“And now let’s look into another area. You want to watch what the nigra eats, because it has been established that some diets are political while others are not. And it’s a proven fact that the moment the nigra changes his diet he gets dissatisfied and restless. So watch what he eats. Fat meat, corn bread, lima beans, ham hocks, chitterlings, watermelon, black-eyed peas, molasses, collard greens, buttermilk and clabber, neckbones and red beans and rice, hominy—both grit and lye hominy—these are traditional foods and healthy for the nigra and are usually not political—”
“You left out chicken,” Larkin said.
“Chicken?” McGowan said. “That there is a good question. Chicken is also traditional and harmless in the political sense—unless, of course, a wrongheaded, political nigra is caught stealing one. And even so, there’s really nothing political about a nigra stealing a chicken. In fact, down South we agree that a nigra is supposed to steal him a chicken ever now and then, and the only crime involved is in his getting himself caught.
“But”—McGowan held up his hand then and allowed it to slap the table POW!—“lobster is out!”
Wiggins sputtered over his drink. “Oh, Lord,” he said. “Oh, Lord, protect us. Give me some black coffee!”
“Gentlemen, I tell you truly, lobster on a nigra’s table is political as hell! Lobster gives a nigra false courage. It puts rocks in his nigra jaws and wild ideas in his nigra brain. In short, lobster—any kind of lobster—whether broiled, boiled, fried, fra diavoloed, or thermidored—serve it any damn way you please—lobster simply messes up a nigra! If the price of lobster ever goes down in this country, we’ll have trouble on our hands.
“And watch the rascal if he develops a taste for T-bone steak, Cornish hens, sweetbreads, calf’s liver (although pig liver is traditional and okay), parsnips, artichokes, venison, or quiche lorraine—he’s been under bad influences and getting political again.
“And it’s a good idea to watch what he does with traditional foods. For instance, if he starts baking his pig’s feet in cheesecloth instead of boiling them in the Southern nigra fashion—right there you have a bad nigra on your hands.
“And don’t overlook the political implications of a nigra eating too much Chinese or Japanese or Jewish food. Call the FBI if you catch him buying French wines, German beer, or drinks like Aquavit or Pernod. In New Orleans one time a nigra drank a glass of Pernod and went down to the courthouse and cussed out the judge in pure Parisian French! Nigras who drink such liqueurs have jumped the reservation and are out to ruin the nation.
“And Scotch whiskey is just as bad. Just as bad….” He shook his head grimly. “A nigra doesn’t even have to have heard about Bonny Prince Charlie, but let him start drinking Scotch and right away he swears he’s George Washington’s great-grandson and the rightful head of the United States Government. And not only that, a nigra who switches to Scotch after being brought up on good corn and bourbon is putting on airs, has forgotten his place, and is in implicit rebellion! Besides, have y’all ever considered what would happen to our liquor industry if all the nigras switched to drinking Scotch? A calamity!”
I watched him bend forward, his eyes intense.
“Now I want to get on to other matters, but before I do, let me say that one of the meanest, low-downest forms of nigra politics I know of, and one which I don’t like to bring up among a bunch of gentlemen, and that’s when a sneaking, ornery, smart-alecky nigra stands up in a crowd of peaceful, well-meaning white folks who’ve gathered together in a public place to see justice done and that nigra ups and breaks wind! Wait a minute now! Wait one minute. This ain’t funny a’tall! I was at a murder trial once, and just as the judge was charging the jury, some politically subversive nigra standing back in the rear let loose in there, and the next thing you know the judge has cleared the courtroom! Things are in an uproar, and the poor jury gets so confused that the case has to be thrown out, and the guilty nigra who was standing trial got away scot-free!
“It’s sad, gentlemen, but it’s true,” McGowan said, shaking his head as we gasped for breath. “You simply have to be alert and vigilant against nigra politics at all times. For instance, when you find a nigra looking at those girlie magazines that display naked white womanhood—which is something else you Yankees are responsible for—or irresponsible for—whip his head! Because when you see a nigra boy looking at that type of magazine, he’s long gone on the road of those Japs who broke the white man’s power in Asia by ordering their soldiers to sleep with every white-trash whore gal—mostly European, understand—they could lay their yalla hands on. In the hands of a nigra boy all such photographs and cartoons become insidiously political.”
“Oh, come now,” someone said.
“You wonder why? Because they expose the white woman’s mystery and undermine the white man’s mastery, that’s why. They show the buck nigra everything we’ve been working three hundred years to keep concealed. Because with the nigra even poontang is political. That’s right! Those Renaissance fellows don’t have a thing on the nigra except power! Think about it.
“Now Thompson, here, was talking about our not having any forms through which we can see what the nigra is up to politically, and I’ve been demonstrating that he’s mistaken—but he’s right to the extent that the nigra hasn’t developed any forms of his own. He’s just copied the white man and twisted what he’s copied to fit the nigra taste. But he does have his own nigra church, and his own nigra religion, and the point I want to make is that he gets political according to his religion. Did y’all know that?”
“No,” I said, “I never even dreamed it was possible.”
“I know you didn’t,” McGowan said, “so I’d better tell you. Baptist nigras and Methodist nigras and Holy Roller nigras are okay. Even Seventh Day Adventist nigras are okay—even though they’re a bit strange even to other nigras. I’ve heard them sound off about it. So all these nigra religions are okay. But you have got to watch the nigra who changes from Baptist to Episcopalian or Catholic, because that is a nigra who is gone ambitious and has turned his back on the South. That nigra’s not searching for God; he’s looking for a political scantling to head-whip you with.
“And watch the young nigra who joins up with Father Divine. It’s not the same when up North a poor ole-fashioned nigra grows homesick for the South and joins up; the young one is out to undermine society and is probably staying up nights scheming and trying to get God on the nigra side. Same thing if a nigra becomes a Jew—who the hell ever heard of one of our good nigras joining up with the Jews? When a nigra does that, he’s political, subversive, unruly, and probably oversexed—even for a nigra!
“Now, what are some of the political aspects of the nigra here in D.C.? Well, around here things are so out of hand, mongrelized, and confused that I don’t know where to begin, but here are a few manifestations: nigras visiting white folks, walking or riding along the streets with white women; visiting the Congress, hanging around Abe Lincoln’s monument; visiting white churches; carrying picket signs; sending delegations to see the President; carrying briefcases with real papers in them; nigras wearing homburg hats and chesterfield overcoats; hiring uniformed chauffeurs, especially if the chauffeur is white—all these things are political because the nigra who does them is dying to be a diplomat so that he can get assigned abroad from where he aims to monkey with our sovereign states’ rights. To these add those nigras from Georgia and Mississippi who turn up wearing those African robes and turbans in an effort to break into white society and get closer to white folks. Because there’s nothing worse than a nigra who denies his country ‘cause that is a nigra who not only denies his mammy and his pappy but the South as well!
“Here are some other nigra political forms, Thompson: These young buck nigras who go around wearing berets, beards, and tennis shoes in the wintertime and those britches that are so doggone tight they look like they’re about to burst out of them—they’re not the same as the white boys who dress that way; they’re politically dangerous, a
nd it’s worse, in the long run, than letting a bunch of nigras run around the capital carrying loaded automatics. Somebody ought to pass a law against it right away.
“And be on watch for your quiet nigra. Be very careful of the nigra who is too quiet when other loudmouthed nigras—who are really safe nigras—are sassing white folks on the street corners and in the Yankee press and over the Yankee radio and TV. Never mind the loudmouthed nigras, they’re like those little fice dogs that bark at you when you approach the big gate and then, when you come into the yard, they run to lick your hand—throw them a bone now and then. But keep your eye on the quiet nigra who watches every move the white man makes and studies it, because he’s probably trying to think up a theory and some strategy and tactics to subvert something.”
“But go back to the automobile,” Wiggins said. “My father-in-law is a dealer, and I think he should be warned.”
“I’m glad you reminded me,” McGowan said. “Now I’ve told you about those little foreign cars, but there’s more to the political significance of nigras and autos. Cadillacs used to be okay, but after the mess that nigra made today on Senator Sunraider’s lawn, I’m not so sure. Gentlemen, that nigra was trying to politicalize the Cadillac—which proves again what I say about everything the nigra does being potentially political. But one thing I do know is, you have to watch the nigra who doesn’t want a Cadillac, he can stand a heap—I say a heap—of political analysis. And pay close attention to the nigra who has the money to buy a Cadillac but who picks an Imperial instead.
Likewise, the nigras who love those English and French cars. Also watch all nigras who pick Lincolns and brag about the nigra vote electing the President of the United States; these nigras are playing politics even though they might not be able to vote themselves. And watch the nigra who comes telling a white man about the nigras’ ‘gross yearly income’ or the nigras’ stake in the ‘gross national product,’ because there you have an arrogant, biggety nigra who is right up in your face talking open politics and thinks you don’t know it. —Unless, of course, you’re convinced that the nigra is really trying to tell you that he knows how you and him can make some money. In this case the nigra is just trying to make a little hustle for himself, so make a deal with him and don’t worry about him because that nigra doesn’t give a damn about anybody or anything except himself, while the other type is trying to intimidate you.
“Finally, but by no means the least important, there’s the nigra who reads the Constitution and the law books and broods over them. And like unto him is the nigra who instead of scratching his head from time to time (which is the traditional Southern nigra manner when talking to a white man), he reaches back and scratches his behind; or else he scratches both his head and his behind at the same time and lets you see him doing it. Watch this type especially close because, gentlemen, even where the nigra scratches is political!
“But, gentlemen, after this very brief and inadequate catalog of nigra political deviousness, I must say once more that, to my knowledge, no nigra has ever even thought about assassinating anybody, because we bred that possibility out of him years ago!”
Even as I laughed I watched the conflicting expressions moving back and forth across McGowan’s broad face. It looked as though he wanted desperately to grin, but his grin, like a postage stamp which had become too moist, kept sliding in and out of position. And I in turn became suddenly agitated. There was pain in my laughter, and it seemed to me that McGowan was obsessed by history to the point of nightmare. He had confined the dark man in a mental package which he carried with him as constantly as the old-fashioned watch which he wore on a chain, and I imagined him consulting the one for time and the other for social and historical orientation. What time is it, ole watch? Hey, black man, what place, what year, what social milieu is this? Or perhaps he even had the dark man confined in the watch itself….
But as I laughed I realized that I envied McGowan, and I admitted to myself, with a twinge of embarrassment, that many of the things he said were not only amusing but contained an element of truth: And perhaps that truth lay precisely in Negroes being the source of his exasperated humor. For McGowan said things openly about Negroes, and with absolute conviction, that I dared not even think lest I undo my delicate balance of tolerance, justice, and sense of fair play. And I wondered if it could be that he was actually more honest than I, that his open expression of his feelings, his prejudices, made him freer than I. And could it be, I wondered, that his freedom to say what he felt about all that Sam the waiter symbolized actually made him more honest than I. I was unsure of the answer, but suddenly I loathed his ability to make me feel buried fears and undesirable possibilities, his power to define so much of the social reality in which I lived and about which for a long time now I had ceased to think. And I asked myself if it were possible that the main object of McGowan’s passion was really not such as Sam but really a notion of history; a notion concerning a nonexistent past rather than a living people.
“Yes, gentlemen,” McGowan was saying, “the only way to protect yourself from the nigra is to master politics, and that you Yankees have never done because y’all have never really studied the nigra.”
Across the room I had watched Sam, his hands behind his back, smiling as he chatted pleasantly with a white-haired old gentleman. Were there Negroes like McGowan? I wondered. And, if so, what would they say about the likes of me? How completely did I, a liberal, ex-radical Northerner, dominate Sam’s sense of life, his idea of politics? Absolutely, or not at all? Was he, Sam, prevented by some social piety or psychological intimidation from confronting me in a humorous manner, as my habit of mind, formed during the radical thirties, prevented me from confronting him? Or did he, as some of my friends suspected, regard all whites through the streaming eyes and aching muscles of one continuous, though imperceptible and inaudible, belly laugh? What the hell, I wondered, is Sam’s last name?
All this, imagine, while laughing with the others, but now I was growing more and more disturbed as such ideas flickered through my mind. I realized that McGowan was playing an important social and political role for me, and I didn’t like it. Out of his own needs he simultaneously described the Negro as a threat and then disarmed him with comedy; projected him as boogey-man-clown and presented him as an ever-present danger, in the presentation clothed him in a straitjacket of humor which made it possible for me to approach him more closely than I had done in more years than I was willing to think about.
Deep down, I suspected that I despised McGowan. I despised his freedom to make me feel buried motives and memories. I despised his taking over the power to define so much of the reality in which I lived. And most of all I despised him for making me realize that he in his very injustice was quite possibly more just than I, and that hurt because I regarded my sense of justice with a tender feeling of pride. Across from me Wilson was looking at McGowan with a tight face.
“Well,” he said, “Sunraider had better make allowance for unexpected mutations. Otherwise, he might be surprised by more serious, more political political incidents than today’s. Some black boy without a car to burn might go after him more directly.”
I was excited by the idea. “Wilson might have something there,” I said. “And I’ll even bet that we can come pretty close to describing the type most likely to do it….”
“Do what?”
“Assassinate the Senator.”
“Hell, you’re nuts,” Larkin said. “Negroes don’t have the stomach for that kind of thing.”
“You agree with McGowan, then?”
“No, when I listen to Mac I don’t know whether to laugh or to be afraid of Negroes, but they just don’t …”
“Go ahead, McIntyre,” Wiggins said. “Let’s see what you come up with; project the bastard!”
And I tried desperately to rise to the occasion, to keep up with McGowan, though on a different level.
“He’ll probably be,” I said, “a disgruntled, half-crazed ex-serviceman w
ho will have won some decoration for bravery and who returned home full of great expectations. He’ll have expected the world to have changed simply because he faced death for the nation….”
“You mean a sorehead,” Larkin said.
“If you will,” I said. “Perhaps he’ll have saved the life of his commanding officer, who, let us say, was a Southerner….”
“Our nigras are loyal,” McGowan said. “You Yankees have never been able to change that.”
“Go on,” Wilson said.
“Maybe he’ll have been an athlete,” Thompson said, “a basketball player, or a football scatback….”
“Why not?” I said. “It’s a good possibility.”
“Like hell it is,” McGowan said. “Nigras like that have it made. They make a lot of money—more than the average white man—and they get special treatment. Too much special treatment. You think one of them is going to mess up, you don’t know nigras.”
“But I specified that he’d be crazed, psychotic even. He’d have to be of the psychological type which turns its hostilities inward and represses them.”
“He’s still too much of an abstraction for me,” Wiggins said. “Spell him out a bit.”
“Well, he won’t be a woman chaser,” I said, “nor a drunk. Neither will he be the type who ordinarily expresses himself through violence—which would be an effective way of blowing off steam. Instead, he’ll be the introspective type whose repressed emotions would slowly transform him into a walking bomb.”
“Now you’re talking about these Northern nigras,” McGowan said, “the kind who’ve been too close to white folks in a social way. Nigras like that get awful restless.”
“You mean too close to white women, don’t you, Mac?” Thompson said.
“You can kid all you like,” McGowan said, “but down South we know the political implications of such things, and we simply don’t let it happen without the most drastic consequences.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but that would be a problem for the man I’m describing, because he’d be too bitter and introspective.”
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 11
