Raisin in the Sun - Lorraine Hansberry [2]
James Baldwin has written that “Americans suffer from an ignorance that is not only colossal, but sacred.” He is referring to that apparently endless capacity we have nurtured through long years to deceive ourselves where race is concerned: the baggage of myth and preconception we carry with us that enables northerners, for example, to shield themselves from the extent and virulence of segregation in the North, so that each time an “incident” of violence so egregious that they cannot look past it occurs they are “shocked” anew, as if it had never happened before or as if the problem were largely passé. (In 1975, when the cast of Raisin, the musical, became involved in defense of a family whose home in Queens, New York City, had been fire-bombed, we learned of a 1972 City Commissioner of Human Rights Report, citing “eleven cases in the last eighteen months in which minority-owned homes had been set afire or vandalized, a church had been bombed, and a school bus had been attacked”—in New York City!)
But Baldwin is referring also to the human capacity, where a work of art is involved, to substitute, for what the writer has written, what in our hearts we wish to believe. As Hansberry put it in response to one reviewer’s enthusiastic if particularly misguided praise of her play: “… it did not disturb the writer in the least that there is no such implication in the entire three acts. He did not need it in the play; he had it in his head.”1
Such problems did not, needless to say, stop America from embracing A Raisin in the Sun. But it did interfere drastically, for a generation, with the way the play was interpreted and assessed—and, in hindsight, it made all the more regrettable the abridgment (though without it would we even know the play today?). In a remarkable rumination on Hansberry’s death, Ossie Davis (who succeeded Sidney Poitier in the role of Walter Lee) put it this way:
The play deserved all this—the playwright deserved all this, and more. Beyond question! But I have a feeling that for all she got, Lorraine Hansberry never got all she deserved in regard to A Raisin in the Sun—that she got success, but that in her success she was cheated, both as a writer and as a Negro.
One of the biggest selling points about Raisin—filling the grapevine, riding the word-of-mouth, laying the foundation for its wide, wide acceptance—was how much the Younger family was just like any other American family. Some people were ecstatic to find that “it didn’t really have to be about Negroes at all!” It was, rather, a walking, talking, living demonstration of our mythic conviction that, underneath, all of us Americans, color-ain’t-got-nothing-to-do-with-it, are pretty much alike. People are just people, whoever they are; and all they want is a chance to be like other people. This uncritical assumption, sentimentally held by the audience, powerfully fixed in the character of the powerful mother with whom everybody could identify, immediately and completely, made any other questions about the Youngers, and what living in the slums of Southside Chicago had done to them, not only irrelevant and impertinent, but also disloyal … because everybody who walked into the theater saw in Lena Younger … his own great American Mama. And that was decisive.2
In effect, as Davis went on to develop, white America “kidnapped” Mama, stole her away and used her fantasized image to avoid what was uniquely African American in the play. And what it was saying.
Thus, in many reviews (and later academic studies), the Younger family—maintained by two female domestics and a chauffeur, son of a laborer dead of a lifetime of hard labor—was transformed into an acceptably “middle class” family. The decision to move became a desire to “integrate” (rather than, as