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MAROON TIGER
The Future - That
Which Is To Come
Friday, November 22, 1968
Every living creature has a
future — whether he wants one
or not. Time is one form of
progress which we cannot arrest,
only to release it later. And when
you ask me, “What is the fu
ture?,” I can only say that which
is to come. Though man plans
and contrives in anticipation of
it in the past, every awkward
suggested revision written in the
future is harbored until its turn
to greet the present has come.
Man can plan for tomorrow,
and any other time to come, for
whether he is here or not is
beside the point. Life will press
forward anyway. Therefore, al
though man can plan for the
future will come for sure, but
present, lest he wishes to be
made a fool of time. For the
fture will come for sure, but
will be be there?
Let the joys of life roll on,
in the present; for tomorrow may
be lacking you.
WEB
Socratic Gadflies To Pester An Ass
On Being Black
And Angry!!!
By Harold McKelton
No, the title is no reference to
the book by psychiatrists Grier
and Cobb. The title is a reference
to Ron Karenga, Leroy Jones,
Stokely Carmichael, Dr. M. L.
King, Jr., Rev. Albert Cleage of
Detroit, W. E. B. DuBois, Dick
Gregory, Eldridge Cleaver, and
\\
Are You High?"
By Joseph Thompson
“Do you feel anything yet? Are
you high?”
It was my first “dry” high. As
I sat frantically inhaling the
harsh smoke, I didn’t know what
to feel. Imitating my veteran
coach, I succeeded in inhaling
the last burning granule. I then
examined my body for any pe
culiar sensations. After finding
nothing unusual, I decided to re
examine myself while standing.
As I got up, I detected a slight
change. I lay down on my bunk
and closed my eyes. I was high
all right, but I didn’t realize it
until after I had “come down.”
I can best describe it as a lapse
into semi-consciousness. Although
the results were pleasant enough,
and I suffered no after-effects,
I wouldn’t depend on “smoke”
for my “highs.” It was merely
curiosity which gave me the will
power to go through with it, and
I think that the first-hand ex
perience was more of a profit
than a loss.
a multitude of brooding Black
men and women who cry the
cry of “Black Rage” in the world.
Some people attempt to reduce
the cry to a small murmur of
momentary significance. But the
cry lasts . . . and lasts . . . and
lasts. The cry penetrates the most
ignorant heart in Watts! It sa
turates the most crucified souls
in Newark! Black Rage! Black
Rage! Black Rage! It fills the
air of a burning Detroit. Black
Rage echoes out of the past and
screams into the untraversed
halls of the future. Neither a
murmur nor a time-bound whim
per, Black Rage is an abiding
noun—not a sterile adjective.
God is there but doesn’t
want to get involved; take a
capitalistic society that doesn’t
give a damn for those who are
too humane to prey upon their
fellow men—Take a castrated
Black man!! Mix all of these to
gether, drain off the insanity, and
you’re left with the only thing
that remains: BLACK RAGE!
The freshman year at More
house often proves frustrating
and demanding emotionally. One
comes here with the hope of
finding an academic attitude that
will stimulate the very small
amount of intellectuality which
one possesses. But too often the
conservatism and complacency of
the student body result in a can
cerous malignancy that eats away
at a freshman’s academic life. At
Morehouse, it is too easy to sink
into the mire of conformity.
This year our college needs a
reawakening, and such a rebirth
can only come with the emer
gence of a new student force of
“creative innovators.” These “cre
ative innovators”—call them non
conformists—are not just any
Morehouse men. They are pro
bably the most idealistic of the
lot and, by their very idealistic
nature, cannot live by their bro-
Nature and Life
By W. E. Berry
I see the green grass,
a weed here or there;
Beautiful it is,
Beautiful it is.
I smell the fresh air,
the blossoms of spring;
Sweet it is,
Sweet it is.
I hear the wind blowing,
as it rustles the leaves;
Wonderful it is,
Wonderful it is.
I feel the hot sun,
its radiance unmatched;
Life it is,
Life it is.
By Philip Brown
thers’ conservative standards—
especially when reality is so
crushing.
Of course the Establishment
may not be pleased with them,
but men of ideals are willing to
bear the burden of criticism. No
one can expect to end conserva
tism’s stagnant malignancy—
whose fetid odor often sickens
and deadens this place—with
out personal suffering. Change is
not some tasty dish of steak and
potatoes which the Establishment
serves us on its best Sunday chi
na while we only furnish the
belly cramps. If liberal change
is to come, the “creative noncon
formists” must make themselves
known and, perhaps, suffer for
their coming forth.
But they MUST come forth.
Fear of criticism should not hold
them back. No one is beyond
crtiticism—not the Establishment
or we ourselves. The old order
seldom tumbles on its own ac
cord; power is either wrestled
from their hands through de
structive revolution or the cre
ative Socratic gadflies pester
their tails until the annoying
buzzing is finally acknowledged.
And, at such time, the way is
open for change!
Society and the Establishment
always demand conformity for
the sake of harmony. But it is
to be remembered that princi
pled disobedience against the
malignant stagnation of a given
established order—which either
consciously or unconsciously de
humanizes us—regenerates our
own humanity and makes us har
moniously one with ourselves. It
calls for men. And only a few
can—or will—answer the call.
Fantasy And Reality
By Louis Vincent Reese
It was a long hot day like
those you felt during the sum
mer’s apex before noon, as you
were working. But you stopped
to rest and dozed off into a
slumber of dreams, which, what
ever happened, came true.
It was a day to day-dream that
came in portions of fantasy and
reality, you might say. This hap
pened before — he dreamed of
one thing, and, when he awoke,
it came into his world. It just
so happened, this time, it was
a girl in full bloom.
She was young and beautiful.
She had pearl black eyes and
flowing hair, in which she wore
a gem. She wore silk bell-bot
tom pants and a blouse with ruf
fles and lace about the neck and
sleeves. No words could be
found to describe her perfection
as she came into his world. She
was indeed something to behold.
He discovered by the image
produced by the stone embedded
in her forehead that the people
of the world were of an advanced
knowledge, always young and
fruitful in their mental and phy
sical capacities. Everything was
spontaneous through “Love and
Let Love”. Breaking such a code
would result in the loss of in
tellect or in sheer extinction.
By this principle the people of
her world gained through love
and could or would be destroyed
if it were violated.
He thought by now that her
world of love was better than
his own oppressive one. They
soon, with affectionate words,
fell in love, by which time she
had taken him back to her world
through a dimensional loop pro
duced by the gem.
Intelli g ent§ia
By Philip Brown, Literary Editor
In Praise Of Pro - Creation
sing, muse, the shame of
His fair daughter, nature,
and her ravishment, which
laid bloodied ruin thousand
fold upon her name, sing,
o goddess, what strange
sting could arouse a Holy
Father to incestuous ways?
blackness, the ebony tint of
her armor-essence, stung
Him from his pre-time
sleep and He awoke with
dewy eyes to behold that
black beauty which His
Womb-and-Shaft had made.
and he beheld her—
voidless beauty of His her
maphroditic seed—barren by
a man’s untouch, sap
less, yet vegetating the fu
ture-time of mellow fruit
fulness. her smile mirrowed
upon His sleep-sodden eyes,
and in her purer piety and
black loving comeliness, she
bent to kiss the cheek of
Him that motherly-fatherly
birthed her and darkness
was upon His face, tender
ly she welcomed Him from
the sleep, but He, lying upon
the scarlet cushion of the
universe, saw only the
tempting fullness of her
black lips, the hollow of
her black cheeks, the dim
ple that was her navel, the
black nearness that fevered
His Whiter Presence.
deep within Him began a
stirring that set His Holy
Blood ablaze, that rushed
a red-hot blush to the
Whiteness of His Face. He
saw black nipples that cir
cled blacker breasts and
sought to ravish a creation
that was His very best. O
thou, sad virgin child, tear
ful innocence in thy eyes,
felt the prick of that sad
hour—when Shame came
alive. Thy limbs with
frightened tremblingness
Spread beyond the oaks of
His hallowed thighs. Thy
precious rose-water gushed,
a polluted sea, and drowned
thee in misery/ He cupped
thy tender breasts, and
bit away the crown—and
fell, breathless, heaving, to
the ground/ and He that
made thee, swooned and
said, “tis good; thou art
divine”. “Boast not My fall,”
writhed she, ‘insulting fa
ther-foe! Thou by some
other shalt be laid as low.”
From black forest-gardens,
first feet, slid the seed from
which a weed did grow/
“•Call it Whiteman,” quoth
she, with a sneer, “anti-
Nature, as thou canst see/
albino-child of agony to
bring us misery./ In shame
incestuous, ece drikten,
halig scyppend, winged’
way on waxy wing/ may-
haps to return another day/
and Nature, ill-plagued by
child-antithesis, ruined and
moans in hellish bliss,
strangled by a poison-weed,
fathered by an incestuous
deed.
PEB
Wanted:
Resurrected Shakespeares!
Romantic Wordsworths!
Raging LeRoi Joneses!
Wanted!
Your creativity for
Intelligentsia!
Loneliness.. Fear.. Hate..
By David Manning
Loneliness engulfed his entire
world . . . fear was his constant
companion . . . and hate gnawed
at the deepest portion of his
being . . .
He did not see the beauty
in blackness that we all know is
there. He was lost in a sea of
white faces with no one to whom
he could turn except other whites
where he found a pseudo-solace.
Yes, fear was present also —
a fear of his white friends real
izing that he had a touch of a
black man’s blood flowing
through the veins of his lily-white
skin.
Hate is a simple four-letter
word that expresses his feelings
for his black heritage. These
feelings made him abandon his
heritage and seek a life in a
white world where he would not
experience the degradations that
have been thrust upon black peo
ple.
The circumstances that caused
him to “long for his poeple”
and made him proud of his heri
tage, and then to reject his black
ness for a final time make James
Weldon Johnson’s Autobiography
of an Ex-Colored Man a must
on every black person’s reading
list.
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