Genre of the Week: Let America be America Again, by Langston Hughes

the boy and his puppy


There has been the call by Americans and people living outside the country to return America to what it was like when President Obama was in power. Barack Obama was US president from 2009 until 2017 and was touted as one of the greatest presidents of all time.


When he took over after George W. Bush stepped down, he inherited a country in shambles because of the housing crash, combined with high unemployment and issues involving the environment and infrastructure. Over eight years, the president brought the country back to its glory days under Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan, Dwight Eisenhower and Franklin Roosevelt, just to name a few. Yet everytime the country seemed to be going in the right direction, the next president decided to bring it down and implement his own policies to his own liking. And as we are seeing with Donald Trump and his cabinet, people are falling for his American First interest, which has indeed become personal interest.

But is this the America we know? Is this cycle very typical of America?

While some scholars and writers have said no because of the bright spots that presidents, politicians, movement leaders and grassroots organizations have created for the interest of Americans and other regions around the globe alike, others, like Langston Hughes (1902-1967)  have claimed that this “Build-it-up-bring-it-down”, dog-eat-dog mentality is the fabric of the American society known to modernity. In this Genre of the Week, this poem looks at the ugly sides of America that we are seeing glaring before our eyes. The only difference is that this poem was written before his death in 1967.

Now why did he write this during the age of the 57 Chevrolet and the Baby Boomer generation? Have a look at the poem and feel free to coment on this. Enjoy! 🙂


Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free?  Not me?
Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!