Dear Langston Hughes,
Sir, I do realize that it has been long since you have passed, but that has not stopped me from writing this letter to you. Recently this semester in my search for magic through literature I stumbled upon a copy of your collection of poetry, The Dream Keeper. This book, along with being the shortest read on the list, actually taught me some valuable lessons.
Earlier on in my life, I regarded poetry as arts for the women. Men usually stuck to something much more masculine, like ceramics, or basket weaving, or lumberjacking. These poems were not only artsy and entertaining, but I found that many of them related to my very own life, almost exactly on point with experiences of my own. The poem Baby, “Albert!/Hey, Albert!/ Don’t you play in dat road./You see dem trucks/A goin’ by/ One run ovah you/ An’ you die./Albert, don’t you play in dat road” (Hughes 47). When I was but a boy, I used to love riding my bicycle. Riding my bicycle as a child was the most exhilarating and empowering activity out there. Typically it was all good in the hood, so to speak, when I went on a ride. My parents weren’t worried; for they knew I wouldn’t venture far, and would always use the proper protection. One day, however, I didn’t equip my protective equipment, and all went astray. I was speeding around the corner of the block, cruising by a neighbor’s driveway, when all of a sudden a pair of taillights lit up on a nearby truck, and they headed directly for me. There was no hope whatsoever for avoiding the dastardly mobile, as it approached with much ferocity in its eyes. The driver of the F-150 was lacking as far as paying attention went, and slammed his truck right into my little bicycle. The impact was devastating, and completely ruined my fine specimen of cycling, along with my face at the time. The driver dismounted the beast and hobbled over to me, asking if I was alright, I told him I was fine, and carried my broken bicycle, and bones, home to my parents.
My parents weren’t upset that I had almost been killed, they were just glad I was okay. They realized that I had directly contradicted the rules of going on a bike ride by myself, and that was venturing about without my proper protective gear. Looking back, perhaps if I had listened to my parents, much like in the poem Baby, I might have been saved a lot of pain and grief over the loss of my favorite bike of all time, and much of my childish facial tissue. In the poem entitled Youth you said, “We have tomorrow/Bright before us/Like a flame” (Hughes 65). My grandfather once had a similar saying, “What day is it today sonny? The best day of the rest of your life, that’s what!” Perhaps my grandfather had a poet in him, who knows. Anywho, my journey of self remembrance would not have been possible without The Dream Keeper.
Sincerely,
Michael Wilkison
