Words I've been liking lately

One of my students picked this out for a Harlem Renaissance project, and it gave me chills as she read it to the class.


A Song to a Negro Wash-Woman
Oh, wash-woman
Arms elbow-deep in white suds,
Soul washed clean,
Clothes washed clean,—
I have many songs to sing you
Could I but find the words.


Was it four o’clock or six o’clock on a winter afternoon,
I saw you wringing out the last shirt in Miss White
Lady’s kitchen? Was it four o’clock or six o’clock?
I don’t remember.


But I know, at seven one spring morning you were on
Vermont Street with a bundle in your arms going to
wash clothes.
And I know I’ve seen you in a New York subway train in
the late afternoon coming home from washing clothes.


Yes, I know you, wash-woman.
I know how you send your children to school, and high
school, and even college.
I know how you work and help your man when times are hard.
I know how you build your house up from the wash-tub
and call it home.
And how you raise your churches from white suds for the
service of the Holy God.


And I’ve seen you singing, wash-woman. Out in the backyard garden under the apple trees, singing, hanging white clothes on long lines in the sun-shine.
And I’ve seen you in church a Sunday morning singing,
praising the Almighty, because some day you’re going to
sit on the right hand of God and forget
you ever were a wash-woman. And the aching back
and the bundle of clothes will be unremembered
then.
Yes, I’ve seen you singing.


And for you ,
O singing wash-woman
For you, singing little brown woman,
Singing strong black woman,
Singing tall yellow woman,
Arms deep in white suds,
Soul clean,
Clothes clean,—
For you I have many songs to make
Could I but find the words.
         
  -Langston Hughes






I love the way he puts words to gentle dignity. I love the call to simplicity.
I used to describe myself as simple, at least I would after Italy. When someone first called me simple in Italy, I was shocked; in English, simple usually means simple minded.
That isn't what they meant at all. In Italian, simple is a way to describe someone who is more or less down to earth and content in their own skin. It is a word to say someone is easily pleased, in a good way.


I take much pride in being down to earth, at least I did. I've realized that I am far less simple these days. It is like pulling teeth to forgo a night of socialization to stay in and do work or just be silent. I  crave any and all socialization, even if I know that it will leave me feeling unfulfilled.
I've shifted. Its most likely that this happened because after a year of so little interaction, I was desperate for freedom and attention. Still am, I suppose.


This poem made me think of where I was, and it makes me want to get back to that contentment and appreciation for quiet dignity; a contentment I used to feel with my heart and not just my mind, like I do these days.


I want to be like Hughes; wordless and in awe of someone who is tirelessly living their best self in less that ideal circumstances. I guess this would require me thinking outside of myself sometimes. I'll get there, it'll just take time.


Italy was a beautiful waste of time: Eri un bellissimo spreco di tempo.