Langston Hughes felt that African-Americans should be able to live in freedom in the 20th Century. He saw African-Americans as a vibrant race, full of live, compassion, and love. He didn't approve of complacent people. Because Hughes was at the center of the Harlem Renaissance, he naturally felt that African-Americans should speak up and demand what they want. He felt that African-Americans should be proud of their heritage -- they shouldn't try to be something that they are not. They shouldn't try to fit into the white culture. More specifically, they should embrace their heritage and love themselves as described in the following:
And so the word white comes to be unconsciously a symbol of all the virtues. It holds for the children beauty, morality, and money. The whisper of "I want to be white" runs silently through their minds. This young poet's home is, I believe, a fairly typical home of the colored middle class. One sees immediately how difficult it would be for an artist born in such a home to interest himself in interpreting the beauty of his own people. He is never taught to see that beauty. He is taught rather not to see it, or if he does, to be ashamed of it when it is not according to Caucasian patterns (Hughes).
Hughes didn't approve of middle and upper class African-Americans who appeared to have lost their "identities." He mocked African-Americans who tried to detach themselves from their racial heritage. He denounced those who had been brainwashed into believing that the white race was clean and virtuous and the African-American race was at the opposite end of the spectrum.
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Hughes tolerated being under a microscope. However, he saw the experience for what it was. Hughes praised the common people. He praised the people who liked to shout out in ecstasy. He praised the individuals who weren't afraid to live. In the following passage he describes the common people
But then there are the low-down folks, the so-called common element, and they are the majority -- may the Lord be praised! The people who have their nip of gin on Saturday nights and are not too important to themselves or the community, or too well fed, or too learned to watch the lazy world go round. They live on Seventh Street in Washington or State Street in Chicago and they do not particularly care whether they are like white folks or anybody else. Their joy runs, bang! into ecstasy. Their religion soars to a shout. Work maybe a little today; rest a little tomorrow. Play awhile. Sing awhile. O, let's dance! These common people are not afraid of spirituals, as for a long time their more intellectual brethren were, and jazz is their child. They furnish a wealth of colorful, distinctive material for any artist because they still hold their own individuality in the face of American standardization. And perhaps these common people will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself. Whereas the better-class Negro would tell the artist what to do, the people at least let him alone when he does appear. And they are not ashamed of him -- if they know he exists at all. And they accept what beauty is their…
