{"product_id":"the-blacker-the-berry-isbn-9780143131878","title":"The Blacker the Berry . . .","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe groundbreaking Harlem Renaissance novel about prejudice within the black community\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Emma Lou Morgan’s skin is black. So black that it’s a source of shame to her not only among the largely white community of her hometown of Boise, Idaho, but also among her lighter-skinned family and friends. Seeking a community where she will be accepted, she leaves home at age eighteen, traveling first to Los Angeles and then to New York City, where in the Harlem of the 1920s she finds a vibrant scene of nightclubs and dance halls and parties and love affairs . . . and, still, rejection by her own race.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One of the most widely read and controversial works of the Harlem Renaissance, and the first novel to openly address prejudice among black Americans and the issue of colorism, \u003ci\u003eThe Blacker the Berry . . . \u003c\/i\u003eis a book of undiminished power about the invidious role of skin color in American society.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,800 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.“The first novel to focus its plot on race prejudice or ‘colorism’ among African Americans . . . Apart from the vibrant character of Emma Lou, Thurman’s novel presents some of the most layered portrayals of New York City life I’ve ever come across, from seedy employment agency waiting rooms to swank Harlem hot spots.” —\u003cb\u003eMaureen Corrigan, NPR’s \u003ci\u003eFresh Air\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eWallace Thurman \u003c\/b\u003e(1902–1934), a novelist, essayist, editor, and playwright of the Harlem Renaissance, was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, and moved to Harlem in 1925. In 1926 he became the editor of the socialist journal \u003ci\u003eThe Messenger, \u003c\/i\u003ewhere he published the early stories of Langston Hughes. He left \u003ci\u003eThe Messenger \u003c\/i\u003elater that year to co-found the literary magazine \u003ci\u003eFire!! \u003c\/i\u003ealong with Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston, among others. \u003ci\u003eThe Blacker the Berry . . . \u003c\/i\u003e, his first novel, was published in 1929; he wrote two other novels, \u003ci\u003eInfants of the Spring\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Interne\u003c\/i\u003e, and a play, \u003ci\u003eHarlem\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eAllyson Hobbs\u003c\/b\u003e (introduction) is an associate professor in the department of history and the director of African and African American studies at Stanford. Her first book, \u003ci\u003eA Chosen Exile: A History of Racial Passing in American Life\u003c\/i\u003e, won the Frederick Jackson Turner Award for best first book in American history and the Lawrence Levine Award for best book in American cultural history, both from the Organization of American Historians. Hobbs is a Distinguished Lecturer for the Organization of American Historians and a contributor to newyorker.com and \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review.\u003c\/i\u003ePart 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma Lou\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e More acutely than ever before Emma Lou began to feel that her      luscious black complexion was somewhat of a liability, and that      her marked color variation from the other people in her      environment was a decided curse. Not that she minded being black,      being a Negro necessitated having a colored skin, but she did mind      being too black. She couldn't understand why such should be the      case, couldn't comprehend the cruelty of the natal attenders who      had allowed her to be dipped, as it were, in indigo ink when there      were so many more pleasing colors on nature's palette.      Biologically, it wasn't necessary either; her mother was quite      fair, so was her mother's mother, and her mother's brother, and      her mother's brother's son; but then none of them had had a black      man for a father. Why \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e her mother married a black man? Surely      there had been some eligible brown-skin men around. She didn't      particularly desire to have had a \"high yaller\" father, but for      her sake certainly some more happy medium could have been found.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She wasn't the only person who regretted her darkness either. It      was an acquired family characteristic, this moaning and grieving      over the color of her skin. Everything possible had been done to      alleviate the unhappy condition, every suggested agent had been      employed, but her skin, despite bleachings, scourgings, and      powderings, had remained black—fast black—as nature had planned      and effected.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She should have been a boy, then color of skin wouldn't have      mattered so much, for wasn't her mother always saying that a black      boy could get along, but that a black girl would never know      anything but sorrow and disappointment? But she wasn't a boy; she      was a girl, and color did matter, mattered so much that she would      rather have missed receiving her high school diploma than have to      sit as she now sat, the only odd and conspicuous figure on the      auditorium platform of the Boise high school. Why had she allowed      them to place her in the center of the first row, and why had they      insisted upon her dressing entirely in white so that surrounded as      she was by similarly attired pale-faced fellow graduates she      resembled, not at all remotely, that comic picture her Uncle Joe      had hung in his bedroom? The picture wherein the black, kinky head      of a little red-lipped pickaninny lay like a fly in a pan of milk      amid a white expanse of bedclothes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But of course she couldn't have worn blue or black when the call      was for the wearing of white, even if white was not complementary      to her complexion. She would have been odd-looking anyway no      matter what she wore and she would also have been conspicuous, for      not only was she the only dark-skinned person on the platform, she      was also the only Negro pupil in the entire school, and had been      for the past four years. Well, thank goodness, the principal would      soon be through with his monotonous farewell address, and she and      the other members of her class would advance to the platform      center as their names were called and receive the documents which      would signify their unconditional release from public school.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As she thought of these things, Emma Lou glanced at those who sat      to the right and to the left of her. She envied them their obvious      elation, yet felt a strange sense of superiority because of her      immunity for the moment from an ephemeral mob emotion. Get a      diploma?—What did it mean to her? College?—Perhaps. A job?—Perhaps      again. She was going to have a high school diploma, but it would      mean nothing to her whatsoever. The tragedy of her life was that      she was too black. Her face and not a slender roll of ribbon-bound      parchment was to be her future identification tag in society. High      school diploma indeed! What she needed was an efficient bleaching      agent, a magic cream that would remove this unwelcome black mask      from her face and make her more like her fellow men.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Emma Lou Morgan.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She came to with a start. The principal had called her name and      stood smiling down at her benevolently. Some one—she knew it was      her Cousin Buddie, stupid imp—applauded, very faintly, very      provokingly. Some one else snickered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Emma Lou Morgan.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The principal had called her name again, more sharply than before      and his smile was less benevolent. The girl who sat to the left of      her nudged her. There was nothing else for her to do but to get      out of that anchoring chair and march forward to receive her      diploma. But why did the people in the audience have to stare so?      Didn't they all know that Emma Lou Morgan was Boise high school's      only nigger student? Didn't they all know—but what was the use?      She had to go get that diploma, so summoning her most insouciant      manner, she advanced to the platform center, brought every muscle      of her lithe limbs into play, haughtily extended her shiny black      arm to receive the proffered diploma, bowed a chilly thanks, then      holding her arms stiffly at her sides, insolently returned to her      seat in that foreboding white line, insolently returned once more      to splotch its pale purity and to mock it with her dark,      outlandish difference.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma Lou had been born in a semi-white world, totally surrounded      by an all-white one, and those few dark elements that had forced      their way in had either been shooed away or else greeted with      derisive laughter. It was the custom always of those with whom she      came into most frequent contact to ridicule or revile any black      person or object. A black cat was a harbinger of bad luck, black      crepe was the insignia of mourning, and black people were either      evil niggers with poisonous blue gums or else typical vaudeville      darkies. It seemed as if the people in her world never went      halfway in their recognition or reception of things black, for      these things seemed always to call forth only the most extreme      emotional reactions. They never provoked mere smiles or mere      melancholy; rather they were the signal either for boisterous      guffaws or pain-induced and tear-attended grief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma Lou had been becoming increasingly aware of this for a long      time, but her immature mind had never completely grasped its full,      and to her tragic, significance. First there had been the case of      her father, old black Jim Morgan they called him, and Emma Lou had      often wondered why it was that he of all the people she heard      discussed by her family should always be referred to as if his      very blackness condemned him to receive no respect from his fellow      men.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She had also begun to wonder if it was because of his blackness      that he had never been in evidence as far as she knew. Inquiries      netted very unsatisfactory answers. \"Your father is no good.\" \"He      left your mother, deserted her shortly after you were born.\" And      these statements were always prefixed or followed by some epithet      such as \"dirty black no-gooder\" or \"durn his onery black hide.\"      There was in fact only one member of the family who did not speak      of her father in this manner, and that was her Uncle Joe, who was      also the only person in the family to whom she really felt akin,      because he alone never seemed to regret, to bemoan, or to ridicule      her blackness of skin. It was her grandmother who did all the      regretting, her mother who did the bemoaning, her Cousin Buddie      and her playmates, both white and colored, who did the ridiculing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma Lou's maternal grandparents, Samuel and Maria Lightfoot, were      both mulatto products of slave-day promiscuity between male      masters and female chattel. Neither had been slaves, their own      parents having been granted their freedom because of their close      connections with the white branch of the family tree. These      freedmen had migrated into Kansas with their children, and when      these children had grown up they in turn had joined the      westward-ho parade of that current era, and finally settled in      Boise, Idaho.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Samuel and Maria, like many others of their kind and antecedents,      had had only one compelling desire, which motivated their every      activity and dictated their every thought. They wished to put as      much physical and mental space between them and the former home of      their parents as was possible. That was why they had left Kansas,      for in Kansas there were too many reminders of that which their      parents had escaped and from which they wished to flee. Kansas was      too near the former slave belt, too accessible to disgruntled      southerners, who, deprived of their slaves, were inculcated with      an easily communicable virus, nigger hatred. Then, too, in Kansas      all Negroes were considered as belonging to one class. It didn't      matter if you and your parents had been freedmen before the      Emancipation Proclamation, nor did it matter that you were almost      three-quarters white. You were, nevertheless, classed with those      hordes of hungry, ragged, ignorant black folk arriving from the      South in such great numbers, packed like so many stampeding cattle      in dirty, manure-littered box cars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From all of this these maternal grandparents of Emma Lou fled,      fled to the Rocky Mountain states which were too far away for the      recently freed slaves to reach, especially since most of them      believed that the world ended just a few miles north of the      Mason-Dixon line. Then, too, not only were the Rocky Mountain      states beyond the reach of this raucous and smelly rabble of      recently freed cotton pickers and plantation hands, but they were      also peopled by pioneers, sturdy land and gold seekers from the      East, marching westward, always westward in search of El Dorado,      and being too busy in this respect to be violently aroused by      problems of race unless economic factors precipitated matters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So Samuel and Maria went into the fast farness of a little known      Rocky Mountain territory and settled in Boise, at the time nothing      more than a trading station for the Indians and whites, and a red      light center for the cowboys and sheepherders and miners in the      neighboring vicinity. Samuel went into the saloon business and      grew prosperous. Maria raised a family and began to mother nuclear      elements for a future select Negro social group.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was of course in such a small and haphazardly populated      community some social intermixture between whites and blacks.      White and black gamblers rolled the dice together, played tricks      on one another while dealing faro, and became allies in their      attempts to outfigure the roulette wheel. White and black men      amicably frequented the saloons and dancehalls together. White and      black women leaned out of the doorways and windows of the      jerry-built frame houses and log cabins of \"Whore Row.\" White and      black housewives gossiped over back fences and lent one another      needed household commodities. But there was little social      intercourse on a higher scale. Sluefoot Sal, the most popular high      yaller on \"Whore Row,\" might be a buddy to Irish Peg and Blond      Liz, but Mrs. Amos James, whose husband owned the town's only      dry-goods store, could certainly not become too familiar with Mrs.      Samuel Lightfoot, colored, whose husband owned a saloon. And it      was not a matter of the difference in their respective husbands'      businesses. Mrs. Amos James did associate with Mrs. Arthur Emory,      white, whose husband also owned a saloon. It was purely a matter      of color.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma Lou's grandmother then, holding herself aloof from the      inmates of \"Whore Row,\" and not wishing to associate with such as      old Mammy Lewis' daughters, who did most of the town wash, and      others of their ilk, was forced to choose her social equals slowly      and carefully. This was hard, for there were so few Negroes in      Boise anyway that there wasn't much cream to skim off. But as the      years passed, others who, like Maria and her husband, were mulatto      offsprings of mulatto freedmen seeking a freer land, moved in, and      were soon initiated into what was later to be known as the blue      vein circle, so named because all of its members were fair-skinned      enough for their blood to be seen pulsing purple through the veins      of their wrists.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma Lou's grandmother was the founder and the acknowledged leader      of Boise's blue veins, and she guarded its exclusiveness      passionately and jealously. Were they not a superior class? Were      they not a very high type of Negro, comparable to the persons of      color groups in the West Indies? And were they not entitled, ipso      facto, to more respect and opportunity and social acceptance than      the more pure blooded Negroes? In their veins was some of the best      blood of the South. They were closely akin to the only true      aristocrats in the United States. Even the slave masters had been      aware of and acknowledged in some measure their superiority.      Having some of Marse George's blood in their veins set them apart      from ordinary Negroes at birth. These mulattoes as a rule were not      ordered to work in the fields beneath the broiling sun at the urge      of a Simon Legree lash. They were saved and trained for the more      gentle jobs, saved and trained to be ladies' maids and butlers.      Therefore, let them continue this natural division of Negro      society. Let them also guard against unwelcome and degenerating      encroachments. Their motto must be \"Whiter and whiter every      generation,\" until the grandchildren of the blue veins could      easily go over into the white race and become assimilated so that      problems of race would plague them no more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maria had preached this doctrine to her two children, Jane and      Joe, throughout their apprentice years, and can therefore be      forgiven for having a physical collapse when they both, first Joe,      then Emma Lou's mother, married not mulattoes, but a copper brown      and a blue black. This had been somewhat of a necessity, for, when      the mating call had made itself heard to them, there had been no      eligible blue veins around. Most of their youthful companions had      been sent away to school or else to seek careers in eastern      cities, and those few who had remained had already found their      chosen life's companions. Maria had sensed that something of the      kind might happen and had urged Samuel to send Jane and Joe away      to some eastern boarding school, but Samuel had very stubbornly      refused. He had his own notions of the sort of things one's      children learned in boarding school, and of the greater      opportunities they had to apply that learning. True, they might      acquire the same knowledge in the public schools of Boise, but      then there would be some limit to the extent to which they could      apply this knowledge, seeing that they lived at home and perforce      must submit to some parental supervision. A cot in the attic at      home was to Samuel a much safer place for a growing child to sleep      than an iron four poster in a boarding school dormitory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo Samuel had remained adamant and the two carefully reared scions of Boise’s first blue vein family had of necessity sought their mates among the lower orders. However, Joe’s wife was not as undesirable as Emma Lou’s father, for she was almost three-quarters Indian, and there was scant possibility that her children would have revolting dark skins, thick lips, spreading nostrils, and kinky hair. But in the case of Emma Lou’s father, there were no such extenuating characteristics, for his physical properties undeniably stamped him as a full blooded Negro. In fact, it seemed as if he had come from one of the few families originally from Africa, who could not boast of having been seduced by some member of southern aristocracy, or befriended by some member of a strolling band of Indians.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one could understand why Emma Lou’s mother had married Jim Morgan, least of all Jane herself. In fact she hadn’t thought much about it until Emma Lou had been born. She had first met Jim at a church picnic, given in a woodlawn meadow on the outskirts of the city, and almost before she had realized what was happening she had found herself slipping away from home, night after night, to stroll down a well shaded street, known as Lover’s Lane, with the man her mother had forbidden her to see. And it hadn’t been long before they had decided that an elopement would be the only thing to assure themselves the pleasure of being together without worrying about Mama Lightfoot’s wrath, talkative neighbors, prying town marshals, and grass stains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite the rancor of her mother and the whispering of her mother’s friends, Jane hadn’t really found anything to regret in her choice of a husband until Emma Lou had been born. Then all the fears her mother had instilled in her about the penalties inflicted by society upon black Negroes, especially upon Negro girls, came to the fore. She was abysmally stunned the color of her child, for she had been certain that she herself was so fair that her child could not possibly as dark as its father. She had been certain that it would be a luscious admixture, a golden brown with all its mother’s desirable facial features and its mother’s hair. But she hadn’t reckoned with nature’s perversity, nor had she taken under consideration the inescapable fact that some of her ancestors, too, had been black and that some of their color chromosomes were still imbedded within her. Emma Lou had been fortunate enough to have hair like her mother’s, a thick, curly black mass of hair, rich and easily controlled, but she had also been unfortunate enough to have a face as black as her father’s, and a nose which, while not exactly flat, was as distinctly negroid as her too thick lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer birth had served no good purpose. It had driven her mother back to seek the confidence and aid of Maria, and it had given Maria the chance she had been seeking to break up the undesirable union of her daughter with what she termed an ordinary black nigger. But Jim’s departure hadn’t solved matters at all, rather it had complicated them, for although he was gone, his child remained, a tragic mistake which could not be stamped out or eradicated even after Jane, by getting a divorce from Jim and marrying a red-haired Irish Negro, had been accepted back into blue vein grace.","brand":"Penguin Classics","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301949690085,"sku":"NP9780143131878","price":14.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143131878.jpg?v=1767738408","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-blacker-the-berry-isbn-9780143131878","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}