“Those with last names from the letter A to M are port-side observers. N to Z are starboard observers. Fair warning: this will be a very tricky exercise. My class, creative writing for legalese, is about using the tools of creative writing to create opinions that will stand up under the scrutiny of jurisprudence. You need to write well to keep people awake, interested, and following your line of reasoning. I need a thousand words from each of you.” There were audible moans and groans.
“The name of the vessel, by the way, is the Honky Dory.” He looked into mostly blank faces. “You’ll get it one day, I’m sure. You will give me a thousand typewritten words on what happened to the Honky Dory’s captain. I repeat—typewritten. You give me anything handwritten and I will thank you for something I can promptly ball up and shoot two points in the trash basket with.”
Moans and groans. “Oh, yeah. Let me hear ’em. C’mon, let it all out. You should know I am being quite lenient. In past years I would have immediately consulted my seating chart to identify the whiners and invited them to leave. There are other courses available to fulfill credit requirements, though none offering double credits. And I suppose that was the allure, wasn’t it? Hopefully, the double credits aren’t the only incentive. This is an elective. You are here because you chose to be. I am Dr. Eugene Mackey, your taskmaster for this semester. I will not let you down. See you next class. Ah, wait please . . . Mr. Downs, is there a Preston Downs here?” Prez was already rushing out the door to meet Marsha. “May I have a word with you?”
“Definitely, Professor Mackey, what about?”
“I read your essay, “From B-Boys to Soul Brothers.” Fascinating. It was unsolicited, I understand.”
“True. Professor Okoro didn’t ask for it, but I did ask her permission to write it and asked if it could count towards my final mark.”
“Your one-hundred-percent-plus mark. An A-plus-plus, I believe she said. How were you able to nail down the transition in their thinking with such profundity?”
“I was writing about something I knew and something I had experienced.” He hoped he would remember to write profundity down in his notebook. “And also, something that is dear to my heart.”
“And what might that be?”
“Negro unity and Negroes loving themselves.”
“You don’t think we do?”
“Love ourselves? No. We have ideas about what is attractive and unattractive based upon skin color, which causes self-hate. We call ourselves and each other ‘nigger,’ which is the ultimate non-physical act of self-hate. And we commit violence against one another, which is the ultimate physical act of self-hate.”
“Not all of us.”
“No.”
“Does your friend being killed by the police still bother you?”
“Oh, do you mean Butch or Brennie-Man?”
“Butch? You’re too young to know about the B-Boys. How old are you?” asked the professor as he picked up a folder from his desk.
“Seventeen. Butch lived up the street from me. He made me look at my first naked girl. Why do you ask?”
“In May, I see. Your birthday. How’d you manage to graduate high school so soon?”
“I skipped a couple of grades when I was in elementary school.”
“Really? They let you do that? But no, I meant the fellow you called Brennie-Man. Wait, how does someone make you look at a naked girl? You mean in a magazine?”
“No, on a trashcan. It’s a long story.”
The professor looked dazed. He looked past Prez to someone standing in the doorway. “May I help you?” Prez turned to look. There was no one there. “Guess she changed her mind. Ah, no, there she is. Hello, is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m so sorry.” Prez turned to see it was Marsha. “I was looking for him.” She pointed at Prez.
“Him?” said the professor and he pointed at Prez and laughed.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t know he was in a meeting with you. I’ll just sit out here and wait.”
“You won’t have to wait long. I promise.” He turned to Prez “Your girl?”
“My girl,” said Prez.
“Mr. Downs, let me get right to the point. Would you be interested in attending a special program this summer in Chicago? It will be an interdisciplinary course combining philosophy, sociology, and history, and in addition to classwork there will be fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?”
“Yes. You will be required to actually go out into the community, establish relationships with the people, and see what you can learn about them and from them, with the ultimate purpose of coming up with ideas about solving their day-to-day problems, which you will present in the form of a treatise. I know that sounds a bit vague but hopefully not too wishy-washy. The details are still being worked out. My twin brother is the one creating the program. He lives in Chicago and is a professor at the new Chicago Circle campus of the University of Illinois. Well?”
“I’m interested, but I would have to talk to my mother first. How much will it cost?”
“Nothing. Not a red cent to you—for anything. It’s a sort of scholarship you’ll be receiving. The money for the whole program is coming from a grant. Let me get all the information and get back to you. Tell your folks I’ll have all the details after Easter. Thank you and see you next class. And don’t forget my thousand words.”
“May I be a bit existential and write it from the only perspective that can give the correct rendition of events?”
“Hm . . . really, what perspective might that be?”
“The seagulls.”
The professor burst out laughing. “No.”
39
Chicago, 1964
Prez found himself more excited about his summer in Chicago than about his final marks. He wondered what it would be like to fly. He liked to drive fast but found himself nervous about flying. With his anxieties and expectations so high, he literally sprinted across campus to Professor Mackey’s office to get his ticket and other documents.
“Well, good news, Mr. Downs. The filibuster in the Senate is over and the Civil Rights Act will now become law. That means that we can expect many other programs like the one you are participating in to come into being. And, if you are like me, there is more good news. Here’s your ticket.”
Inside the envelope was a Greyhound bus ticket, departure that day, Friday, the nineteenth of June, at 6:00 p.m.
“I’m leaving this evening? On a bus?”
“In a few hours, yes. Best we could do. Here, a little gift from me.” It was a pamphlet that contained the poem by Marcus Garvey entitled The Tragedy of White Injustice. “Do not underestimate the time and energy you will expend reading and absorbing the wisdom contained in those twenty-two pages. Oh yes, Professor Okoro asked me to give you this.” It was a copy of Black Skin, White Masks by Franz Fanon.
Prez rushed home and packed a few things. His mother was simultaneously weirdly sad and elated. It was her birthday. He gave her a little Chesapeake Bay pearl ring he had bought and a card he had made celebrating both her birthday and Juneteenth. His last words to his brother were, “Don’t wear my clothes.”
*
After what seemed like an eternity, albeit only about twenty-four hours of it, his feet touched the surprisingly warm Chicago pavement. He let out a huge yawn, stretched, and realized his bladder was in a crisis. He rushed through the big, heavy bus terminal doors and encountered a mélange of people in motion that impeded his search for a bathroom sign. Someone grabbed at his arm.
“Mr. Downs? Preston Downs?”
“Yeah. And you’re Professor Mackey?”
“That’s easy.”
“Where’s the bathroom? Do you know?”
“You’re a big boy. Hold it for just a bit longer. The police here have the reputation for mistaking any black man in this
bus depot for a vagrant and treating him as such. Do you know what that means? You will get your ass beat, bloodied, and thrown in jail. That is not the welcome to Chicago we envisioned for you. I have something else planned, so come with me.”
He led Prez out onto Randolph Street, where they threaded themselves through pedestrian traffic. They walked two blocks over to South Wabash. The professor walked over to a little dark green convertible sports car and got in. Prez just stood there.
“Well, get in. You think I’m stealing it?”
The professor gingerly maneuvered his British Racing Green 1961 MG around people, cops, traffic, and corners until they were headed south on Lake Shore Drive, at which point his shoulders relaxed noticeably, his grip on the wheel eased, and he muttered something about not wanting any more scratches on his paint job.
“You know, I don’t ever think I’ve seen so many white people before,” said Prez.
“Yeah, I know, they are everywhere. Seriously, you know I’m from D.C., so I can dig where you’re coming from. We were in Chicago’s business and financial hub back there. Need I say more? It’s called the Loop. Believe me, I cannot overemphasize this enough: the cops here will knock you for a loop in the blink of an eye. That old rule of the South applies here—know your place.
Being D.C. boys, we’re used to seeing more black and tan with a smidgen of vanilla thrown in occasionally. It’s the opposite here, unless you are in a black part of town.”
“Hey, black and tan, that’s the title of a very important Duke Ellington piece.”
“Yes, it was a recording and also a short film. You’re a proponent of jazz-listening, I presume?”
“Aren’t we all?” replied Prez with an arrogance that made Professor Mackey smile.
“Actually no, because there’s no such thing. That word is a commercial label that does nothing to define or dignify the music. Let me guess—no I won’t, I’ll let you tell me. What is your opinion of the blues? In a word or two.”
“Old. Tired. Whining. Begging. Slave music.”
“Really?” He laughed out loud.
As they drove along, Prez looked at the dashboard and wondered if this was the first car he had ridden in owned by a black man that did not have a radio. He decided not to ask. The night air swirled around them and carried a pungent burnt-fish odor.
“What is that smell?”
“The lake.”
“What lake?”
“Lake Michigan. It’s over there to our left. It’s dark, so we can’t see it very well from this side. Cats over there are frying smelts, little fish that look a bit like sardines. You can wade right in and scoop them up.”
He exited Lake Shore Drive at Forty-seventh Street. “If you get the feeling you’re landing on a different planet from when you got off the bus, well, you are.”
Indeed, before him was a bustling boulevard bubbling over with neon signs that lit up the sky, storefronts that lit up the sidewalks, and automobile headlights that left streaks of light upon the pavement.
“I’ve never seen so many black people before,” said Prez. They both laughed.
The professor pointed to the Regal Theater. “That’s where we’re going. It’s black-owned and operated.”
What the professor failed to mention was that he performed there as Professor Jambon every year around Halloween, during the celebrated and highly anticipated drag-queen fête called Finnie’s Ball. He gave a high-strutting, butt-swishing standup comedy performance—a mock lecture—featuring song and dance in homage to Josephine Baker. He performed in his patented “jungle gown,” which had a train of smoked hams in tow.
They jogged across the busy street and up to the ticket booth.
“Can you please point me towards the bathroom?” Prez asked the woman inside. She pointed while the professor bought the tickets.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Downs. What’s in your little bag there? Wallet? Travel documents? Letters of recommendation and enrollment documents with all kinds of personal information on them? This is the South Side of Chicago. This is a different universe from back home. I cannot stress how important it is that you realize you’re not back home. Consider this environment hostile until you are used to it. You do not want to be a mark and get your pockets picked or your bag snatched. Put your wallet in your front pocket. Give me your bag until you come out of the bathroom.”
As he exited the bathroom, a couple of guys bumped into Prez. He said “excuse me” and kept walking.
“What did you say to those two cats?”
“Who?” Prez turned around to see who he was talking about. Two guys were staring at him but he didn’t know if those were the guys who had bumped into him or not. “Nothing except ‘excuse me.’ What’s the problem?”
“I recognize them. They’re gangleaders from the Robert Taylor Homes. They can be quite brutal. But I would be, too, if I’d spent my life there in America’s version of the Gaza Strip. It’s the largest housing project in the United States, over two miles long, crammed between South State Street and the Dan Ryan Expressway. There are twenty-eight buildings and each one is about sixteen stories. There are about four thousand, five hundred units. How many people do you think they have stacked up in that ugly place? It looks like a prison complex. Gets my blood boiling just to think about it. C’mon, let’s go get some good seats.”
“Are we here for a show or a movie?”
“You’re here for an education. It’s intermission. I was given a tip that there would be a surprise appearance by an important blues artist. This guy is something else. He’s been with a white record label called Chess Records run by Leonard Chess but they still haven’t recorded this cat we’re about to hear. Word is they can’t figure out which neat musical package he belongs in. That’s capitalism for you. The tragedy is that stuff like that promotes the misconception that whites can’t be happy in their interactions with blacks unless they can control the situation and exploit us. Leonard’s brother, Phil Chess runs a very progressive radio empire. He’s the first person Barry Gordy sends a new record to. Mr. Downs, your vacant expression tells me you have no idea who Berry Gordy is.”
*
The inside of the three thousand-seat Regal Theater was breathtaking in a gaudily melodramatic way, like an overdone Hollywood set trying to stuff too many great design themes of antiquity under one roof. The ceiling was painted to simulate being under a desert oasis canopy with a hole in it. Through the hole a painted sky full of stars and clouds could be seen. Gold-painted bas-relief poles ran down the walls from ceiling to floor, giving the illusion of holding up the canopy. Above the stage, the proscenium arch was adorned in rich hues that suggested golden moonlight dancing off a blue lagoon while a tribal temple-fire flickered.
“You know what, Professor? I’m waiting for King Kong to show up on stage.”
“That’s a good one!” laughed the professor. “Well, if King Kong could play like this cat, I wouldn’t run.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the master of ceremonies, “we have a wonderful surprise for you connoisseurs out there, to get you through this intermission. Please put your hands together for Buddy Guy! Buddy Guy, ladies and gentlemen!”
After listening to the most blistering guitar playing he had ever heard, Prez said, “That was not the blues. It sounded like the blues on the bottom. And his high-pitched lyrics cried the blues. But his head was in outer space like an avant-garde player. His guitar stuck its finger in your chest and said ‘don’t mess with me’ while simultaneously inviting you on a space voyage. Wow! I could listen to him all day. Makes you want to do things, not moan about things that have been done to you.”
“That’s quite a take on what you heard. I need one thousand words on everything you have experienced since you got off the bus: sights, sounds, thoughts, feelings—everything.” Prez gave him a very quizzical look. “I am not kidding. I need it for to
morrow, your first assignment for your first class.” Then he burst out laughing. “Welcome to Chicago, Mr. Downs.”
Outside the Regal, Professor Mackey was regaling Prez with all sorts of anecdotes about Forty-seventh Street and Bronzeville. Prez saw them coming. They walked right to him, pushing the professor aside.
“Hey, little fucking punk, you gotta learn to move outta the way when you see us coming.”
Prez hit that guy in the throat, and the guy dropped to his knees, coughing. Prez kicked the other guy in the solar plexus, knocking him back against a lamp post.
“You motherfuckers get outta my way the next time you see me. You dig it?”
Professor Mackey grabbed him by the arm and rushed him towards the car. “Jesus! Let’s get out of here! Jesus, Downs, I told you who they were. Couldn’t you have just said I’m sorry again? They can have the whole street flooded with Bricks in no time. Just one phone call is all it takes.”
“Yeah, I’m real scared.” Prez smirked. “They’re just fucking punks.”
“Where’d you get that temper?”
“I don’t have a temper. I just hate bullies. What are ‘Bricks’?”
“That’s what they call themselves. The older guys are Big Bricks, the young boys, and I mean kids, some still in puberty, are Baby Bricks, and the girls are Brickettes.”
“Brickettes? No matter how old they are?”
“Interesting observation.”
“They’re still punks.”
Exile Blues Page 22
