Prologue: When Crook’s Still Dreamed
A few miles North of Salinas, there is a house. It is a quaint rickety house, built out of smoky gray logs. It has a single room, with clothes hanging all over the outside and a roof built together with numerous different colored boards. Surrounding the house is dirt, which swirls around in a funnel shape when the wind blows hard. Further away from the shack the dirt gives way to bright and beautiful grass. There aren’t many other structures visible; rolling hills and bright green trees are all that can be seen for miles. The foothills surrounding the house are littered all over with dark evergreens. The sun was setting over these foothills, and the sky was a yellow pink color.
A Boy sat on the porch of…show more content… ”Yes Momma,” he replied, looking up from his book. “I was givin’ it some thought, an’ I decided I want to write stories someday, and sell them for money. That way I won’t have to farm my whole life. If the man writing all these books can do it, there sure ain’t no reason I can’t do it myself.” He beamed up to her, hoping for a reaffirming response to his…show more content… “But Ma, what if I’m really good at it? If I work hard now anything is possible, right?”
She shook her head silently. “Son, I don’t care how good of a writer you are. You’re not gonna have money.” “But what if I write really good?
The boy’s mother sighed. “You should understand that we’re black folk son. We are always at a disadvantage, and people are always trying to put us down. If you and a white man write a story, there ain’t gonna be a question about who’s story sells, and who stays poor and hungry.”
The boy looked up, his mouth agape in a questioning expression. “But that’s not fair. Why is it like that?”
“That’s just how the world is,” his mother answered, speaking softly.
She went back into the house, and her son stayed on the porch, no longer reading. He felt dejected. He had been fantasizing about being an author for months, and after all of that time it dawned on him that his dream hadn’t been realistic. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he looked down at the book. Suddenly, his sadness turned into anger. The book had been the source of his longing to be an author, and had filled him with hope that he could do something with his life besides work on farms. He resigned himself to the fact that this would not be the case. He started crying even harder out of anger, and tore the book into many pieces. He threw them onto the ground. For a moment the pieces of paper remained motionless in the dirt, then the wind carried them off