Author: Paul Beatty
Category: Fiction
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African-Americans, like any other Americans, are an angry people with fragile egos. Humor is vengeance. Sometimes you laugh to keep from crying. Sometimes you laugh to keep from shooting. And if you aren't a white woman, don't think you've got getting-hit-upside-the-head amnesty; black folk are mad at everybody, so duck, because you're bound to be in somebody's line of fire.
SOJOURNER TRUTH
and ain't i a woman?
1851
"Well , chilern, what dar is so much racket dar must be somethin' out o' kilter. I tink dat 'twixt de niggers of de Souf and de womin at de Norf, all talkin' 'bout rights, de white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all dis here talkin' 'bout?
"Dat man ober dar say dat womin needs to be helped into carriages, and lifted ober ditches, and to hab de best place everywhar. Nobody eber helps me into carriages, or ober mud-puddles, or gibs me any best place!" And raising herself to her full height, and her voice to a pitch like rolling thunder, she asked, "And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! (and she bared her right arm to the shoulder, showing her tremendous muscular power). I have ploughed, and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man—when I could get it—and bear de lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen chilern, and seen 'em mos' all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?
"Den dey talks 'bout dis ting in de head; what dis dey call it?" ("Intellect," whispered some one near.) "Dat's it, honey. What's dat got to do wid womin's rights or nigger's rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yourn holds a quart, wouldn't ye be mean not to let me have my little half-measure full?" And she pointed her significant finger, and set a keen glance at the minister who had made the argument. The cheering was long and loud.
"Den dat little man in black dar, he say women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wan't a woman! What did your Christ come from?" Rolling thunder couldn't have stilled that crowd, as did those deep, wonderful tones, as she stood there with outstretched arms and eyes of fire. Raising her voice still louder, she repeated, "What did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothin' to do wid Him." Oh, what a rebuke that was to that little man.
Turning again to another objector, she took up the defense of Mother Eve. I can not follow her through it all. It was pointed, and witty, and solemn; eliciting at almost every sentence deafening applause; and she ended by asserting: "If de fust woman God ever made was strong enough to turn de world upside down all alone, dese women togedder (and she glanced her eye over the platform) ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again! And now dey is asking to do it, de men better let 'em." Long-continued cheering greeted this. " 'Bleeged to ye for hearin' on me, and now ole Sojourner han't got nothin' more to say."
W. E. B. DUBOIS
on being crazy
1923
It was one o'clock and I was hungry. I walked into a restaurant, seated myself and reached for the bill-of-fare. My table companion rose.
"Sir," said he, "do you wish to force your company on those who do not want you?"
No, said I, I wish to eat.
"Are you aware, Sir, that this is social equality?"
Nothing of the sort, Sir, it is hunger,—and I ate.
The day's work done, I sought the theatre. As I sank into my seat, the lady shrank and squirmed.
I beg pardon, I said.
"Do you enjoy being where you are not wanted?" she asked coldly.
Oh no, I said.
"Well you are not wanted here."
I was surprised. I fear you are mistaken, I said. I certainly want the music and I like to think the music wants me to listen to it.
"Usher," said the lady, "this is social equality."
No, madame, said the usher, it is the second movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.
After the theatre, I sought the hotel where I had sent my baggage. The clerk scowled.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Rest, I said.
"This is a white hotel," he said.
I looked around. Such a color scheme requires a great deal of cleaning, I said, but I don't know that I object.
"We object," said he.
Then why—, I began, but he interrupted.
"We don't keep 'niggers,'" he said, "we don't want social equality."
Neither do I. I replied gently, I want a bed.
I walked thoughtfully to the train. I'll take a sleeper through Texas. I'm a bit dissatisfied with this town.
"Can't sell you one."
I only want to hire it, said I, for a couple of nights.
"Can't sell you a sleeper in Texas," he maintained. "They consider that social equality."
I consider it barbarism, I said, and I think I'll walk.
Walking, I met a wayfarer who immediately walked to the other side of the road where it was muddy. I asked his reasons.
"'Niggers' is dirty," he said.
So is mud, said I. Moreover I added, I am not as dirty as you—at least, not yet.
"But you're a 'nigger,' ain't you?" he asked.
My grandfather was so-called.
"Well then!" he answered triumphantly.
Do you live in the South? I persisted, pleasantly.
"Sure," he growled, "and starve there."
I should think you and the Negroes might get together and vote out starvation.
"We don't let them vote."
We? Why not? I said in surprise.
" 'Niggers' is too ignorant to vote."
But, I said, I am not so ignorant as you.
"But you're a 'nigger.' "
Yes, I'm certainly what you mean by that.
"Well then!" he returned, with that curiously inconsequential note of triumph. "Moreover," he said, "I don't want my sister to marry a nigger."
I had not seen his sister, so I merely murmured, let her say, no.
"By God you shan't marry her, even if she said yes."
But,—but I don't want to marry her, I answered a little perturbed at the personal turn.
"Why not!" he yelled, angrier than ever.
Because I'm already married and I rather like my wife.
"Is she a 'nigger'?" he asked suspiciously.
ZORA NEALE HURSTON
'possum or pig?
1926
Before freedom there was a house slave very much in the confidence of the Master. But young pigs began to disappear, and for good reasons the faithful house slave fell under suspicion.
One night, after his duties at the "big house" were over, he was sitting before his cabin fire. From a pot was seeping the odor of young pig. There was a knock at the door.
"Who dat?" he asked cautiously.
"It's me, John," came the Master's voice.
"Lawd, now, Massa, whut you want way down heah?"
"I'm cold, John. I want to come in."
"Now, Massa, ah jes' lef' a lovely hot fire at de big house. You aughter gwan up dere an' git warm."
"I want to come in, John."
"Massa, whut you wanta come in po' niggah's house an' you got dat fine big house up yander?"
"John, if you don't open this door, I'll have you whipped tomorrow."
John went to the door grumbling about rich white folks hanging around po' niggahs' cabins.
The white man sat down before the blazing fire. The pot boiled and breathed of delicious things within.
After a while he said, "I'm hungry, John. What have you got in that pot?"
"Lawd, now, Massa, whut you wanter eat mah po' vittles fuh and Mistis got roas' chicken an' ham an' chine-bone pie an' everything up to de house? White folks got de funniest ways."
"What's in that pot, John?"
"It's one lil' measly possum, Massa, ah'm bilin' tuh keep fuh a cold snack."
Well, I said again, her grandmother—was called that.
"Well then!" he shouted in t
hat oddly illogical way.
I gave up. Go on, I said, either you are crazy or I am.
"We both are," he said as he trotted along in the mud.
CHESTER HIMES
let me at the enemy an' george brown
1944
It warn't that I minded the twenty-five bucks so much. Twenty-five A bucks ain't gonna break a man. An every cat looks to get hooked some time or other, even a hustler as slick as me. 'Fore it was done I wished I'da just give this icky twenty-five bucks and forgot 'bout it.
But even at that if n it hadn't been for him puttin' all them fancy ideas in my queen's head he never woulda got me. That jive he was pullin' was sad. But my queen, she like a lot of those queens 'round L.A. nowdays—done gone money mad.
We was at the Creole Breakfast Club knockm' ourselves out when this icky George Brown butts in. Ain't nobody called him an' I hardly knew the man, just seen him four or five times 'round the pool room where I worked. He takes a seat at our table an' grabs my glass of licker an' asts, "Is you mad at anybody?"
I was gettin' mad but I didn't tell him. "Me?" I laughed, tryna be a good fellow. "Only at the man what put me in 1-A."
The bugler caught a spot for a rift in Don't Cry Baby an' blew off my ear. All down the line the cats latched on, shoulders rocked, heads bobbed, the joint jumped. My queen 'gan bouncin' out her twelve dollar dress.
George waited for the bugler to blow outa breath then he said, "Thass what I mean. You ain't mad at nobody yet you gotta go to war. Thass 'cause you's a fool."
I didn't mind the man drinkin' my licker so much, nor even callin' me a fool. But when I seen my queen, Beulah, give him the eye an' then get prissy as a sissy, I figured I better get him gone. 'Cause this George Brown was strictly an icky, drape-shaped in a fine brown zoot with a pancho conk slicker'n mine. So I said, "State you plan, Charlie Chan—then scram!"
"Don't rush me, man, don't rush me," he said. "You needs me, I don't need you. If'n you was to die tomorrow wouldn't mean nothing to me. Pour me some mo' of that licker."
"I want some of it."
"Naw, Massa, you don't want none uh dat dirty lil' possum."
"Yes I do, and if you don't give me some, I'll have you whipped."
John slowly arose and got a plate, knife and fork and opened the pot.
"Well," he said resignedly before dipping in. "Ah put dis heah critter in heah a possum,—if it comes out a pig, 'tain't mah fault."
Stepped on a tin, mah story ends.
He come on so fast I done took out my half pint bottle an poured him a shot under the table 'fore I knew what I was doin'. Then I got mad. "This ain't no river, man," I said.
"Thass what I mean," he said. "Here you is strainin' yo'self to keep up a front. You works in the pool room all day an' you makes 'bout ten bucks. Then comes night an' you takes out yo' queen. You pays two bucks to get in this joint, fo' bucks for a half pint grog, two bucks for a coke setup. If'n you get anything to eat you got to fight the man 'bout the bill. For ten bucks a day you drinkin' yo'self in the grave on cheap licker."
"You calls fo' bucks a half pint cheap," I snarled.
He kept drivin' like he didn't hear me. "Then what happen? They put you in 1-A and say you gotta fight. You don't wanna fight 'cause you ain't mad at nobody—not even at the man what charge you fo' bucks for a half pint grog. Ain't got sense 'nough to be mad. So what does you do?"
"What does I do?" I just looked at that icky.
"Well, what does you do?" That's my queen talkin'." She's a strictly fine queen, fine as wine. Slender, tender, and tall. But she ain't got brain the first.
What does I do? "I does what everybody else do," I gritted. "I gets ready an' go."
"Thass what I mean," George Brown said. "Thass 'cause you's a fool. I know guys makin' twice as much as you is, workin' half as hard. And does they have to fight? They is deferred 'cause what they doin' means more to Uncle Sam than them in there fightin'."
"Well, tell High C 'bout it." That's my queen again. "I sho don't want him to go to no war. An' he may's well be makin' all that money. Lil enough he's makin' in that pool room."
That's a queen for you; just last week she was talkin' 'bout how rich us wTas gettin'.
"Money! Make so much money he can't spend it," he said to her. They done left me outen it altogether; I'se just the man what gonna make the money. "W'y in less than no time at all this cat can come back and drape yo' fine shape in silver foxes an' buy you a Packard Clipper to drive up and down the avenue. All he gotta do is go up to Bakersfield and pick a lil cotton—"
I jumped up. "What's your story, morning glory? Me pickin' cotton. I ain't never seen no cotton, don't know what cotton is—"
"All he got to do," he went on talkin' to my queen, "to knock down his double sawbuck is pick a coupla thousand pounds. After that the day is his own."
"Why come he got to stop in the middle of the day," my queen had to ast. "Who do he think he is, Rockefeller or somebody?"
"Thass what I been tryna tell you," George said. "He don't. He keep right on an' pick 'nother ton. Make forty flags. An' does you have to worry 'bout him goin' to the army? You can go to bed ev'y night and dream 'bout them silver foxes."
I had to get them people straight an' get 'em straightened fast. "Yo' mouth may drool and yo' gums may snap—" but my queen cut me off.
"Listen to the man," she shouts. "Don't you want me to have no silver foxes?"
"Ain't like what he thinks," he said. "Litta hustlers up there. Cats say they's goin' East—slip up there an' make them layers; show up in a Clipper. Cats here all wonder where they got their scratch." He turned to me. "I bet you bin wonderin'—"
"Not me!" I said. "All I'se wonderin' is how come you pick on me. I ain't the man. 'Fore I pick anybody's cotton I'll—"
So there I was the next mornin' waitin' for the bus to take me up to Bakersfield. Done give this icky twenty-five bucks to get me the job and all I got is a slip of paper with his name on it I'm supposed to give to the man when I get there. My queen done took what scratch I had left sayin' I wouldn't need nothin' 'cause George said everything I could want would be given to me for nothin'. All I had was the four bits she let me keep.
But by then it had me. Done gone money mad as her. At first I was thinkin' in the C's; knock seven or eight hundred then jump down. But by the time I got to Bakersfield I was way up in the G's; I seen myself with pockets full of thousand dollar bills.
After knockin' the natives cold in my forty-inch frock and my cream colored drapes I looked 'round for the cat George said gonna meet me. Here come a big Uncle Tomish lookin' cat in starched overalls astin' me is I High C.
"What you wanna know for, is you the police?" I came back at him.
"Dey calls me Poke Chops," he said. "I'se de cook at de plantation. I come tuh pick y'all up."
"Well bless my soul if you ain't Mr Cotton Boll," I chirped, givin' him the paper George gimme. Then I ast him, "Is that you parked across the street?"
He looked at the green Lincoln Zephyr then he looked back at me. "Dass me on dis side," he mumbled, pointin' at a battered Model A truck.
Well now that made me mad, them sendin' that loppy for me. But I was so high ofF'n them dreams I let it pass. I could take my twenty G's and buy me a tank to ride in if'n I wanted; warn't like I just had to ride in that loppy. So I climb in beside old Chops an' he drive off.
After we'd gone aways he come astin' me, " 'Bout how much ken y'all pick, shawty?"
"Don't worry 'bout me, Chops," I told him. "I'll knock out my coupla thousand all ricky. Then if'n I ain't too tired I'll knock out a deuce more."
"Coupla thousan'." He turned in his seat an'looked at me. "Dass uh tun."
"Well now take yo' diploma," I said.
"Wun't tek us long tuh whup de enemy at dat rate," was all he said.
'Bout an hour later we pulled in at a shanty. I got out and went inside. On both sides there was rows of bunks an' in the middle a big long wooden table with benches. Looked lik
e a prison camp where I did six months. I was mad now sure 'nough. "I ain't gonna stay in this dump," I snarled.
"Whatcha gunna do den?" he wanted to know. "Build yo'self a house?"
I'do cut out right then an' there but the bucks had me. I'm a hipcat from way back an' I don't get so mad I don't know how I'm gettin' down. If n them other hustlers could put up with it, so could I. So when old Chops gimme a bunk down in the corner I didn't want him to know I was mad. I flipped my last half buck at him. "Take good care of me, Chops," I said.
He didn't bat an eye; he caught the half an' stashed it. "Yassuh," he said.
At sundown the pickers came in, threw their sacks on this bunks an' made for the table. If there was any hustlers there, they musta been some mighty hard hustlers 'cause them was some rugged cats. Them cats talked loud as Count Basie's brass an' walked hard as Old Man Mose. By the time I got to the table wasn't nothin' left but one lone pork chop.
Then when us got through eatin' here come Chops from the kitchen. "Folkses, I wants y'all tuh meet High C. High C is a pool shark. He pick uh tun uh cotton ev'y day. Den if n he ain't tahd he pick unuther'n."
I got up and give 'em the old prize fighter shake.
But them cats just froze. I never seen nothin' like it; ain't nobody moved. Then they turned and looked at me. After that they got up from the table an' went 'bout their business. Ain't nobody said nothin', not one word.
That night Biyo Dad an' Uncle Toliver come down to my bunk.
"What'd y'all evah pick cotton befo', son?" Biyo Dad ast me.
"Don't start me to lyin' you'll have me cryin'," I said. "I done picked all over. 'Bama to Maine."