Uncle Tom's Children

Uncle Tom's Children

by Richard Wright


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"A formidable and lasting contribution to American literature." —Chicago Tribune

"A great American writer." — New York Times Book Review

Set in the American Deep South, each of the powerful novellas collected here concerns an aspect of the lives of black people in the post-slavery era, exploring their resistance to white racism and oppression. Originally published in 1938, Uncle Tom's Children was the first book from Richard Wright, who would continue on to worldwide fame as the author of numerous works, most notably the acclaimed novel Native Son and his autobiography, Black Boy.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780061450204
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date: 04/29/2008
Series: P.S. Series
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 336
Sales rank: 152,092
Product dimensions: 5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.76(d)

About the Author

Richard Wright won international renown for his powerful and visceral depiction of the black experience. He stands today alongside such African-American luminaries as Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, and Toni Morrison, and two of his novels, Native Son and Black Boy, are required reading in high schools and colleges across the nation. He died in 1960.

Date of Birth:

September 4, 1908

Date of Death:

November 28, 1960

Place of Birth:

Near Natchez, Mississippi

Place of Death:

Paris, France


Smith-Robertson Junior High in Jackson, Mississippi (1925)

Read an Excerpt

Uncle Tom's ChildrenThe Ethics of Living Jim CrowAn Autobiographical Sketch

My first lesson in how to live as a Negro came when I was quite small. We were living in Arkansas. Our house stood behind the railroad tracks. Its skimpy yard was paved with black cinders. Nothing green ever grew in that yard. The only touch of green we could see was far away, beyond the tracks, over where the white folks lived. But cinders were good enough for me and I never missed the green growing things. And, anyhow, cinders were fine weapons. You could always have a nice hot war with huge black cinders. AH you had to do was crouch behind the brick pillars of a house with your hands full of gritty ammunition. And the first woolly black head you saw pop out from behind another row of pillars was your target. You triedyour very best to knock it off. It was great fun.

I never fully realized the appalling disadvantages of a cinder environment till one day the gang to which I belonged found itself engaged in a war with the white boys who lived beyond the tracks. As usual we laid down our cinder barrage, thinking that this would wipe the white boys out. But they replied with a steady bombardment of broken bottles. We doubled our cinder barrage, but they hid behind trees, hedges, and the sloping embankments of their lawns. Having no such fortifications, we retreated to the brick pillars of our homes. During the retreat a broken milk bottle caught me behind the ear, opening a deep gash which bled profusely. The sight of blood pouring over my face completely demoralized our ranks. My fellow-combatants left me standing paralyzed in the center of the yard, and scurried for their homes. Akind neighbor saw me and rushed me to a doctor, who took three stitches in my neck.

I sat brooding on my front steps, nursing my wound and waiting for my mother to come from work. I felt that a grave injustice had been done me. It was all right to throw cinders. The greatest harm a cinder could do was leave a bruise. But broken bottles were dangerous; they left you cut, bleeding, and helpless.

When night fell, my mother came from the white folks' kitchen. I raced down the street to meet her. I could just feel in my bones that she would understand. I knew she would tell me exactly what to do next time. I grabbed her hand and babbled out the whole story. She examined my wound, then slapped me.

"How come yuh didn't hide?" she asked me. "How come yuh awways fightin?"

I was outraged, and bawled. Between sobs I told her that I didn't, have any trees or hedges to hide behind. There wasn't a thing I could have used as a trench. And you couldn't throw very far when you were hiding behind the brick pillars of a house. She grabbed a barrel stave, dragged me home, stripped me naked, and beat me till I had a fever of one hundred and two. She would smack my rump with the stave, and, while the skin was still smarting, impart to me gems of Jim Crow wisdom. I was never to throw cinders any more. I was never to fight any more wars. I was -never, never, under any conditions, to fight white folks again. And they were absolutely right in clouting me with the broken milk bottle. Didn't I know she was working hard every day in the hot kitchens of the white folks to make money to take care of me? When was I ever going to learn to be a good boy? She couldn't be bothered with my fights. She finished by telling me that I ought to be thankful to God as long as I lived that they didn't kill me.

All that night I was delirious and could not sleep. Each time I dosed my eyes I saw monstrous white faces suspended from the ceiling, leering at me.

From that time on, the charm of my cinder yard was gone. The green trees, the trimmed hedges, the cropped lawns grew very meaningful became a symbol. Even today when I dunk of white folks, the hard, sharp outlines of white houses surrounded by trees, lawns, and hedges are present somewhere in the background of my mind. Through the years they grew into an overreaching symbol of fear.

It was a long time before I came in close contact with white folks again. We moved from Arkansas to Mississippi. Here we had the good fortune not to live behind the railroad tracks, or close to white neighborhoods. We lived in the very heart of the local Black Belt. There were black churches and, black preachers; there were black schools and black teachers; black groceries and black clerks. In fact, everything was so solidly black that for a long time I did not even think of white folks, save in remote and vague terms. But this could not last forever. As one grows older one eats more. One's clothing costs more. When I finished grammar school I had to go to work. My mother could no longer feed and clothe me on her cooking job.

There is but one place where a black boy who knows no trade can get a job, and that's where the houses and faces are white, where the trees, lawns, and hedges are green. My first job was with an optical company in Jackson, Mississippi. The morning I applied I stood straight and neat before die boss, answering all his questions with sharp yessirs and nosirs. I was very careful to pronounce my sirs distinctly, in order that he might know that I was polite, that I knew where I was, and that I knew he was a white nun. I wanted that job badly.

Uncle Tom's Children. Copyright (c) by Richard Wright . Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

What People are Saying About This

Ralph Ellison

"Taking for its characters Negro men and women at bay in the oppressive Southern environment, the book represents one of the few instances in which an American Negro writer has successfully delineated the universals embodied in Negro experience."

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Uncle Tom's Children 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book gives a wonderful description of life as an African American living in the south in the 30s and 40s. It will make one appreciate the times in which we live. This book celebrates the strength and power of African Americans.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have always been a great fan of Richard Wright. Several years after completing Native Son, The Outsider, and Black Boy, I stumbled on Uncle Tom's Children. What a wonderful find!! I couldn't have been more pleased if I'd stumbled on lost treasure. This compilation of short stories is excellent. Concise, suspenseful, and real. I encourage everyone to read this book.
19055581 More than 1 year ago
by Elena E. Smith This year I have been challenged to examine American black narratives. I began with Uncle Tom's Cabin and was surprised to discover that it was actually a religious story about a pious black slave who did exactly what the Bible commanded of him. Nevertheless, a liberal-minded colleague of mine insisted that a white person (a women, no less!) could not adequately speak the mind of a black person and /or accurately represent the black experience in America. He told me to read Uncle Tom's Children. From a literary point of view, this book is beautifully written. I don't think I will ever forget the image of the desperate man who rows against raging floodwaters to seek help for his ailing wife only to be told - upon reaching his destination - that he must be a liar because it was impossible to row against the tide that way. I was also very impressed that this writer's stories seemed limited to a very specific locale and I imagined that he may not have been well-traveled. I am always impressed by someone who can make the most of what they are given in life, elevating the nuances that ordinary people ignore worthy of description. However, my disappointment with this collection of short stories is that in every instance the writer argues that violence and criminal activities are the only possible response to the unfortunate circumstances of his anti-heroes. Ironically, these very characters live in communities where others do not make the same choices. However, from a historical perspective, I would say that this book is a must-read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
One of the greatest writers of the 20th century.
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