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Page 6 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. aDaoaaDDaaaDnoat/