I have been remiss. Yesterday (February 1) was the birthday of Langston Hughes and the kickoff to Black History Month. Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, at the beginning of he last century. He lived briefly in Mexico with his father, whom he disliked intensely. He was “discovered” in Washington, D,C, by Vachel Lindsay when, working as a busboy at the Wardman Park Hotel, he slipped a few poems to the Lindsay in the dining room as the august poet was eating dinner. Although by that time Hughes had already won awards for his writing, he was briefly celebrated as the “busboy poet.” Hughes’s poetry was often deceptively simple. His life was also rich with ironies. There was that breakout moment at the Wardman Park Hotel. Later, there was a wealthy white patroness in New York City who decided that Hughes was her vehicle for uplifting the African American race. Hughes would riding to performances in her limousine during the days of the Great Depression, while others slept on park benches, and realized he wasn’t cut out for that kind of plush life. His poetry suffered. Both Hughes’ life and his poetry were rich with the suggestion of jazz and [...]
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