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.