Brief question answer about two article

about 300-600 words for each article

What is meaningful about the way the townsfolk react to the ritual/tradition of the lottery represented in the story, especially considering the ending? What is Jackson trying to say about how we (humans) follow traditions blindly? And, what do some of the symbols in the story reveal about Jackson’s view of traditions overall? What are the conflicts in the story and how are they represented by the characters? Use elements of fiction (characters, setting, plot, language, symbolism, etc.) to elaborate. Do not look up anything online! I want your analysis from reading the work.

What is meaningful about the way in which the narrator deals with his grandfather’s dying words? Why is he so conflicted by what his grandfather tells him? How does the narrator’s conflict with his grandfather’s words affect how he sees himself in society? What does the narrator mean when he says that “he had to discover that he is an invisible man”? What does the fight symbolize? Is the narrator successful in the end? Use elements of fiction (characters, setting, plot, language, symbolism, etc.) to elaborate. Do not look up anything online! I want your analysis from reading the work.

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were
blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the
post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and
had to be started on June 27th. But in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took
less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get
home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat
uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play and their
talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full
of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry
Jones and Dickie Delacroix– the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”–eventually made a great pile of stones in one
corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves,
looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older
brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. Surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They
stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed.
The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and
exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to
their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his
mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly
and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted–as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program–by Mr. Summers
who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and
people were sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the
black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, “Little late today,
folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the
square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between
themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?” there was a
hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while
Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had
been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the
villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box.
There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had
been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers
began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done. The
black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show
the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the
papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been
successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr.
Summers had argued had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three
hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box.
The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was
then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square
next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in
Mr. Graves’s barn and another year underfoot in the post office and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery
and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to
make up–of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was
the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people
remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant
that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he
said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the
ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in
addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt
necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean
white shirt and blue jeans with one hand resting carelessly on the black box he seemed very proper and important as he
talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly
along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean
forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old
man was out back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on, “and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone,
and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running.” She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs.
Delacroix said, “You’re in time, though. They’re still talking away up there.”

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the
front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people
separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said in voices just loud enough to be heard across the
crowd, “Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband,
and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. “Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie.”
Mrs. Hutchinson said grinning, “Wouldn’t have me leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?” and soft laughter ran
through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival.

“Well, now.” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to
work. Anybody ain’t here?”

“Dunbar.” several people said. “Dunbar. Dunbar.”
Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar.” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg, hasn’t he? Who’s

drawing for him?”
“Me. I guess,” a woman said and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her husband.” Mr. Summers

said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew
the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers
waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

“Horace’s not but sixteen vet.” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year.”
“Right.” Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, “Watson boy drawing this

year?”
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I m drawing for my mother and me.” He blinked his eyes

nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like “Good fellow, lack.” and “Glad to see your
mother’s got a man to do it.”

“Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”
“Here,” a voice said and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. “All ready?” he called.

“Now, I’ll read the names–heads of families first–and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper
folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet.
wetting their lips not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, “Adams.” A man disengaged
himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi. Steve.” Mr. Summers said and Mr. Adams said. “Hi. Joe.” They grinned at
one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held
it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd where he stood a little apart from his
family not looking down at his hand.

“Allen.” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson…. Bentham.”
“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more.” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

“Seems like we got through with the last one only last week.”
“Time sure goes fast — Mrs. Graves said.
“Clark…. Delacroix”
“There goes my old man.” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. “Go on.

Janey,” and another said, “There she goes.”
“We’re next.” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr.

Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the
small folded papers in their large hand turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together,
Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

“Harburt…. Hutchinson.”
“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said and the people near her laughed.
“Jones.”
“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that over in the north village they’re

talking of giving up the lottery.”
Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks, nothing’s good enough for

them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a
while. Used to be a saying about ‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.’ First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed
chickweed and acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up
there joking with everybody.”

“Some places have already quit lotteries.” Mrs. Adams said.
“Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools.”
“Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke…. Percy.”
“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.”
“They’re almost through,” her son said.
“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he

called, “Warner.”
“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. “Seventy-seventh

time.”
“Watson” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t be nervous, Jack,” and Mr.

Summers said, “Take your time, son.”
“Zanini.”
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers holding his slip of paper in the air, said,

“All right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women
began to speak at once, saving. “Who is it?” “Who’s got it?” “Is it the Dunbars?” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices
began to say, “It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it.”

“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper

in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. “You didn’t give him time enough to take any paper he
wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!”

“Be a good sport, Tessie.” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All of us took the same chance.”
“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.
“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be hurrying a little more to

get done in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other
households in the Hutchinsons?”

“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!”
“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You know that as well as

anyone else.”
“It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said.
“I guess not, Joe.” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s family; that’s only fair.

And I’ve got no other family except the kids.”

“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in explanation, “and as far as
drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”

“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.
“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.
“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said.
“There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.”
“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr. Summers directed. “Take Bill’s

and put it in.”
“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you it wasn’t fair. You didn’t

give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that.”
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box and he dropped all the papers but those onto the

ground where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children,

nodded.
“Remember,” Mr. Summers said, “take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you

help little Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. “Take a paper out
of the box, Davy.” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper.” Mr. Summers
said. “Harry, you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and
held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward
switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box “Bill, Jr.,” Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet
overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute,
looking around defiantly and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last
with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of
the crowd.

“It’s not the way it used to be.” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they used to be.”
“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s.”
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone

could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill Jr. opened theirs at the same time and both beamed and laughed, turning around
to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill
unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper. Bill.”
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the

black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held
it up and there was a stir in the crowd.

“All right, folks.” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.”
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones.

The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper
that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs.
Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.”

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said gasping for breath. “I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go
ahead and I’ll catch up with you.”

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the

villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying,
“Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

http://www.wicknet.org/english/bfreeman/Anthology/battle_royal.htm

Battle Royal
Ralph Ellison

It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and

everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were

often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking

everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much

painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been

born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!

And yet I am no freak of nature, nor of history. I was in the cards, other things having been equal

(or unequal) eighty-five years ago. I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am

only ashamed of myself for having at one time been ashamed. About eighty-five years ago they were told

they were free, united with others of our country in everything pertaining to the common good, and, in

everything social, separate like the fingers of the hand. And they believed it. They exulted in it. They

stayed in their place, worked hard, and brought up my father to do the same. But my grandfather is the

one. He was an odd old guy, my grandfather, and I am told I take after him. It was he who caused the

trouble. On his deathbed he called my father to him and said, “Son, after I’m gone I want you to keep up

the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in

the enemy’s country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the

lion’s mouth. I want you to overcome ’em with yeses, undermine ’em with grins, agree ’em to death and

destruction, let ’em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open.” They thought the old man had gone out

of his mind. He had been the meekest of men. The younger children were rushed from the room, the

shades drawn and the flame of the lamp turned so low that it sputtered on the wick like the old man’s

breathing. “Learn it to the younguns,” he whispered fiercely; then he died.

But my folks were more alarmed over his last words than over his dying. It was as though he had

not died at all, his words caused so much anxiety. I was warned emphatically to forget what he had said

and, indeed, this is the first time it has been mentioned outside the family circle. It had a tremendous

effect upon me, however. I could never be sure of what he meant. Grandfather had been a quiet old man

who never made any trouble, yet on his deathbed he had called himself a traitor and a spy, and he had

spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity. It became a constant puzzle which lay unanswered in the

back of my mind. And whenever things went well for me I remembered my grandfather and felt guilty

and uncomfortable. It was as though I was carrying out his advice in spite of myself. And to make it

http://www.wicknet.org/english/bfreeman/Anthology/battle_royal.htm

worse, everyone loved me for it. I was praised by the most lily-white men in town. I was considered an

example of desirable con- duct-just as my grandfather had been. And what puzzled me was that the old

man had defined it as treachery. When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was

doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks, that if they had understood they

would have desired me to act just the opposite, that I should have been sulky and mean, and that that

really would have been what they wanted, even though they were fooled and thought they wanted me to

act as I did. It made me afraid that some day they would look upon me as a traitor and I would be lost.

Still I was more afraid to act any other way because they didn’t like that at all. The old man’s words were

like a curse. On my graduation day I delivered an oration in which I showed that humility was the secret,

indeed, the very essence of progress. (Not that I believed this-how could I, remembering my

grandfather?—I only believed that it worked.) It was a great success. Everyone praised me and I was

invited to give the speech at a gathering of the town’s leading white citizens. It was a triumph for the

whole community.

It was in the main ballroom of the leading hotel. When I got there I discovered that it was on the

occasion of a smoker, and I was told that since I was to be there anyway I might as well take part in the

battle royal to be fought by some of my schoolmates as part of the entertainment. The battle royal came

first.

All of the town’s big shots were there in their tuxedoes, wolfing down the buffet foods, drinking

beer and whiskey and smoking black cigars. It was a large room with a high ceiling. Chairs were arranged

in neat rows around three sides of a portable boxing ring. The fourth side was clear, revealing a gleaming

space of polished floor. I had some misgivings over the battle royal, by the way. Not from a distaste for

fighting but because I didn’t care too much for the other fellows who were to take part. They were tough

guys who seemed to have no grandfather’s curse worrying their minds. No one could mistake their

toughness. And besides, I suspected that fighting a battle royal might detract from the dignity of my

speech. In those pre-invisible days I visualized myself as a potential Booker T. Washington. But the other

fellows didn’t care too much for me either, and there were nine of them. I felt superior to them in my way,

and I didn’t like the manner in which we were all crowded together in the servants’ elevator. Nor did they

like my being there. In fact, as the warmly lighted floors flashed past the elevator we had words over the

fact that I, by taking part in the fight, had knocked one of their friends out of a night’s work.

We were led out of the elevator through a rococo hall into an anteroom and told to get into our

fighting togs. Each of us was issued a pair of boxing gloves and ushered out into the big mirrored hall,

which we entered looking cautiously about us and whispering, lest we might accidentally be heard above

the noise of the room. It was foggy with cigar smoke. And already the whiskey was taking effect. I was

shocked to see some of the most important men of the town quite tipsy. They were all there-bankers,

lawyers, judges, doctors, fire chiefs, teachers, merchants. Even one of the more fashionable pastors.

Something we could not see was going on up front. A clarinet was vibrating sensuously and the men were

standing up and moving eagerly forward. We were a small tight group, clustered together, our bare upper

bodies touching and shining with anticipatory sweat: while up front the big shots were becoming

increasingly excited over something we still could not see. Suddenly I heard the school superintendent,

who had told me to come, yell, “Bring up the shines, gentlemen! Bring up the little shines!”

We were rushed up to the front of the ballroom, where it smelled even more strongly of tobacco

and whiskey. Then we were pushed into place. I almost wet my pants. A sea of faces, some hostile, some

amused, ringed around us, and in the center, facing us, stood a magnificent blonde—stark naked. There

was dead silence. I felt a blast of cold air chill me. I tried to back away, but they were behind me and

around me. Some of the boys stood with lowered heads, trembling. I felt a wave of irrational guilt and

fear. My teeth chattered, my skin turned to goose flesh, my knees knocked. Yet I was strongly attracted

and looked in spite of myself. Had the price of looking been blindness, I would have looked. The hair

was yellow like that of a circus kewpie doll, the face heavily powdered and rouged, as though to form an

abstract mask, the eyes hollow and smeared a cool blue, the color of a baboon’s butt. I felt a desire to spit

upon her as my eyes brushed slowly over her body. Her breasts were firm and round as the domes of East

Indian temples, and I stood so close as to see the fine skin texture and beads of pearly perspiration

glistening like dew around the pink and erected buds of her nipples. I wanted at one and the same time to

run from the room, to sink through the floor, or go to her and cover her from my eyes and the eyes of the

others with my body; to feel the soft thighs, to caress her and destroy her, to love her and to murder her, to

hide from her, and yet to stroke where below the small American flag tattooed upon her belly her thighs

formed a capital V. I had a notion that of all in the room she saw only me with her impersonal eyes.

And then she began to dance, a slow sensuous movement; the smoke of a hundred cigars clinging

to her like the thinnest of veils. She seemed like a fair bird-girl girdled in veils calling to me from the

angry surface of some gray and threatening sea. I was transported. Then I became aware of the clarinet

playing and the big shots yelling at us. Some threatened us if we looked and others if we did not. On my

right I saw one boy faint. And now a man grabbed a silver pitcher from a table and stepped close as he

dashed ice water upon him and stood him up and forced two of us to support him as his head hung and

moans issued from his thick bluish lips. Another boy began to plead to go home. He was the largest of the

group, wearing dark red fighting trunks much too small to conceal the erection which projected from him

as though in answer to the insinuating low-registered moaning of the clarinet. He tried to hide himself

with his

boxing gloves.

And all the while the blonde continued dancing, smiling faintly at the big shots who watched her

with fascination, and faintly smiling at our fear. I noticed a certain merchant who followed her hungrily,

his lips loose and drooling. He was a large man who wore diamond studs in a shirtfront which swelled

with the ample paunch underneath, and each time the blonde swayed her undulating hips he ran his hand

through the thin hair of his bald head and, with his arms upheld, his posture clumsy like that of an

intoxicated panda, wound his belly in a slow and obscene grind. This creature was completely hypnotized.

The music had quickened. As the dancer flung herself about with a detached expression on her face, the

men began reaching out to touch her. I could see their beefy fingers sink into her soft flesh. Some of the

others tried to stop them and she began to move around the floor in graceful circles, as they gave chase,

slipping and sliding over the polished floor. It was mad. Chairs went crashing, drinks were spilt, as they

ran laughing and howling after her. They caught her just as she reached a door, raised her from the floor,

and tossed her as college boys are tossed at a hazing, and above her red, fixed-smiling lips I saw the terror

and disgust in her eyes, almost like my own terror and that which I saw in some of the other boys. As I

watched, they tossed her twice and her soft breasts seemed to flatten against the air and her legs flung

wildly as she spun. Some of the more sober ones helped her to escape. And I started off the floor, heading

for the anteroom with the rest of the boys.

Some were still crying and in hysteria. But as we tried to leave we were stopped and ordered to get

into the ring. There was nothing to do but what we were told. All ten of us climbed under the ropes and

allowed ourselves to be blindfolded with broad bands of white cloth. One of the men seemed to feel a bit

sympathetic and tried to cheer us up as we stood with our backs against the ropes. Some of us tried to

grin. “See that boy over there?” one of the men said. “I want you to run across at the bell and give it to

him right in the belly. If you don’t get him, I’m going to get you. I don’t like his looks.” Each of us was

told the same. The blindfolds were put on. Yet even then I had been going over my speech. In my mind

each word was as bright as a flame. I felt the cloth pressed into place, and frowned so that it would be

loosened when I relaxed.

But now I felt a sudden fit of blind terror. I was unused to darkness, it was as though I had

suddenly found myself in a dark room filled with poisonous cottonmouths. I could hear the bleary voices

yelling insistently for the battle royal to

begin.

“Get going in there!”

“Let me at that big nigger!”

I strained to pick up the school superintendent’s voice, as though to squeeze some security out of

that slightly more familiar sound.

“Let me at those black sonsabitches!” someone yelled.

“No, Jackson, no!” another voice yelled. “Here, somebody, help me hold Jack.”

“I want to get at that ginger-colored nigger. Tear him limb from limb,” the

first voice yelled.

I stood against the ropes trembling. For in those days I was what they called ginger-colored, and

he sounded as though he might crunch me between his teeth like a crisp ginger cookie.

Quite a struggle was going on. Chairs were being kicked about and I could hear voices grunting as

with terrific effort. I wanted to see, to see more desperately than ever before. But the blindfold was as

tight as a thick skin, puckering scab and when I raised my gloved hands to push the layers of white aside a

voice yelled, “Oh, no you don’t, black bastard! Leave that alone!”

“Ring the bell before Jackson kills him a coon!” someone boomed in the sudden silence. And I

heard the bell clang and the sound of the feet scuffling forward.

A glove smacked against my head. I pivoted, striking out stiffly as someone went past, and felt the

jar ripple along the length of my arm to my shoulder. Then it seemed as though all nine of the boys had

turned upon me at once. Blows pounded me from all sides while I struck out as best I could. So many

blows landed upon me that I wondered if I were not the only blindfolded fighter in the ring, or if the man

called Jackson hadn’t succeeded in getting me after all.

Blindfolded, I could no longer control my motions. I had no dignity. I stumbled about like a baby

or a drunken man. The smoke had become thicker and with each new blow it seemed to sear and further

restrict my lungs. My saliva became like hot bitter glue. A glove connected with my head, filling my

mouth with warm blood. It was everywhere. I could not tell if the moisture I felt upon my body was sweat

or blood. A blow landed hard against the nape of my neck. I felt myself going over, my head hitting the

floor. Streaks of blue light filled the black world behind the blindfold. I lay prone, pretending that I was

knocked out, but felt myself seized by hands and yanked to my feet. “Get going, black boy! Mix it up!”

My arms were like lead, my head smarting from blows. I managed to feel my way to the ropes and held

on, trying to catch my breath. A glove landed in my midsection and I went over again, feeling as though

the smoke had be- come a knife jabbed into my guts. Pushed this way and that by the legs milling around

me, I finally pulled erect and discovered that I could see the black, sweat- washed forms weaving in the

smoky, blue atmosphere like drunken dancers weaving to the rapid drum-like thuds of blows.

Everyone fought hysterically. It was complete anarchy. Everybody fought everybody else. No

group fought together for long. Two, three, four, fought one, then turned to fight each other, were

themselves attacked. Blows landed below the belt and in the kidney, with the gloves open as well as

closed, and with my eye partly opened now there was not so much terror. I moved carefully, avoiding

blows, although not too many to attract attention, fighting group to group. The boys groped about like

blind, cautious crabs crouching to protect their midsections, their heads pulled in short against their

shoulders, their arms stretched nervously before them, with their fists testing the smoke-filled air like the

knobbed feelers of hypersensitive snails. In one comer I glimpsed a boy violently punching the air and

heard him scream in pain as he smashed his hand against a ring post. For a second I saw him bent over

holding his hand, then going down as a blow caught his unprotected head. I played one group against the

other, slip- ping in and throwing a punch then stepping out of range while pushing the others into the

melee to take the blows blindly aimed at me. The smoke was agonizing and there were no rounds, no bells

at three minute intervals to relieve our exhaustion. The room spun round me, a swirl of lights, smoke,

sweating bodies surrounded by tense white faces. I bled from both nose and mouth, the blood spattering

upon my chest.

The men kept yelling, “Slug him, black boy! Knock his guts out!”

“Uppercut him! Kill him! Kill that big boy!”

Taking a fake fall, I saw a boy going down heavily beside me as though we were felled by a single

blow, saw a sneaker-clad foot shoot into his groin as the two who had knocked him down stumbled upon

him. I rolled out of range, feeling a twinge of nausea.

The harder we fought the more threatening the men became. And yet, I had begun to worry about

my speech again. How would it go? Would they recognize my ability? What would they give me?

I was fighting automatically when suddenly I noticed that one after another of the boys was

leaving the ring. I was surprised, filled with panic, as though I had been left alone with an unknown

danger. Then I understood. The boys had arranged it among themselves. It was the custom for the two

men left in the ring to slug it out for the winner’s prize. I discovered this too late. When the bell sounded

two men in tuxedoes leaped into the ring and removed the blindfold. I found myself facing Tatlock, the

biggest of the gang. I felt sick at my stomach. Hardly had the bell stopped ringing in my ears than it

clanged again and I saw him moving swiftly toward me. Thinking of nothing else to do I hit him smash on

the nose. He kept coming, bringing the rank sharp violence of stale sweat. His face was a black blank of a

face, only his eyes alive-with hate of me and aglow with a feverish terror from what had happened to us

all. I became anxious. I wanted to deliver my speech and he came at me as though he meant to beat it out

of me. I smashed him again and again, taking his blows as they came. Then on a sudden impulse I struck

him lightly and we clinched. I whispered, “Fake like I knocked you out, you can have the prize.”

“I’ll break your behind,” he whispered hoarsely.

“For them?”

“For me, sonafabitch!”

They were yelling for us to break it up and Tatlock spun me half around with a blow, and as a

joggled camera sweeps in a reeling scene, I saw the howling red faces crouching tense beneath the cloud

of blue-gray smoke. For a moment the world wavered, unraveled, flowed, then my head cleared and

Tatlock bounced before me. That fluttering shadow before my eyes was his jabbing left hand. Then falling

forward, my head against his damp shoulder, I whispered.

“I’ll make it five dollars more.”

“Go to hell!”

But his muscles relaxed a trifle beneath my pressure and I breathed, “Seven?”

“Give it to your ma,” he said, ripping me beneath the heart.

And while I still held him I butted him and moved away. I felt myself bombarded with punches. I

fought back with hopeless desperation. I wanted to de- liver my speech more than anything else in the

world, because I felt that only these men could judge truly my ability, and now this stupid clown was

ruining my chances. I began fighting carefully now, moving in to punch him and out again with my

greater speed. A lucky blow to his chin and I had him going too—until I heard a loud voice yell, “I got my

money on the big boy.”

Hearing this, I almost dropped my guard. I was confused: Should I try to win against the voice out

there? Would not this go against my speech, and was not this a moment for humility, for nonresistance? A

blow to my head as I danced about sent my right eye popping like a jack-in-the-box and settled my

dilemma. The room went red as I fell. It was a dream fall, my body languid and fastidious as to where to

land, until the floor became impatient and smashed up to meet me. A moment later I came to. An hypnotic

voice said FIVE emphatically. And I lay there, hazily watching a dark red spot of my own blood shaping

itself into a butterfly, glistening and soaking into the soiled gray world of the canvas.

When the voice drawled TEN I was lifted up and dragged to a chair. I sat dazed. My eye pained

and swelled with each throb of my pounding heart and I wondered if now I would be allowed to speak. I

was wringing wet, my mouth still bleeding. We were grouped along the wall now. The other boys ignored

me as they congratulated Tatlock and speculated as to how much they would be paid. One boy whimpered

over his smashed hand. Looking up front, I saw attendants in white jackets rolling the Portable ring away

and placing a small square rug in the vacant space surrounded by chain. Perhaps, I thought, I will stand on

the mg to deliver my speech.

Then the M.C. called to us. “Come on up here boys and get your money.”

We ran forward to where the men laughed and talked in their chairs,

waiting. Everyone seemed friendly now.

“There it is on the rug,” the man said. I saw the mg covered with coins of all dimensions and a few

crumpled bills. But what excited me, scattered here and there, were the gold pieces.

“Boys, it’s all yours,” the man said. “You get all you grab.”

“That’s right, Sambo,” a blond man said, winking at me confidentially.

I trembled with excitement, forgetting my pain. I would get the gold and the bills. I thought. I

would use both hands. I would throw my body against the boys nearest me to block them from the gold.

“Get down around the rug now,” the man commanded, “and don’t anyone touch it until I give the

signal.”

“This ought to be good,” I heard.

As told, we got around the square rug on our knees. Slowly the man raised his freckled hand as we

followed it upward with our eyes.

I heard, “These niggers look like they’re about to pray!”

Then, “Ready”, the man said. “Go!”

I lunged for a yellow coin lying on the blue design of the carpet, touching it and sending a

surprised shriek to join those around me. I tried frantically to remove my hand but could not let go. A hot,

violent force tore through my body, shaking me like a wet rat. The rug was electrified. The hair bristled

up on my head as I shook myself free. My muscles jumped, my nerves jangled, writhed. But I saw that

this was not stopping the other boys. Laughing in fear and embarrassment, some were holding back and

scooping up the coins knocked off by the painful contortions of others. The men roared above us as we

struggled.

“Pick it up, goddamnit, pick it up!” someone called like a bass-voiced parrot. “Go on, get it!”

I crawled rapidly around the floor, picking up the coins, trying to avoid the coppers and to get

greenbacks and the gold. Ignoring the shock by laughing, as I brushed the coins off quickly, I discovered

that I could contain the electricity—a contradiction but it works. Then the men began to push us onto the

rug. Laughing embarrassedly, we struggled out of their hands and kept after the coins. We were all wet

and slippery and hard to hold. Suddenly I saw a boy lifted into the air, glistening with sweat like a circus

seat, and dropped, his wet back landing flush upon the charged rug, heard him yell and saw him literally

dance upon his back, his elbows beating a frenzied tattoo upon the floor, his muscles twitching like the

flesh of a horse stung by many flies. When be finally rolled off, his face was gray and no one stopped him

when he ran from the floor amid booming laughter.

“Get the money,” the M.C. called. “That’s good hard American cash!”

And we snatched and grabbed, snatched and grabbed. I was careful not to come too close to the

rug now, and when I felt the hot whiskey breath descend upon me like a cloud of foul air I reached out

and grabbed the leg of a chair. It was occupied and I held on desperately.

“Leggo, nigger! Leggo!”

The huge face wavered down to mine as he tried to push me free. But my

body was slippery and he was too drunk. It was Mr. Colcord, who owned a chain of movie houses and

“entertainment palaces.” Each time he grabbed me I slipped out of his hands. It became a real struggle. I

feared the rug more than I did the drunk, so I held on, surprising myself for a moment by trying to topple

him upon the rug. It was such an enormous idea that I found myself actually carrying it out. I tried not to

be obvious, yet when I grabbed his leg, trying to tumble him out of the chair, he raised up roaring with

laughter, and, looking at me with soberness dead in the eye, kicked me viciously in the chest. The chair

leg flew out of my hand and I felt myself going and rolled. It was as though I had rolled through a bed of

hot coals. It seemed a whole century would pass before I would roll free, a century in which I was seared

through the deepest levels of my body to the fearful breath within me and the breath seared and heated to

the point of explosion. It’ll all be over in a flash, I thought as I rolled clear. It’ll all be over in a

flash.

But not yet, the men on the other side were waiting, red faces swollen as though from apoplexy as

they bent forward in their chairs. Seeing their fingers coming toward me I rolled away as a fumbled

football rolls off the receiver’s finger, tips, back into the coals. That time I luckily sent the rug sliding out

of place and heard the coins ringing against the floor and the boys scuffling to pick them up and the M.C.

calling, “All right, boys, that’s all. Go get dressed and get your money.”

I was limp as a dish rag. My back felt as though it had been beaten with wires. When we had
dressed the M.C. came in and gave us each five dollars, except Tatiock, who got ten for being the last in
the ring. Then he told us to leave. I was not to get a chance to deliver my speech, I thought. I was going
out into the dim alley in despair when I was stopped and told to go back. I returned to the ballroom, where
the men were pushing back their chairs and gathering in small groups to talk.

The M.C. knocked on a table for quiet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we almost forgot an important part

of the program. A most serious part, gentlemen. This boy was brought here to deliver a speech which he

made at his graduation yesterday . . .”

“Bravo!”

“I’m told that he is the smartest boy we’ve got out there in Greenwood. I’m

told that he knows more big words than a pocket-sized dictionary.”

Much applause and laughter.

“So now, gentlemen, I want you to give him your attention.”

There was still laughter as I faced them, my mouth dry, my eyes throbbing. I began slowly, but

evidently my throat was tense, because they began shouting.

“Louder! Louder!”

“We of the younger generation extol the wisdom of that great leader and educator,” I shouted,

“who first spoke these flaming words of wisdom: ‘A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a

friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a signal: “Water, water; we die of

thirst!” The answer from the friendly vessel came back: “Cast down your bucket where you are.” The

captain of the distressed vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast down his bucket, and it came up full of

fresh sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River.’ And like him I say, and in his words, ‘To

those of my race who depend upon bettering their condition in a foreign land, or who underestimate the

importance of cultivating friendly relations with the Southern white man, who is his next-door neighbor, I

would say: “Cast down your bucket where you are’!—cast it down in making friends in every manly way

of the people of all races by whom we are surrounded . . .”‘

I spoke automatically and with such fervor that I did not realize that the men were still talking and

laughing until my dry mouth, filling up with blood from the cut, almost strangled me. I coughed, wanting

to stop and go to one of the tall brass, sand-filled spittoons to relieve myself, but a few of the men,

especially the superintendent, were listening and I was afraid. So I gulped it down, blood, saliva and all,

and continued. (What powers of endurance I had during those days! What enthusiasm! What a belief in

the rightness of things!) I spoke even louder in spite of the pain. But still they talked and still they

laughed, as though deaf with cotton in dirty ears. So I spoke with greater emotional emphasis. I closed my

ears and swallowed blood until I was nauseated. The speech seemed a hundred times as long as before,

but I could not leave out a single word. All had to be said, each memorized nuance considered, rendered.

Nor was that all. Whenever I uttered a word of three or more syllables a group of voices would yell for me

to repeat it. I used the phrase “social responsibility” and they yelled:

“What’s the word you say, boy?”

“Social responsibility,” I said.

“What?”

“Social . . .”

“Louder.”

“. . . responsibility.”

“More!”

“Respon—”

“Repeat!”

“—sibility.”

The room filled with the uproar of laughter until, no doubt, distracted by having to gulp down my

blood, I made a mistake and yelled a phrase I had often seen denounced in newspaper editorials, heard

debated in private.

“Social . . .”

“What?” they yelled.

“. . . equality—.”

The laughter hung smokelike in the sudden stillness. I opened my eyes, puzzled. Sounds of

displeasure filled the room. The M.C. rushed forward. They shouted hostile phrases at me. But I did not

understand.

A small dry mustached man in the front row blared out, “Say that slowly, son!

“What, sir?”

“What you just said!”

“Social responsibility, sir,” I said.

“You weren’t being smart, were you boy?” he said, not unkindly.

“No, Sir!”

“You sure that about ‘equality’ was a mistake?”

“Oh, yes, Sir,” I said. “I was swallowing blood.”

“Well, you had better speak more slowly so we can understand. We mean to do right by you, but

you’ve got to know your place at all times. All right, now, go on with your speech.”

I was afraid. I wanted to leave but I wanted also to speak and I was afraid they’d snatch me down.

“T’hank you, Sir,” I said, beginning where I had left off, and having them ignore me as before.

Yet when I finished there was a thunderous applause. I was surprised to see the superintendent

come forth with a package wrapped in white tissue paper, and, gesturing for quiet, address the men.

“Gentlemen, you see that I did not overpraise the boy. He makes a good speech and some day he’ll

lead his people in the proper paths. And I don’t have to tell you that this is important in these days and

times. This is a good, smart boy, and so to encourage him in the right direction, in the name of the Board

of Education I wish to present him a prize in the form of this . . .”

He paused, removing the tissue paper and revealing a gleaming calfskin briefcase.

“. . . in the form of this first-class article from Shad Whitmore’s shop.”

“Boy,” he said, addressing me, “take this prize and keep it well. Consider it a

badge of office. Prize it. Keep developing as you are and some day it will be filled with important papers

that will help shape the destiny of your people.”

I was so moved that I could hardly express my thanks. A rope of bloody saliva forming a shape

like an undiscovered continent drooled upon the leather and I wiped it quickly away. I felt an importance

that I had never dreamed.

“Open it and see what’s inside,” I was told.

My fingers a-tremble, I complied, smelling fresh leather and finding an official-looking document

inside. It was a scholarship to the state college for Negroes. My eyes filled with tears and I ran awkwardly

off the floor.

I was overjoyed; I did not even mind when I discovered the gold pieces I had scrambled for were

brass pocket tokens advertising a certain make of automobile.

When I reached home everyone was excited. Next day the neighbors came to congratulate me. I

even felt safe from grandfather, whose deathbed curse usually spoiled my triumphs. I stood beneath his

photograph with my briefcase in hand and smiled triumphantly into his stolid black peasant’s face. It was

a face that fascinated me. The eyes seemed to follow everywhere I went.

That night I dreamed I was at a circus with him and that he refused to laugh at the clowns no

matter what they did. Then later he told me to open my briefcase and read what was inside and I did,

finding an official envelope stamped with the state seal: and inside the envelope I found another and

another, endlessly, and I thought I would fall of weariness. “Them’s years,” he said. “Now open that one.”

And I did and in it I found an engraved stamp containing a short message in letters of gold. “Read it,” my

grandfather said. “Out loud.”

“To Whom It May Concern,” I intoned. “Keep This Nigger-Boy Running.”

I awoke with the old man’s laughter ringing in my ears.