As A Child I Was Taught That

There Is A Man Who Exists As One Of The Most Popular Objects Of Leadership, Legislation, And Quasi-literature In The History Of All Men. . . . This Man, That Object Of Attention, Attack, And Vast Activity, Cannot Make Himself Be Heard, Let Alone Understood. He Has Never Been Listened To. . . . That Man Is Black And Alive In White America Where The Media Of Communication Do Not Allow The Delivery Of His Own Voice, His Own Desires, His Own Rage.

As A Poet And Writer, I Deeply Love And I Deeply Hate Words. I Love The Infinite Evidence And Change And Requirements And Possibilities Of Language; Every Human Use Of Words That Is Joyful, Or Honest Or New, Because Experience Is New... But As A Black Poet And Writer, I Hate Words That Cancel My Name And My History And The Freedom Of My Future: I Hate The Words That Condemn And Refuse The Language Of My People In America.

If Any Of Us Hopes To Survive, She Must Meet The Extremity Of The American Female Condition With Immediate And Political Response. The Thoroughly Destructive And Indefensible Subjugation Of The Majority Of Americans Cannot Continue Except At The Peril Of The Entire Body Politic.

To Tell The Truth Is To Become Beautiful.

The Music Of Language Became Extremely Important To Me, And Obvious To Me. By The Time I Was Seven I Was Writing Myself. I Was A Poet