From “Thank You Ma’am”
By Langston Hughes.
She was a large woman with a large purse that had everything in it but hammer and nails. It had a
long strap, and she carried it slung across her shoulder. It was about eleven o’clock at night, and she
was walking alone, when a boy ran up behind her and tried to snatch her purse. The strap broke
with the single tug the boy gave it from behind. But the boy’s weight and the weight of the purse
combined caused him to lose his balance so, instead of taking off full blast as he had hoped, the
boy fell on his back on the sidewalk, and his legs flew up. the large woman simply turned around
and kicked him right square in his blue-jeaned sitter. Then she reached down, picked the boy up by
his shirt front, and shook him until his teeth rattled.
After that the woman said, “Pick up my pocketbook, boy, and give it here.” She still held him. But
she bent down enough to permit him to stoop and pick up her purse. Then she said, “Now ain’t
you ashamed of yourself?”
Firmly gripped by his shirt front, the boy said, “Yes’m.”
The woman said, “What did you want to do it for?”
The boy said, “I didn’t aim to.”
She said, “You a lie!”
By that time two or three people passed, stopped, turned to look, and some stood watching.
“If I turn you loose, will you run?” asked the woman.
“Yes’m,” said the boy.
“Then I won’t turn you loose,” said the woman. She did not release him.
“I’m very sorry, lady, I’m sorry,” whispered the boy.
“Um-hum! And your face is dirty. I got a great mind to wash your face for you. Ain’t you got
nobody home to tell you to wash your face?”
“No’m,” said the boy.
“Then it will get washed this evening,” said the large woman starting up the street, dragging the
frightened boy behind her.
He looked as if he were fourteen or fifteen, frail and willow-wild, in tennis shoes and blue jeans.
The woman said, “You ought to be my son. I would teach you right from wrong. Least I can do
right now is to wash your face. Are you hungry?”
“No’m,” said the being dragged boy. “I just want you to turn me loose.”
“Was I bothering you when I turned that corner?” asked the woman.
“No’m.”
“But you put yourself in contact with me,” said the woman. “If you think that that contact is not
going to last awhile, you got another thought coming. When I get through with you, sir, you are
going to remember Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones.”
Sweat popped out on the boy’s face and he began to struggle. Mrs. Jones stopped, jerked him
around in front of her, put a half-nelson about his neck, and continued to drag him up the street.
When she got to her door, she dragged the boy inside, down a hall, and into a large kitchenette furnished room at the rear of the house. She switched on the light and left the door open. The boy
could hear other roomers laughing and talking in the large house. Some of their doors were open,
too, so he knew he and the woman were not alone. The woman still had him by the neck in the
middle of her room.
She said, “What is your name?”
“Roger,” answered the boy.
“Then, Roger, you go to that sink and wash your face,” said the woman, whereupon she turned
him loose—at last. Roger looked at the door—looked at the woman—looked at the door—and went
to the sink.
Let the water run until it gets warm,” she said. “Here’s a clean towel.”
“You gonna take me to jail?” asked the boy, bending over the sink.