The Task of Negro Womanhood

McDougald, Elise J. "The Task of Negro Womanhood." The Portable Harlem Renaissance Reader. Ed. David L. Lewis. New York: Viking Penguin, 1994. 68-75. Print.

In an effort to be as un-PC as I can be (I must be in a mood today…), I want to start this post by making an observation. That is, I find that the most enjoyable, wonderful and interesting people in the world are overweight black lesbians. This is, of course, just a generalization, but I find more often than not that people who fall under these descriptions are just as I’ve described, and more often so than people who do not. The reason behind this, I believe, is that they are in such an ostracized position of life that there is no other defense than to be pleasant. I’m sure there are those who despise the world and everyone in it because of the prejudice inherent in any of the four categories these things entail (homosexuality, obesity, female, and black), but the people who make the most of it seem to be the brightest shiners in the world.

The reason I bring this up is because the article, which was so incredibly void of emotion, was basically trying to get at the same idea that I’ve dived into. Because it was written like a nature documentary from the 60’s, however, it comes off as sterile, lacking the emotion necessary to really get the point across. That point is, as I’ve already gotten at, that discriminated people have a capacity for love and compassion that far surpasses those who fall into the majority. This may be a somewhat optimistic focus on what is, in reality, a somewhat difficult position in life, but I’m bored of the pessimism our anthology oozes. Pessimism, on that note, is becoming more and more the reserve emotion for artists who have nothing left to talk about. Pessimism is easy; happiness is the true challenge. Where is the joy in life? Where is the life in life? The more I read the assignments for this class, the more I am aware of how academic it all is. Academia is fine in its place, but doesn’t anyone have any raw emotion anymore? The fine-tuned and politically correct dissertations of men and women who don’t even live the lives of the people they attest to be are not only void, but they’re boring. I’m sure this article fulfills some necessary spot in the canon of Harlem Renaissance literature, but for God’s sake, why can’t this topic be given its rightful due? David Lewis should ask someone with some fire in their soul to rewrite the thing to make it say what it needs to say in a way that does it justice.