Author: Paul Beatty
Category: Fiction
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But there was little reaching for check books in his office nowadays. He had been as hard hit as the other Negroes. Why should anybody in the Negro race want to go back to Africa at a cost of five hundred dollars for passage when they could stay in America and get white for fifty dollars? Mr. Licorice saw the point but instead of scuttling back to Demerara from whence he had come to save his race from oppression, he had hung on in the hope that the activities of Black-No-More, Incorporated, would be stopped. In the meantime, he had continued to attempt to save the Negroes by vigorously attacking all of the other Negro organizations and at the same time preaching racial solidarity and cooperation in his weekly newspaper, "The African Abroad," which was printed by white folks and had until a year ago been full of skin-whitening and hair-straightening advertisements.
"How is our treasury?" he yelled back through the dingy suite of offices to his bookkeeper, a pretty mulatto.
"What treasury?" she asked in mock surprise.
"Why, I thought we had seventy-five dollars," he blurted.
"We did, but the Sheriff got most of it yesterday or we wouldn't be in here today."
"Huumn! Well, that's bad. And tomorrow's pay day, isn't it?"
"Why bring that up?" she sneered. "I'd forgotten all about it."
"Haven't we got enough for me to get to Atlanta?" Licorice inquired, anxiously.
"There is if you're gonna hitch-hike."
"Well, of course, I couldn't do that," he smiled deprecatingly.
"I should say not," she retorted surveying his 250-pound, five-feet-six-inches of black blubber.
"Call Western Union," he commanded.
"What with?"
"Over the telephone, of course, Miss Hall," he explained.
"If you can get anything over that telephone you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din."
"Has the service been discontinued, young lady?"
"Try and get a number," she chirped. He gazed ruefully at the telephone.
"Is there anything we can sell?" asked the bewildered Licorice.
"Yeah, if you can get the Sheriff to take off his attachments."
"That's right, I had forgotten."
"You would."
"Please be more respectful, Miss Hall," he snapped. "Somebody might overhear you and tell my wife."
"Which one?" she mocked.
"Shut up," he blurted, touched in a tender spot, "and try to figure out some way for us to get hold of some money."
"You must think I'm Einstein," she said, coming up and perching herself on the edge of his desk.
"Well, if we don't get some operating expenses I won't be able to obtain money to pay your salary," he warned.
"The old songs are the best songs," she wise-cracked.
"Oh, come now, Violet," he remonstrated, pawing her buttock, "let's be serious."
"After all these years!" she declared, switching away.
In desperation, he eased his bulk out of the creaking swivel chair, reached for his hat and overcoat and shuffled out of the office. He walked to the curb to hail a taxicab but reconsidered when he recalled that a worn half-dollar was the extent of his funds. Sighing heavily, he trudged the two blocks to the telegraph office and sent a long day letter to Henry Givens, Imperial Grand Wizard of the Knights of Nordica—collect.
"Well, have you figured it out?" asked Violet when he barged into his office again.
"Yes, I just sent a wire to Givens," he replied.
"But he's a nigger-hater, isn't he?" was her surprised comment.
"You want your salary, don't you?" he inquired archly.
"I have for the past month."
"Well, then, don't ask foolish questions," he snapped.
JAMES WELDON JOHNSON
brer rabbit, you's de cutes' of 'em a
1935
Once der was a meetin' in de wilderness,
All de critters of creation dey was dar;
Brer Rabbit, Brer Possum, Brer Wolf, Brer Fox,
King Lion, Mister Terrapin, Mister B'ar.
De question fu' discussion was, "Who is de bigges' man?"
Dey 'pinted ole Jedge Owl to decide;
He polished up his spectacles an' put 'em on his nose,
An' to the question slowly he replied:
"Brer Wolf am mighty cunnin',
Brer Fox am mighty sly,
Brer Terrapin and Possum—kinder small;
Brer Lion's mighty vicious,
Brer B'ar he's sorter 'spicious,
Brer Rabbit, you's de cutes' of 'em all."
Dis caused a great confusion 'mongst de animals,
Ev'y critter claimed dat he had won de prize;
Dey 'sputed an' dey arg'ed, dey growled an' dey roared,
Den putty soon de dus' begin to rise.
Brer Rabbit he jes' stood aside an' watched 'em w'ile dey fight,
Brer Lion he mos' tore Brer B'ar in two;
W'en dey was all so tiah'd dat dey couldn't catch der bref
Brer Rabbit he jes' grabbed de prize an' flew.
Brer Wolf am mighty cunnin',
Brer Fox am mighty sly,
Brer Terrapin an' Possum—kinder small;
Brer Lion's mighty vicious,
Brer B'ar he's sorter 'spicious,
Brer Rabbit, you's de cutes' of 'em all.
STERLING BROWN
slim in atlanta
1932
Down in Atlanta,
De whitefolks got laws
For to keep all de niggers
From laughin' outdoors.
Hope to Gawd I may die
If I ain't speakin' truth
Make de niggers do deir laughin
In a telefoam booth.
Slim Greer hit de town
An' de rebs got him told,—
"Dontcha laugh on de street,
If you want to die old."
Den dey showed him de booth,
An' a hundred shines
In front of it, waitin'
In double lines.
Slim thought his sides
Would bust in two,
Yelled, "Lookout, everybody,
I'm coming through!"
Pulled de other man out,
An' bust in de box,
An' laughed four hours
By de Georgia clocks.
Den he peeked through de door,
An' what did he see?
Three hundred niggers there
In misery.—
Some holdin' deir sides,
Some holdin' deir jaws,
To keep from breakin'
De Georgia laws.
An' Slim gave a holler,
An' started again;
An' from three hundred throats
Come a moan of pain.
An' every time Slim
Saw what was outside,
Got to whoopin' again
Till he nearly died.
An' while de poor critters
Was waitin' deir chance,
Slim laughed till dey sent
Fo' de ambulance.
De state paid de railroad
To take him away;
Den, things was as usural
In Atlanta, Gee A.
slim lands a job?
1932
Poppa Greer happened
Down Arkansaw way,
An' ast for a job
At Big Pete's Cafe.
Big Pete was a six foot
Hard-boiled man
Wid a forty-four dungeon
In his han'.
"Nigger, kin you wait?"
Is what Pete ast;
Slim says, "Cap'n
I'm jes' too fast."
Pete says, "Dat's what
I wants to hire;
I got a slow nigger
I'm gonna fire—
Don't 'low no slow nigger
Stay roun' hyeah,
I plugs 'em wid my dungeon!"
An' Slim says "Yeah?"
A noise rung out
I
n rush a man
Wid a tray on his head
An' one on each han'
Wid de silver in his mouf
An' de soup plates in his vest
Pullin' a red wagon
Wid all de rest. . . .
De man's said, "Dere's
Dat slow coon now
Dat wuthless lazy waiter!"
An' Slim says, "How?"
An' Slim threw his gears in
Put it in high,
An' kissed his hand to Arkansaw,
Sweetheart . . . good-bye!
crispus attucks mckoy
1965
I sing of a hero,
Unsung, unrecorded,
Known by the name
Of Crispus Attucks McKoy,
Born, bred in Boston,
Stepson of Garvey,
Cousin of Trotter,
Godson of Du Bois.
No monastic hairshirt
Stung flesh more bitterly
Than the white coat
In which he was arrayed;
But what was his agony
On entering the drawing-room
To hear a white woman
Say slowly, "One spade."
He threw up his job,
His scorn was sublime,
And he left the bridge party
Simply aghast;
Lo, see him striding
Out of the front door
A free man again
His infamy past.
Down at the Common,
The cradle of freedom,
Another shock nearly
Carried him away
Someone called out "Shine"
And he let loose a blue streak,
And the poor little bootblack
Slunk frightened away.
In a bakery window
He read with a glance
"Brown Betties for sale"
And his molars gnashed;
Up came the kerbstone,
Back went his trusty arm,
Swift was his gesture,
The plate glass was smashed.
On the sub, Crispus
Could have committed murder,
Mayhem and cannibalism,
When he heard a maid
Say to the cherub
Opposite to her,
"Come over here, darling,
Here's a little shade."
But down at the Gardens,
He knew was his refuge,
Recompense for insults,
Solace for grief,
A Negro battler,
Slugging Joe Johnson
Was fighting an Irishman
Battling Dan O'Keefe.
The garden was crammed,
Mickeys, Kikes, Bohunks,
Polacks and Dagoes,
All over the place,
Crispus strode in,
Regally, boldly,
The sole representative
Of his race.
The fight was even,
When Joey hit Dan,
The heart of Crispus
Shone with a steady glow,
When Dan hit Joey,
Crispus groaned "foul,"
"Oh the dirty low-down
So-and-so."
In the tenth round,
Dan got to swinging,
Joey was dazed,
And clinched and held,
When suddenly,
Right behind Crispus,
"Kill the Nigger!"
Somebody yelled.
Crispus got up
In all of his fury;
Lightning bolts zigzagged
Out of his eyes,
With a voice like thunder
He blurted his challenge,
"Will the bastard who said that
Please arise."
Thirty-five thousand
Nordics and Alpines,
Hebrews and Gentiles,
As one man arose,
See how our hero,
Armed with his noble cause,
Armored with righteousness
To battle goes.
They found an ankle in Dedham,
A thighbone in Maldon,
An elbow in Somerville,
Both nostrils in Lynn,
And on Boston Common
Lay one of his eyebrows,
The cap of his knee,
And a piece of his shin.
Peabody Museum
Has one of his eardrums;
His sound heart was found
In Lexington;
But over the reaches
From Cape Cod to Frisco
The soul of our hero
Goes marching on . . .
GWENDOLYN BROOKS
at the hairdresser's
1945
Gimme an upsweep, Minnie,
With humpteen baby curls.
'Bout time I got some glamour.
I'll show them girls.
Think they so fly a-struttin'
With they wool a-blowin' 'round.
Wait'll they see my upsweep.
That'll jop 'em back on the ground.
Got Madam C. J. Walker's first.
Got Poro Grower next.
Ain't none of 'em worked with me, Min.
But I ain't vexed.
Long hair's out of style anyhow, ain't it?
Now it's tie it up high with curls.
So gimme an upsweep, Minnie.
I'll show them girls.
one reason cats . . .
1968
One reason cats are happier than people
is that they have no newspapers . . .
a song in the front yard
1945
I've stayed in the front yard all my life.
I want a peek at the back
Where it's rough and untended and hungry weed grows.
A girl gets sick of a rose.
I want to go in the back yard now.
And maybe down the alley,
To where the charity children play.
I want a good time today.
They do some wonderful things.
They have some wonderful fun.
My mother sneers, but I say it's fine
How they don't have to go in at a quarter to nine.
My mother she tells me that Johnnie Mae
Will grow up to be a bad woman.
That George will be taken to jail soon or late.
(On account of last winter he sold our back gate.)
But I say it's fine. Honest I do.
And I'd like to be a bad woman too,
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace,
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.
LANGSTON HUGHES
adventure
c. 1962
Adventure is a great thing," said Simple, "which should be in everybody's life. According to the Late Late Show on TV, in the old days when Americans headed West in covered wagons, they was almost sure to run into adventure—at the very least a battle with the Red Skins. Nowadays, if you want to run into adventure, go to Alabama or Mississippi where you can battle with the White Skins."
" 'Go West, young man, go West,' is what they used to say," I said. "'Pioneers! O pioneers /' cried Whitman."
" 'Go South, young man, go South,' is what I would say today," declared Simple. "If I had a son I wanted to make a man out of, I would send him to Jackson, Mississippi, or Selma, Alabama—and not in a covered wagon, but on a bus. Especially if he was a white boy, I would say, 'Go, son, go, and return to your father's house when you have conquered. The White Skins is on the rampage below the Mason-Dixon line, defying the government, denying free Americans their rights. Go see what you can do about it. Go face the enemy.' "
"You would send your son into the maelstrom of Dixie to get his head beaten by a white cracker or his legs bitten by police dogs?"
"For freedom's sake—and adventure—I might even go South myself,"
said Simple, "if I was white. I think
it is more important for white folks to have them kind of adventures than it is for colored. Negroes have been fighting one way or another all our lives—but it is somewhat new to whites. Until lately, they did not even know what a COLORED ONLY sign meant. White folks have always thought they could go anywhere in the world they wanted to go. They are just now finding out that they cannot go into a COLORED WAITING ROOM in the Jim Crow South. They cannot even go into a WHITE WAITING ROOM if they are with colored folks. They never knew before that if you want adventure, all you have to do is cross the color line in the South."