THE FIGHT

by Richard Wright
U N D E R S T A N D I N G P L O T
G
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D o e s t h e n a r r a t o r s u c c e e d o r f a i l
w h e n f a c i n g h i s c h a l l e n g e ?
Anticipation Guide
1. Violence is always wrong.
2. What is right and what is wrong might change, depending on circumstances.
3. Sometimes people have no choice except to do the wrong thing.
4. Fighting is an acceptable way to solve problems.
5. Sometimes other people are to blame for our actions.
Plot
The structure of a story. The sequence in
which the author arranges events in a
story. The structure often includes the
rising action, the climax, the falling action,
and resolution. The plot may have a
protagonist who is opposed by an
antagonist, creating what is called
conict.
Conict
The Problem
A struggle or clash between opposing
characters, forces, or emotions.
Exposition/Rising Action
Exposition: A narrative device, often
used at the beginning of a work, that
provides necessary background
information about the characters and their
circumstances.
Rising Action: The part of a story where
the plot becomes increasingly
complicated. Rising action leads up to the
climax, or turning point.
Climax
The turning point in a narrative; the
moment when the conict is at its most
intense.
Falling Action/Resolution
Falling Action: The part of the plot
where the tension decreases and the
plots conicts and complications are
resolved.
Resolution: The portion of a story
following the climax in which the conict
is resolved.
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E x p o s i t i o n
This was my test. If I failed now, I
would have failed at school, for the first
trial came not in books but in how one's
fellows took one, what value they
placed upon one's willingness to fight.
"Take back what you said," the boy
challenged me.
"Make me," I said.
The crowd howled, sensing a fight.
The boy hesitated, weighing his
chances of beating me.
"You ain't gonna take what that new
boy said, is you?"someone taunted the
boy.
The boy came close. I stood my
ground. Our faces were four inches
apart.
"You think I'm scared of you, don't
you?" he asked.
"I told you what I think," I said.
Somebody, eager and afraid that we
would not fight, pushed the boy, and be
bumped into me. I shoved him away
violently.
"Dont push me!" the boy said.
"Then keep off me!" I said.
He was pushed again, and I struck
out with my right and caught him in the
mouth. The crowd yelled, milled,
surging so close that I could barely lift
my arm to land a blow. When either of
us tried to strike the other, we would be
thrown off balance by the screaming
(3)
boys. Every blow landed elicited
shouts of delight. Knowing that if I did
not win or make a good showing, I
would have to fight a new boy each
day, I fought tigerishly, trying to leave a
scar, seeking to draw blood as proof
that I was not a coward, that I could
take care of myself. The bell rang, and
the crowd pulled us apart. The fight
seemed a draw.
"I ain't through with you!" the boy
shouted.
In the classroom the boys asked me
questions about myself; I was someone
worth knowing. When the bell rang for
school to be dismissed, I was set to
fight again, but the boy was not in
sight.
On my way home I found a cheap
ring in the streets, and at once I knew
what I was going to do with it. The
ring had a red stone held by tiny prongs
which I loosened, took the stone out,
leaving the sharp tiny prongs jutting up.
I slid the ring on to my finger and
shadowboxed. Now let a bully come,
and I would show him how to fight; I
would leave a crimson streak on his
face with every blow.
But I never had to use the ring.
After I had exhibited my new weapon
at school, a description of it spread
among the boys. I challenged my
(4)
enemy to another fight, but he would
not respond. Fighting was now not
necessary. I had been accepted.
Questions To Consider:
1. Do you think that the
narrator in the story liked
ghting?
2. Was it right for the narrator
to ght, or did he have a
better alternative?
3. Do you think that this story
is realistic?
After breakfast, Uncle Clark took
me to school, introduced me to the
principal. The first half of the school
day passed without incident. I sat
looking at the strange reading book,
following the lessons. The subjects
seemed simple, and I felt that I could
keep up. My anxiety was still in me;
I was wondering how I would get on
with the boys. Each new school
meant a new area of life to be
conquered. Were the boys tough?
How hard did they fight? I took it for
granted that they fought.
At noon recess I went into the
school grounds, and a group of boys
sauntered up to me, looked at me
from my head to my feet, whispering
among themselves. I leaned against a
wall, trying to conceal my
uneasiness.
"Where you from?" a boy asked
abruptly.
"Jackson," I answered.
(1)
"How come they make you people
so ugly in Jackson?" he
demanded.
There was loud laughter.
"You're not any too good-looking
yourself," I countered
instantly.
"Oh!"
"Aw!"
"You hear what he told 'im?"
"You think you're smart, don't
you?" the boy asked, sneering.
"Listen, I aint picking a fight," I
said. "But if you want to fight, I'll
fight."
"Hunh, hard guy, aint you?"
"As hard as you."
"Do you know who you can tell
that to?" he asked me.
"And you know who you can tell
it back to?" I asked.
"Are you talking about my
mama?" he asked, edging forward.
"If you want it that way," I said.
(2)

A d a m K a z e r y