With Othello, Shakespeare Posed This Problem Of

If The American Negro Is To Have A Culture Of His Own He Will Have To Leave America To Get It.

The Patter Of Their Feet As They Walk Through Jim Crow Barriers To Attend School Is The Thunder Of The Marching Men Of Joshua, And The World Rocks Beneath Their Tread.

We Must Join With The Tens Of Millions All Over The World Who See In Peace Our Most Sacred Responsibility.

Yes, I Heard My People Singing!-in The Glow Of Parlor Coal-stove And On Summer Porches Sweet With Lilac Air, From Choir Loft And Sunday Morning Pews-and My Soul Was Filled With Their Harmonies. Then, Too, I Heard These Songs In The Very Sermons Of My Father, For In The Negro's Speech There Is Much Of The Phrasing And Rhythms Of Folk-song. The Great, Soaring Gospels We Love Are Merely Sermons That Are Sung; And As We Thrill To Such Gifted Gospel Singers As Mahalia Jackson, We Hear The Rhythmic Eloquence Of Our Preachers, So Many Of Whom, Like My Father, Are Masters Of Poetic Speech.

Every Artist, Every Scientist, Every Writer Must Decide Now Where He Stands. The Artist Must Take Sides. He Must Elect To Fight For Freedom Or For Slavery. I Have Made My Choice. I Had No Alternative.