Sonny Homegoing Quotes

Sonny would tell Marcus about how America used to lock up black men off the sidewalks for labor or how redlining kept banks from investing in black neighborhoods, preventing mortgages or business loans. So was it a wonder that prisons were still full of them? Was it a wonder that the ghetto was the ghetto?

The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called "boy" by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

Marcus always nodded patiently when his father said things like this. Sonny was forever talking about slavery, the prison labor complex, the System, segregation, the Man. His father had a deep-seated hatred for white people. A hatred like a bag filled with stones, one stone for every year racial injustice continued to be the norm in America. He still carried the bag.

The man took a long drag off his Newport. "This helps,"he said, waving the cigarette in the air. He pulled out a small glassine bag from his pocket and placed it in Sonny's hand. "When that don't help, this do," he said.

Sonny said he didn’t mind his schools because he never went, and Willie said the fact that he never went was what was wrong with them.

America used to lock up black men off the sidewalks for labor or how redlining kept banks from investing in black neighborhoods, preventing mortgages or business loans. So was it a wonder that prisons were still full of them? Was it a wonder that the ghetto was the ghetto? There were things Sonny used to talk about that Marcus never saw in his history books, but then later, when he got to college, he learned to be true. He learned that his father’s mind was a brilliant mind, but it was trapped underneath something. In

The problem was that in practice things didn’t work the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called “boy” by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

For Sonny, the problem with America wasn’t segregation but the fact that you could not, in fact, segregate.

Sonny clutched his mother’s money tight as he walked back that day, hoping he wouldn’t run into any white people looking to prove a point, because he knew in his body, even if he hadn’t yet put it together in his mind, that in America the worst thing you could be was a black man. Worse than dead, you were a dead man walking.

For Sonny, the problem with America wasn't segregation but the fact that you could not, in fact, segregate. Sonny had been trying to get away from white people for as long as he could remember, but, big as this country was, there was nowhere to go. Not even Harlem, where white folks owned just about everything an eye could see or a hand could touch. What Sonny wanted was Africa. Marcus Garvey had been onto something. Liberia and Sierra Leone, those two efforts had been a good thing, in theory at least. The problem was that in practice things didn't work out the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called 'boy' by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

Sonny clutched his mother's money tight as he walked back that day, hoping he wouldn't run into any white people looking to prove a point, because he knew in his body, even if he hadn't yet put it together in his mind, that in America the worst thing you could be was a black man. Worse than dead, you were a dead man walking.

En prenant l'argent, Sonny s'était demandé: Que peut-il y avoir de pire que la mort ? Et les évènement autour de lui s'étaient chargés de lui fournir la réponse. Quelques semaines plus tôt, la police de New-York avait abattu un jeune Noir de quinze ans, un étudiant, pour pratiquement rien. La fusillade avait déclenché les émeutes, opposant de jeunes Noirs, des hommes et quelques femmes, aux forces de police. Aux informations, on en avait attribué la responsabilité aux Noirs de Harlem. A ces dingues, ces brutes, ces Noirs monstrueux, qui avaient le culot de demander qu'on ne tire pas sur leurs enfants en pleine rue. Ce jour-là Sonny avait serré dans sa main l'argent que lui avait donné sa mère en rentrant chez lui, espérant ne pas rencontrer des Blancs qui voudraient prouver quelque chose, car il savait dans sa chair, même s'il ne l'avait pas encore totalement enregistré dans son esprit, qu'en Amérique, le pire qui pouvait vous arriver était d'être noir. Pire que mort, vous étiez un mort qui marche.

For Sonny, the problem with America wasn’t segregation but the fact that you could not, in fact, segregate. Sonny had been trying to get away from white people for as long as he could remember, but, big as this country was, there was nowhere to go. Not even Harlem, where white folks owned just about everything an eye could see or a hand could touch. What Sonny wanted was Africa. Marcus Garvey had been onto something. Liberia and Sierra Leone, those two efforts had been a good thing, in theory at least. The problem was that in practice things didn’t work the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called “boy” by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.