Great
Depression,” as well as the forthcoming “To Ask for an Equal
Chance: African Americans During the Depression.”
Peter
Adam Nash
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