Society and Family Conflict in A Raisin in the Sun by...

Society and Family Conflict in A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry Within the context of any given moment in history, the passage of time allows reflection on the attitudes and emotions of people. The political atmosphere, commercial fads, social trends or religious fervor of the time we observe, all lend spice to the attitudes that we will find there. Some aspects of our human nature are as timeless as eating or sleeping, such as the bonds of a family or the conflicts which tear them apart. In Lorraine Hansberrys work A Raisin in the Sun we can see clearly not only the drama each of us lives through in the ties of family and love, but it gives us an immortal slice of history of the times in which it was written.†¦show more content†¦Moore and his wife were killed by a bomb planted under their home on December 25, 1951 (AfroAmerican ). W.E.B. DuBois, a prominent black writer and intellectual had only recently been acquitted of chairing a Communist front organization in a highly publicized and hotly debated trial ( Encarta ). Dorothy Dandri dge, who only three years later became the black Goddess of Hollywood through her role in Carmen Jones, was still struggling to overcome racial stereotypes (A E ). The Korean war was in its second year, 70% of all American troops were in active duty, (Archer) and the armed forces still had segregated troops (Carlisle). In all, it was a turbulent time, and it put in motion ideas and beliefs that sparked the civil rights movement of the sixties. In the first act of the play, the characters display a wide variety of emotional tensions. We can see from the dialogue between Ruth and her husband Walter that their relationship has undergone a period of stressful transformation. Even in the opening narration, the author describes Ruths face as showing ...disappointment...that life has been little that she expected...(Hansberry 1382). The entire family lives together in a two bedroom apartment, the furniture described as well worn, and the common living area, which houses the kitchen as well, is wear(y)...[with]all pretenses but living itself having long since vanished from the very atmosphere of this room(HansberryShow MoreRelatedA Raisin Review673 Words   |  3 PagesA Raisin Review Kenneth Hawthorne English/125 3/15/2016 University of Phoenix A Raisin Review â€Å"What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or faster like a sore and then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode†. (Langston Hughes, Harlem) The author Lorraine Hansberry was born May 19, 1930 in Chicago, Illinois. Lorraine Hansberrys writing style is autobiographicalRead MoreSummary Of Lorraine Hansberry 1486 Words   |  6 PagesLorraine Hansberry, born May 19, 1930, made a very prominent contribution to society in her short lived life. She was born to a middle class family as the youngest of four children. Her father was a successful real estate broker who also founded one of the first Negro banks in Chicago (Adams 247). Lorraine’s mother was a schoolteacher named Nannie Perry who later became a ward committeewoman. In 1938, Lorraine’s father took a stand against the real estate covenants in Chicago due to the fact thatRead MoreTimeless Themes A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry1306 Words   |  6 Pagestopic of racial minorities and family issues, A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry, has continued to be popular since it was written in 1959. The play is about an African American family, consisting of five members, who live in Southside Chicago during the post-World-War-Two era. The Younger family is crowded in a tiny, worn, and shabby apartment and they are fairly poor. They never have much surplus money until Walter’s father, and Mama’s husband, died and the family received a life-insurance checkRead MoreThe Great Playwright s Life Story2415 Words   |  10 PagesBefore the relatively short life of Lorraine Hansberry tragically ended, the African-American playwright distinguished herself in American theatre and literature as she creatively and unknowingly cha llenged the views of African-American life, among other inescapable issues of the nation and the world, on the theatrical stage. The great playwright’s life story began on May 19, 1930. Although born during a time of hardship introduced by the Great Depression, Hansberry grew up rather comfortably in a middle-classRead MoreRacial Identity in A Raisin in the Sun: Who Am I?1102 Words   |  5 Pagesproviding a perverted rational for justifying segregation (Pilgrim â€Å"Mammy†; â€Å"Tom†). So when Lorraine Hansberry’s play, A Raisin in the Sun (1959), confronted the issue of segregation through the lens of an African American family living in Chicago’s Southside, the Caucasian audience’s widespread acceptance of a family who was â€Å"just like any other† (Nemiroff 9) appears ironic. Contrary to public perception, Raisin sought to convey â€Å"the essence of black people’s striving and the will to defeat segregationRead More R acism and the American Dream in Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun1340 Words   |  6 PagesA Raisin in the Sun is written by a famous African- American play write, Lorraine Hansberry, in 1959. It was a first play written by a black woman and directed by a black man, Lloyd Richards, on Broadway in New York. The story of A Raisin in the Sun is based on Lorraine Hansberry’s own early life experiences, from which she and her whole family had to suffer, in Chicago. Hansberry’s father, Carol Hansberry, also fought a legal battle against a racial restrictive covenant that attempted to stop African-Read MoreEssay on Who Am I?: Racial Identity in A Raisin in the Sun1596 Words   |  7 Pagesa perverted rationale for justifying segregation (Pilgrim â€Å"Mammy†; â€Å"Tom†). So when Lorraine Hansberry’s play, A Raisin in the Sun (1959), confronted the issue of segregation through the lens of an African American family living in Chicago’s South side, Caucasian audiences’ widespread acceptance of the Youngers, a family who was â€Å"just like any other,† appears ironic (Nemiroff 9). Contrary to public perception, Raisin sought to convey â€Å"the essence of black people’s striving and the will to defeat segregationRead MoreConflicts in an American Family in play A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry842 Words   |  4 PagesConflicts in an American Family in play A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry The play â€Å"A Raisin in the Sun† illustrates three main conflicts in the younger family life; they are internal, social, and interpersonal. The conflicts in the story give insight as to who the characters are and what they really want out of life. Conflict is one of the underlying themes in the play, which was written by Lorraine Hansberry, it helps to tell the story and explain the situation that the Younger familyRead MoreAnalysis Of A Raisin In The Sun By Lorraine Hansberry784 Words   |  4 PagesA Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry Introduction Lorraine Hansberry, the author of the play A Raisin in the Sun, indicates that she had always felt a need to put her life experiences in the black neighborhood in writing. In his book, she depicts in a realistic manner of the African-American life. The play portrays black characters combined with themes and conflicts naturally and realistically. A Raisin in the Sun provided a twist in the American art as it highlighted on key issues which wereRead MoreLorraine Hansberry Is An African American Play Writer Who1583 Words   |  7 PagesLorraine Hansberry is an African American play writer who wrote the play â€Å"A Raisin in the Sun.† The Play highlights the lives of a lower-class Black American family in the 1950s living under racial segregation and oppression in Chicago. The title of the play was inspired from the poem â€Å"Harlem† by Langston Hughes. The poem questions â€Å"What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?† (Hansberry , 2013, p. 976). The protagonist, Walter Lee Younger, struggles internally with

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Night World Dark Angel Chapter 2 Free Essays

Everything was freezing confusion. Her head was under water and she was being tumbled over and over. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, and she was completely disoriented. We will write a custom essay sample on Night World : Dark Angel Chapter 2 or any similar topic only for you Order Now Then her head popped up. She automatically sucked in a huge gasp of air. Her arms were flailing but they seemed tangled in her backpack. The creek was wide here and the current was very strong. She was being swept downstream, and every other second her mouth seemed to be full of water. Reality was just one desperate, choking attempt to get enough air for the next breath. And everything was so cold. A cold that was pain, not just temperature. I’m going to die. Her mind realized this with a sort of numb certainty, but her body was stubborn. It fought almost as if it had a separate brain of its own. It struggled out of her backpack, so that the natural buoyancy of her ski jacket helped keep her head above water. It made her legs kick, trying to stand firm on the bottom. No good. The creek was only five feet deep in the center, but that was still an inch higher than Gillian’s head. She was too small, too weak, and she couldn’t get any kind of control over where she was going. And the cold was sapping her strength frighteningly fast. With every second her chances of surviving dropped. It was as if the creek were a monster that hated her and would never let her go. It slammed her into rocks and swept her on before her hands could get hold of the cold, smooth surfaces. And in a few minutes she was going to be too weak to keep her face above water. I have to grab something. Her body was telling her that. It was her only chance. There. Up ahead, on the left bank, a projecting spit with tree roots. She had to get to it. Kick. Kick. She hit and was almost spun past it. But somehow, she was holding on. The roots were thicker than her arms, a huge tangle like slick, icy snakes. Gillian thrust an arm through a natural loop of the roots, anchoring herself. Oh-yes; she could breathe now. But her body was still in the creek, being sucked away by the water. She had to get out-but that was impossible. She just barely had the strength to hold on; her weakened, numb muscles could never pull her up the bank. At that moment, she was filled with hatred- not for the creek, but for herself. Because she was little and weak and childish and it was going to kill her. She was going to die, and it was all happening right now, and it was real. She could never really remember what happened next. Her mind let go and there was nothing but anger and the burning need to get higher. Her legs kicked and scrambled and some dim part of her knew that each impact against the rocks and roots should have hurt. But all that mattered was the desperation that was somehow, inch by inch, getting her numb, waterlogged body out of the creek. And then she was out. She was lying on roots and snow. Her vision was dim; she was gasping, open-mouthed, for breath, but she was alive. Gillian lay there for a long time, not really aware of the cold, her entire body echoing with relief. I made it! I’ll be okay now. It was only when she tried to get up that she realized how wrong she was. When she tried to stand, her legs almost folded under her. Her muscles felt like jelly. And †¦ it was cold. She was already exhausted and nearly frozen, and her soaking clothes felt as heavy as medieval armor. Her gloves were gone, lost in the creek. Her cap was gone. With every breath, she seemed to get colder, and suddenly she was racked with waves of violent shivers. Find the road †¦ I have to get to the road. But which way is it? She’d landed somewhere downstream-but where? How far away was the road now? Doesn’t matter†¦ just walk away from the creek, Gillian thought slowly. It was difficult to think at all. She felt stiff and clumsy and the shivering made it hard to climb over fallen trees and branches. Her red, swollen fingers couldn’t close to get handholds. I’m so cold-why can’t I stop shivering? Dimly, she knew that she was in serious trouble. If she didn’t get to the road-soon-she wasn’t going to survive. But it was more and more difficult to call up a sense of alarm. A strange sort of apathy was coming over her. The gnarled forest seemed like something from a fairy tale. Stumbling†¦ staggering. She had no idea where she was going. Just straight ahead. That was all she could see anyway, the next dark rock protruding from the snow, the next fallen branch to get over or around. And then suddenly she was on her face. She’d fallen. It seemed to take immense effort to get up again. It’s these clothes†¦ they’re too heavy. I should take them off. Again, dimly, she knew that this was wrong. Her brain was being affected; she was dazed with hypothermia. But the part of her that knew this was far away, separate from her. She fought to make her numbed ringers unzip her ski jacket. Okay†¦ it’s off. I can walk better now†¦ She couldn’t walk better. She kept falling. She had been doing this forever, stumbling, falling, getting up. And every time it was a little harder. Her cords felt like slabs of ice on her legs. She looked at them with distant annoyance and saw that they were covered with adhering snow. Okay-maybe take those off, too? She couldn’t remember how to work a zipper. She couldn’t think at all anymore. The violent waves of shivering were interspersed with pauses now, and the pauses were getting longer. I guess †¦ that’s good. I must not be so cold—– I just need a little rest. While the faraway part of her brain screamed uselessly in protest, Gillian sat down in the snow. She was in a small clearing. It seemed deserted-not even the footprints of a ground mouse marked the smooth white carpet around her. Above, overhanging branches formed a snowy canopy. It was a very peaceful place to die. Gillian’s shivering had stopped. Which meant it was all over now. Her body couldn’t warm itself by shivering any longer, and was giving up the fight. Instead, it was trying to move into hibernation. Shutting itself down, reducing breathing and heart rate, conserving the little warmth that was left. Trying to survive until help could come. Except that no help was coming. No one knew where she was. It would be hours before her dad got home or her mother was†¦ awake. And even then they wouldn’t be alarmed that Gillian wasn’t there. They’d assume she was with Amy. By the time anyone thought of looking for her it would be far too late. The faraway part of Gillian’s mind knew all this, but it didn’t matter. She had reached her physical limits-she couldn’t save herself now even if she could have thought of a plan. Her hands weren’t red anymore. They were blue-white. Her muscles were becoming rigid. At least she no longer felt cold. There was only a vast sense of relief at not having to move. She was so tired†¦ Her body had begun the process of dying. White mist filled her mind. She had no sense of time passing. Her metabolism was slowing to a stop. She was becoming a creature of ice, no different from any stump or rock in the frozen wilderness. I’m in trouble†¦ somebody†¦ somebody please†¦ Mom †¦ Her last thought was, it’s just like going to sleep. And then, all at once, there was no rigidity, no discomfort. She felt light and calm and free-and she was floating up near the canopy of snowy boughs. How wonderful to be warm again! Really warm, as if she were filled with sunshine. Gillian laughed in pleasure. But where am I? Didn’t something just happen-something bad? On the ground below her there was a huddled figure. Gillian looked at it curiously. A small girl. Almost hidden by her long pale hair, the strands already covered in fine ice. The girl’s face was delicate. Pretty bone structure. But the skin was a terrible flat white-dead looking. The eyes were shut, the lashes frosty. Underneath, Gillian knew somehow, the eyes were deep violet. I get it. I remember. That’s me. The realization didn’t bother her. Gillian felt no connection to the huddled thing in the snow. She didn’t belong to it anymore. With a mental shrug, she turned away- -and she was in a tunnel. A huge dark place, with the feeling of being vastly complicated somehow. As if space here were folded or twisted-and maybe time, too. She was rushing through it, flying. Points of light were whizzing by-who could tell how far away in the darkness? Oh, God, Gillian thought. It’s the tunnel. This is happening. Right now. To me. I’m really dead. And going at warp speed. Weirder than being dead was being dead with a sense of humor. Contradictions†¦ this felt so real, more real than anything that had ever happened while she was alive. But at the same time, she had a strange sense of unreality. The edges of her self were blurred, as if somehow she were a part of the tunnel and the lights and the motion. She didn’t have a distinct body anymore. Could this all be happening in my head? With that, for the first time, she felt frightened. Things in her head†¦ could be scary. What if she ran into her nightmares, the very things that her subconscious knew terrified her most? That was when she realized she had no control over where she was going. And the tunnel had changed. There was a bright light up ahead. It wasn’t blue-white, as she would have expected from movies. It was pale gold, blurred as if she were seeing it through frosty glass, but still unbelievably brilliant. Isn’t it supposed to feel like love or something? What it felt like-what it made her feel-was awe. The light was so big, so powerful†¦ and so Just Plain Bright. It was like looking at the beginning of the universe. And she was rushing toward it so fast-it was filling her vision. She was in it. The light encompassed her, surrounded her. Seemed to shine through her. She was flying upward through radiance like a swimmer surfacing. Then the feeling of motion faded. The light was getting less bright-or maybe her eyes were adapting to it. Shapes solidified around her. She was in a meadow. The grass was amazing- not just green, but a sort of impossible ultra green. As if lit up from inside. The sky was the same kind of impossible blue. She was wearing a thin summer dress that billowed around her. The false color made it seem like a dream. Not to mention the white columns rising at intervals from the grass, supporting nothing. So this is what happens when you die. And now†¦ now, somebody should come meet me. Grandpa Trevor? I’d like to see him walking again. But no one came. The landscape was beautiful, peaceful, unearthly-and utterly deserted. Gillian felt anxiety twisting again inside her. Wait, what if this place wasn’t-the good place? After all, she hadn’t been particularly good in her life. What if this were actually hell? Or †¦ limbo? Like the place all those spirits who talked to mediums must be from. Creatures from heaven wouldn’t say such silly things. What if she were left here, alone, forever? As soon as she finished the thought, she wished she hadn’t. This seemed to be the kind of place where thoughts-or fears-could influence reality. Wasn’t that something rancid she smelled? And-weren’t those voices? Fragments of sentences that seemed to come from the air around her? The kind of nonsense said by people in dreams. â€Å"So white you can’t see†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"A time and a half†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"If only I could, girl†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Gillian turned around and around, trying to catch more. Trying to figure out whether or not she was really hearing the words. She had the sudden gut-trembling feeling that the beauty around her could easily come apart at the seams. Oh, God, let me think good thoughts. Please. I wish I hadn’t watched so many horror movies. I don’t want to see anything terrible-like the ground splitting and hands reaching for me. And I don’t want anyone to meet me-looking like something rotting with bones exposed-after all. She was in trouble. Even thinking about not thinking brought up pictures. And now fear was galloping inside her, and in her mind the bright meadow was turning into a nightmare of darkness and stink and pressure and gibbering mindless things. She was terrified that at any moment she might see a change- And then she did see one. Something unmistakable. A few feet away from her, above the grass, was a sort of mist of light. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. But now it seemed to get brighter as she watched, and to stretch from very far away. And there was a shape in it, coming toward her. How to cite Night World : Dark Angel Chapter 2, Essay examples

Edvard Munchs The Scream Essay Example For Students

Edvard Munchs The Scream Essay Edvard Munchs The Scream was painted in the end of the 19th century, and is possibly the first Expressionist painting. The Scream was very different from the art of the time, when many artists tried to depict objective reality. Munch was a tortured soul, and it certainly showed in this painting. Most of his family had died, and he was often plagued by sickness. The Scream was not a reflection of what was going on at the time, but rather, Munchs own inner hell. It visualizes a desperate aspect of fin-de-siÃÆ' ¨cle: anxiety and apocalypse. The percussiveness of the motif shows that it also speaks to our day and age Whaley 75 . When Edvard Much was asked what had inspired him to do this painting, he replied, One evening I was walking along a path, the city on one side of me and the fjord below. I felt tired and ill. I stopped and looked out across the fjord. The sun was setting, the clouds were turning blood red. I felt a scream passing through nature. It seemed to me that I could hear the scream. I painted this picture; painted the clouds as real blood. The colors screamed Preble 52. Some people, when they look at this painting, only see a person screaming. They see the pretty blend of colors, but dont actually realize what they are looking at. A lone emaciated figure halts on a bridge clutching his ears, his eyes and mouth open wide in a scream of anguish. Behind him a couple his two friends are walking together in the opposite direction. Barely discernible in the swirling motion of a red-blood sunset and deep blue-black fjord, are tiny boats at sea, and the suggestion of town buildings Preble 53. This painting was definately the first of its kind, the first Expressionist painting. People say that a picture is worth a thousand words. If thats the case, then The Scream is worth a million. It has a message that no other painting of its time had. Edvard Munch was pouring out his soul onto the canvas. What we see here, is a glimpse of what Munch was really like inside. When we really look at the painting, we understand what the artist was feeling at the time, because it captures nothing but human emotion. It creates a similar mood in us for a brief moment. The man screaming in the picture seems to feel like hes going insane, and that the world is getting to be too much for him. The two people walking away from him possibly mean that the man feels left out of everything, or that he doesnt fit in with the rest of the world. Maybe he needs help, and his friends werent there for him. The piece of artwork speaks better than actual words to describe it, which makes it something spectacular. Long after Munch died, the painting remains, and people are still amazed with it. Why? Because art is all about  expressing raw human emotion, and this painting captures it perfectly. People are scared of things they dont understand or cannot relate to. Everyone can relate to what this piece expresses, and that is why its so popular.