Exam (elaborations)
WrIght-My First Lesson in How to Live as a Negro
WrIght-My First Lesson in How to Live as a Negro
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“MyFirst
Lesson
in
How
to
Live
as
a
Negro”
by
Richard
Wright
My
first
lesson
in
how
to
live
as
a
Negro
came
when
I
was
quite
small.
We
were
living
in
Arkansas.
Our
house
stood
behind
the
railroad
tracks.
Its
skimpy
yard
was
paved
with
black
cinders.
Nothing
green
ever
grew
in
that
yard.
The
only
touch
of
green
we
could
see
was
far
away,
beyond
the
tracks,
over
where
the
white
folks
lived.
But
cinders
were
good
enough
for
me,
and
I
never
missed
the
green
growing
things.
And
anyhow,
cinders
were
fine
weapons.
You
could
always
have
a
nice
hot
war
with
huge
black
cinders.
All
you
had
to
do
was
crouch
behind
the
brick
pillars
of
a
house
with
your
hands
full
of
gritty
ammunition.
And
the
first
woolly
black
head
you
saw
pop
out
from
behind
another
row
of
pillars
was
your
target.
You
tried
your
very
best
to
knock
it
off.
It
was
great
fun.
I
never
fully
realized
the
appalling
disadvantages
of
a
cinder
environment
till
one
day
the
gang
to
which
I
belonged
found
itself
engaged
in
a
war
with
the
white
boys
who
lived
beyond
the
tracks.
As
usual
we
laid
down
our
cinder
barrage,
thinking
that
this
would
wipe
the
white
boys
out.
But
they
replied
with
a
steady
bombardment
of
broken
bottles.
We
doubled
our
cinder
barrage,
but
they
hid
behind
trees,
hedges,
and
the
sloping
embankments
of
their
lawns.
Having
no
such
fortifications,
we
retreated
to
the
brick
pillars
of
our
homes.
During
the
retreat
a
broken
milk
bottle
caught
me
behind
the
ear,
opening
a
deep
gash
which
bled
profusely.
The
sight
of
blood
pouring
over
my
face
completely
demoralized
our
ranks.
My
fellow-‐combatants
left
me
standing
paralyzed
in
the
center
of
the
yard,
and
scurried
for
their
homes.
A
kind
neighbor
saw
me
and
rushed
me
to
a
doctor,
who
took
three
stitches
in
my
neck.
I
sat
brooding
on
my
front
steps,
nursing
my
wound
and
waiting
for
my
mother
to
come
from
work.
I
felt
that
a
grave
injustice
had
been
done
me.
It
was
all
right
to
throw
cinders.
The
greatest
harm
a
cinder
could
do
was
leave
a
bruise.
But
broken
bottles
were
dangerous;
they
left
you
cut,
bleeding,
and
helpless.
When
night
fell,
my
mother
came
from
the
white
folks'
kitchen.
I
raced
down
the
street
to
meet
her.
I
could
just
feel
in
my
bones
that
she
would
understand.
I
knew
she
would
tell
me
exactly
what
to
do
next
time.
I
grabbed
her
hand
and
babbled
out
the
whole
story.
She
examined
my
wound,
then
slapped
me.
"How
come
yuh
didn't
hide?"
she
asked
me.
"How
come
yuh
awways
fightin'?"
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