Black children could be creative through
ation. My teaching experiences at the
itute strengthened me intellectually and
~itually as l had to answer questions on

k American Culture as opposed to Atri-
cultui'e. Aside from tutoring the chil-
l(dges 2 thru 12) intheirregularschool
ses, I assisted in Swahili, Afrikan dance
music classes and other areas dealing
\Pan—Aii‘ikanism,
port or my recreational activities, I
nded a play at Parkway Community
Se that was being reviewed Iol‘Muhami‘n—
Speaks newspaper by Roxane Brown,
he end of the play the Cast and the dire
r made a plea to the audience tor those
would be interested in becoming a part
he group. i volunteered my services
il'l Friday, stage assistant and lighting
nicizln. The Experimental Black Actors
d (X—BAQ oi the parkway Community
se offered me the opportunity to test
acting ability with a walk on part as
unit in ”Ceremonies in Dark Old Men."
y also gave me exposure to the transi-
oi black theater from past to the pre-
t.
. three Jobs were under the jurisdiction
he work assignment division ofthe Urbain
ies Program. My work experiences sti—
ated me in the seminar section or the
gram which dealt specifically with Pane
ikanism. AS a result of working with
ple on my various jobs, I [cum] I could
to to other students in the Urban Studies
up better ways in which Blacks could
k together in reaching a common goal.
o my jobs proved truitiul as I used them
esources and examples tor my indepen-
t project (also a section at the program)
tied ”The Need for Black Institutions,”

HE WORLD

Cairo Year
5 letter explores some of the things
h are going through PatriciaSwansey’s
as she is reaping one of the most
rding experiences or her lite while in

‘ansferred from one set of ghetto con-
ons to another; I leave my apartment
my way to school with a stomach lull
ornllakes and vague remembrances oi
ches who say ”good morning” in a [or-
language.
alk the streets or Cairo trying to take
mind away from my Egyptian “brats
s and sisters” who say yo’ mama
a darkie in Arabic and Call me every
le 01 Black
concentrate on the red spotlight tour
ks away hoping that it will change
the time I get there so I won’thave
tare into the face OI an ignorant child
istigured man
y mind snaps back to reality as a lam-
r stench ot piss burns my nostrils Just
ime to step over a six inch heap oi
se shit.
1 at once “War” starts singing in my
“The World is 3 Ghetto" and I
ember writing a letter to D J. saying
nkies bees oppressive everywhere."

My mind starts trippin‘ againand this time
I'm snatched back to reality ‘cozl’m almost
run over by a taxi driver who is probably
color blind.

loall him a son-ot-a bitch over myshouls
dcr and continue to take long strides over
the broken pavement amusing mysell with
all ot the Arabic insults 1 know.

I only have three months to go betoro 1
return to my old set oi ghetto sounds
bumpin’ against my ears and piss smells
the same the world over.

Traveled halt way around the world to
relive poverty once again and at this point
borseshit has a iragrant smell but stale
piss is the same the world over.

i turn on my mind as l enter school so

I can turn it toward “education" As I
stare into the {ace of some pink Inced

honky I realize that the epitome of (unki-
ness tollows us wherever we go
I give up. Convincing myseli it’s no use
I Stare out of the window Waiting to walk
back home and wonder if I can find the
answer to some universal question while
mentally reminding myseli that I’ll have
to stop and get some more corntlakes ii
iwant to eat dinner tonight. . .

Patricia Swansey

March 9, 1973

cairo, Egypt

Dung Cakes

Shit bricks

till the street

Yet it is the stench
or the miserly rich
that pollute the air

Bangla Desh
Babies cry trom hunger
only to be nourished by napalm.

“King of Kings”

Hands outstretched to collect

unused ruppees,

A tigure bows to me-gratetul
that i paused to listen

to his plea.

His eyes wonder over my iace.

Question marks appear

"My Lord, why has thou fore
saken me?”

I feel as the thief on the Cross

(humble to see the face at my king)

It is I who should pay homage

to this beggar

who may one day be my savior.
lrma McClaurin
Class at 1973

INDIA-

Editor's Note India Year

The following are the poetic impressions
oi Miss lrma McClaurin while she particle
pated on this program during the year oi
1971-72.

Sunday Morning Sounds
The fading willowy notes of a ﬂute weaves
its magical sound in between the whispering voice
oi the morning wind marking perhaps the prelude
to a song.
Tinkling colorful bullock carts combine
with rickehows’ blaring horns,
the orchestra oi an lndian town,
each sound whirling around the head or an
ageless gummy-yawerl man sitting cross»legged
upon a snarled tree stump, sending out his own
melody to Join the chorus ot sounds,
clang, clang, clang, clang
his hammer taps out messages to worn shoes.
Voom, voom, voom
a multlrcolored sari ilashes by
on a status symbol motorcycle
while in a dim room a lover's ringers caress
the body oi his beloved sitar.
She hums in rhythmic pleasure drowned out by
the occasional cowing ot a dozen crows
Their black wings glistening against the brillance
oi the atternoon sun.
They peer down at the ridiculous hunched tigure
huddled beneath the shade ot a palm tree,
his lace cracked trom a long attain
with the sun, an umbrella slung over
his backnonce black, now laded, dusty,
his eyes search the Skies hopetully [or signs
ot the yearly monsoon
The tlute notes linger and pass,
the tapping ceases,
snores oi the atternoon siesta tloat
lazily on the dying wind

 

