This is a modern-English version of How it feels to be colored me, originally written by Hurston, Zora Neale. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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How It Feels to Be Colored Me

Zora Neale Hurston

I am colored but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother’s side was not an Indian chief.

I am a person of color, but I can't offer any excuses other than the fact that I am the only Black person in the United States whose grandfather on my mother’s side was not an Indian chief.

I remember the very day that I became colored. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a colored town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando. The native whites rode dusty horses, the Northern tourists chugged down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped cane chewing when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The more venturesome would come out on the porch to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.

I remember the day I became aware of my identity. Until I turned thirteen, I lived in the small Black town of Eatonville, Florida. It was entirely a Black community. The only white people I encountered were just passing through on their way to or from Orlando. The local white folks rode dusty horses, while the Northern tourists rolled down the sandy village road in their cars. The town recognized the Southerners and never stopped chewing cane when they walked by. But the Northerners were a different story. They were watched carefully from behind curtains by the shy residents. The bolder ones would come out on the porch to see them pass by, enjoying the interaction just as much as the tourists enjoyed visiting the village.

The front porch might seem a daring place for the rest of the town, but it was a gallery seat for me. My favorite place was atop the gate-post. Proscenium box for a born first-nighter. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn’t mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I’d wave at them and when they returned my salute, I would say something like this: “Howdy-do-well-I-thank-you-where-you-go-in’?” Usually automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a queer exchange of compliments, I would probably “go a piece of the way” with them, as we say in farthest Florida. If one of my family happened to come to the front in time to see me, of course negotiations would be rudely broken off. But even so, it is clear that I was the first “welcome-to-our-state” Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce will please take notice.

The front porch might seem like a bold spot for the rest of the town, but for me, it was like having front-row seats. My favorite place was on top of the gate post, a perfect view for someone who loves a good opening night. I not only enjoyed the show, but I also didn’t mind the actors knowing I liked it. I usually chatted with them as they passed by. I’d wave, and when they returned my greeting, I’d say something like, “How’s it going? I’m good, thanks! Where are you headed?” Usually, a car or horse would stop for this, and after a funny exchange of compliments, I’d probably “go part of the way” with them, as we say in farther Florida. If one of my family members happened to come to the front in time to see me, of course, the conversation would be awkwardly interrupted. But even so, it’s clear that I was the first “welcome-to-our-state” Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce takes note.

During this period, white people differed from colored to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me “speak pieces” and sing and wanted to see me dance the parse-me-la, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop, only they didn’t know it. The colored people gave no dimes. They deplored any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the county—everybody’s Zora.

During this time, white people seemed different from Black people to me mainly because they passed through town but never actually lived there. They enjoyed listening to me recite poems and sing and wanted to see me dance the parse-me-la. They generously gave me their loose change for these performances, which felt odd to me since I wanted to do them so much that I would need to be paid to stop, even though they didn’t realize that. The Black community didn’t give any coins. They frowned upon any happiness I expressed, but I was still their Zora. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the county—everybody's Zora.

But changes came in the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, as Zora. When I disembarked from the river-boat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a sea change. I was not Zora of Orange County any more, I was now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown—warranted not to rub nor run.

But things changed in the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, as Zora. When I got off the riverboat in Jacksonville, she was gone. It felt like I had gone through a transformation. I was no longer Zora from Orange County; I was now just a little Black girl. I realized this in various ways. Both in my heart and in the mirror, I became a deep brown—guaranteed not to fade or wash out.

But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

But I’m not tragically colored. There’s no deep sadness trapped inside me, nor hiding behind my eyes. It doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t belong to the crying school of Blackness that believes nature has dealt them a raw deal and they can’t stop dwelling on it. Even in the chaotic mess that is my life, I’ve realized that the world favors the strong, no matter a little bit of skin color. No, I don’t cry over the world—I’m too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said “On the line!” The Reconstruction said “Get set!” and the generation before said “Go!” I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think—to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.

Someone is always by my side reminding me that I’m the granddaughter of slaves. It doesn’t make me feel depressed. Slavery was sixty years ago. The surgery was a success and the patient is doing well, thanks. The struggle that turned me into an American instead of a potential slave said, “On your mark!” Reconstruction said, “Get set!” and the generation before me said, “Go!” I’m off to a great start and I can’t stop to look back and cry. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and I didn’t get to choose. It’s an amazing journey and worth everything my ancestors endured for it. No one on earth ever had a better chance for greatness. The world is up for grabs and there’s nothing to lose. It’s thrilling to think—to know that for anything I do, I’ll either get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It’s quite exciting to be at the center of the national stage, with the audience unsure whether to laugh or cry.

The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.

The situation of my white neighbor is much tougher. No brown shadow sits next to me when I eat. No dark presence pushes its leg against mine in bed. The challenge of holding onto what you have is never as thrilling as the challenge of getting more.

I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.

I don’t always feel like a person of color. Even now, I sometimes tap into the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the great migration. I feel most aware of my race when I’m set against a stark white background.

For instance at Barnard. “Beside the waters of the Hudson” I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.

For example, at Barnard. “Next to the waters of the Hudson” I feel my identity. Among the thousand white people, I’m like a dark rock that gets washed over, but through it all, I stay true to myself. When I’m submerged in the water, I exist; and as the tide recedes, I’m revealed once more.

Sometimes it is the other way around. A white person is set down in our midst, but the contrast is just as sharp for me. For instance, when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any little nothing that we have in common and are seated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen—follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my assegai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow and my body is painted blue. My pulse is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something—give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his seat, smoking calmly.

Sometimes, it’s the opposite. A white person is placed among us, but the contrast feels just as strong for me. For example, when I’m sitting in the chilly basement of The New World Cabaret with a white person, my race becomes noticeable. We start chatting about whatever little things we have in common and take our seats among the jazz waiters. Suddenly, the jazz band kicks things off. They dive right into a song without delaying, cutting straight to the chase. The rhythm tightens my chest and strikes my heart with its pace and intoxicating melodies. The band gets wild, stands up on its hind legs, and tears through the sound barrier with raw energy, clawing at it until it breaks open to the jungle beyond. I follow those wild spirits—following them with joy. I dance furiously inside myself; I’m yelling and whooping; I raise my spear high, throwing it true to the target yeeeeooww! I’m in the jungle, living the jungle life. My face is painted red and yellow, and my body is painted blue. My heart is beating like a war drum. I feel the urge to kill something—bring pain, bring death to something, though I don’t know what. But then the song ends. The musicians wipe their lips and let their fingers rest. I slowly creep back to the surface we call civilization as the last note fades, finding my white friend sitting still in his seat, smoking calmly.

“Good music they have here,” he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips.

“Great music they have here,” he says, tapping his fingers on the table.

Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored.

Music. The big blobs of purple and red emotion haven’t affected him. He has only listened to what I felt. He is so far away, and I can barely see him across the ocean and the continent that are between us. He looks so pale with his whiteness, while I am so colorful.

At certain times I have no race, I am me. When I set my hat at a certain angle and saunter down Seventh Avenue, Harlem City, feeling as snooty as the lions in front of the Forty-Second Street Library, for instance. So far as my feelings are concerned, Peggy Hopkins Joyce on the Boule Mich with her gorgeous raiment, stately carriage, knees knocking together in a most aristocratic manner, has nothing on me. The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

At certain times, I have no race; I am just me. When I tilt my hat at a certain angle and stroll down Seventh Avenue, Harlem, feeling as haughty as the lions in front of the Forty-Second Street Library, for example. As far as my feelings go, Peggy Hopkins Joyce on the Boule Mich, with her stunning outfits and elegant posture, knees knocking together in a very aristocratic way, has nothing on me. The cosmic Zora comes out. I don’t belong to any race or time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

I have no separate feeling about being an American citizen and colored. I am merely a fragment of the Great Soul that surges within the boundaries. My country, right or wrong.

I don't have a distinct feeling about being an American citizen and being Black. I'm just a part of the larger spirit that flows within the borders. My country, whether it's right or wrong.

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it doesn't make me angry. It just surprises me. How can anyone deny themselves the enjoyment of my company? I don't get it.

But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held—so much like the jumble in the bags could they be emptied that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place—who knows?

But mostly, I feel like a brown bag filled with random stuff leaning against a wall. Next to it are other bags—white, red, and yellow. If you spill out the contents, you'll find a mix of small things, some priceless and some worthless. A real diamond, an empty spool, pieces of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door that has long since fallen apart, a rusty knife blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent from the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two that still have a little scent. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground in front of you is the mess it held—so similar to the mess in the other bags that if they were all emptied, everything could be tossed into one big pile and the bags refilled without changing their contents much at all. A bit of colored glass here and there wouldn’t make a difference. Maybe that’s how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place—who knows?

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