12 THENEWYORKER,JULY27, 2020
1
DECEMBER30, 1967
HUGHESATCOLUMBIA
O
n a miserably wet evening seven
months after the death of Langston
Hughes, we sat, almost comfortably (ex-
cept for our damp feet), in the cavern-
ous Wollman Auditorium, at Columbia
University, and listened to the low, be-
mused voice of Hughes on tape as, against
a taped musical background, it sent his
“Weary Blues” floating over a group of
people who had assembled to pay trib-
ute to him. The program, “A Langston
Hughes Memorial Evening,” was spon-
sored by The Forum, which is, in the
words of its nineteen-year-old president,
Bruce Kanze, “a student organization
that brings to the University interesting
people whom the University itself would
never consider bringing, to discuss is-
sues and topics that are important.”
A few minutes after eight, when nearly
every seat was filled, three men walked
onto the stage: Leon Bibb, the actor and
singer; Jonathan Kozol, author of “Death
at an Early Age”; and Professor James P.
Shenton, of Columbia. (“He teaches a
course on Reconstruction—the closest
thing to a course on Negro history at
Columbia,” Mr. Kanze told us later.)
They were soon joined by Miss Viveca
Lindfors, the actress, who was wearing
a pale-gray fur coat but removed it as
she was sitting down, and gracefully
placed it over her mini-exposed knees.
Professor Shenton, who had to leave
early, was introduced, and hurried to the
microphone. “I am here partly as a way
of saying for Columbia that we owe some
apologies,” he said solemnly. “For a while,
there lived a poet down the street from
Columbia, and Columbia never took the
time to find out what he was about.” The
Professor paused for a few seconds, and
then continued, “For a while, there lived
a poet down the street from Columbia,
who even attended Columbia for a while,
and yet he never received an honorary
degree from here. When we buried him,
then we gave him a memorial. But, after
all, that’s the experience of the black man
down the street from Columbia.”
Professor Shenton left the platform,
and Mr. Kozol, a slim young man wear-
ing rimless glasses, came to the micro-
phone. In 1965, he was discharged from
a ghetto school in Boston, in part be-
cause he read Langston Hughes’ poem
“Ballad of the Landlord” to his class:
Landlord, landlord,
My roof has sprung a leak.
Don’t you ’member I told you about it
Way last week?
Landlord, landlord,
These steps is broken down.
When you come up yourself
It’s a wonder you don’t fall down.
Ten bucks you say I owe you?
Ten bucks you say is due?
Well, that’s ten bucks more’n I'll pay you
Till you fix this house up new.
What? You gonna get eviction orders?
You gonna cut off my heat?
You gonna take my furniture and
Throw it in the street?
Um-huh! You talking high and mighty.
Talk on—till you get through.
You ain’t gonna be able to say a word
If I land my fist on you.
Police! Police!
Come and get this man!
He’s trying to ruin the government
and overturn the land!
Copper’s whistle!
Patrol bell!
Arrest.
Precinct station.
Iron cell.
Headlines in press:
Man threatens landlord
tenant held no bail
Judge gives negro 90 days
in county Jail
Mr. Kozol said that he might have
avoided some of the trouble that even-
tually led to his firing if he had chosen
to “restrict his reading and reference ma-
terials to the list of approved publica-
tions”—poetry, for instance, to be read
from officially approved selections called
“Memory Gems.” He gave the Hughes
audience a sample:
“Dare to be right! Dare to be true:
The failings of others can never save you.
Stand by your conscience, your honor, your
faith;
Stand like a hero, and battle till death.”
And another:
“There is beauty in the sunshine
An’ clouds that roam the sky;
There is beauty in the Heavens,
An’ the stars that shine on high.”
Later, Mr. Kozol read from a paper
that had been handed in by one of his
fourth-grade students after he had asked
the class to write about the kinds of
things they saw around them:
“In my school I see dirty boards and I see
papers on the floor. I see an old browken win-
dow with a sign on it saying, Do not unlock
this window are browken. And I see cracks in
the walls and I see old books with ink poured
all over them and I see old painting hanging
on the walls. I see old alfurbet letter hanging
on one nail on the wall. I see a dirty fire exit, I
see a old closet with supplys for the class. I see
pigons flying all over the school. I see old freght
trains throgh the fence of the school yard....”
The young teacher spoke at length
about his experiences in this school, and
then read a few paragraphs from a de-
scription of Africa in a book called “Our
Neighbors Near and Far”:
“Yumbu and Minko are a black boy and a
black girl who live in this jungle village. Their
skins are of so dark a brown color that they
look almost black. Their noses are large and
flat. Their lips are thick. Their eyes are black
and shining, and their hair is so curly that it
seems like wool. They are Negroes and they
belong to the black race.”
Two children in another area of the
world were described this way:
“Two Swiss children live in a farmhouse
on the edge of town.... These children are
handsome. Their eyes are blue. Their hair is
golden yellow. Their white skins are clear, and
their cheeks are as red as ripe, red apples.”
Mr. Kozol said that he had never met
Langston Hughes but that a short while
after his much publicized firing he had
received a new collection of Hughes’
“Simple” stories from the poet, with
these words written on the flyleaf: “I
wish the rent/Was heaven sent.”
Leon Bibb, in his turn, rose and
thanked Mr. Hughes, whom he called
Lang, first by reading the James Weldon
Johnson poem “O Black and Unknown
Bards” and then by giving a poignant ren-
dering of Mr. Hughes’ poem “The Negro
Speaks of Rivers” and the spiritual “I’ve
Been ’Buked and I’ve Been Scorned.” He
wound up by saying, “Lang had the fore-
sight to stand on his own words.”
Soon Hughes’ own words were being
read by Miss Lindfors, who remained
