by Claude Brown
Mama started telling Aunt Bea how Pimp got his name, because Aunt Bea had said, “That sho don’t sound like nothin’ to be callin’ no child.” When Mama started getting labor pains while she was carrying Pimp, there was nobody around to get an ambulance but Minnie, the neighborhood prostitute. Minnie called an ambulance, but it was a long time coming, and Mama’s pains were getting worse. Minnie got scared and ran out and got a cab and took Mama to the hospital.
All the way to the hospital, Minnie kept saying, “It better be a girl, ‘cause I’m spending my last dollar on this cab, and I never gave a man no money in my life.” Minnie was real proud to tell people that she had never had a pimp and would never give a nigger a dime. Well, when Mama came out of the operating room, Minnie was still out there with her fingers crossed and praying for it to be a girl. Minnie left the hospital cursing, but not before she had become a godmother and had named her godson Pimp. Mama told Minnie that she was sorry but that it must have been the Lord’s will.
Minnie said, “That’s all right, ‘cause the cab fare was only seventy cents. And, anyway, he’s such a cute little nigger, maybe he was born to be a pimp, and maybe it was in the cards for me to be the first one to spend some money on him.” Minnie began teasing Mama about Pimp’s complexion, saying, “Girl, you know you ain’t got no business with no baby that light; it looks like it’s a white baby.… I know one thing—that baby better start looking colored before your husband see him.” Mama said all her children were born looking almost white. And that Carole was even lighter than that when she was born, but, that by the time she was five years old, she was the cutest little plump, dimple-cheeked black gal on Eighth Avenue. This was probably because my grandfather is more white than he is colored.
After Mama finished telling Aunt Bea how Pimp got his name, she started telling me and Pimp that Aunt Bea had a real nice farm down South. When she had told us all there was to tell about that real nice farm, Mama asked us if we wanted to go home with Aunt Bea when she left in a couple of weeks. Pimp said no because he knew that was what Mama wanted to hear. I said I wanted to go right away, because I had just heard about all those watermelon patches down South.
“In a couple of weeks, all you chillun goin’ home with your Aunt Bea for the rest of the summer,” Mama said.
I asked if I could have the beer bottle that was nearly empty. After I turned it up to my mouth and finished emptying it, I asked Pimp if he wanted to go to the show. We went into the kitchen to collect some more bottles to cash them in for show fare.
We could hear Mama and Aunt Bea talking in the living room. Mama was telling Aunt Bea how bad I was and that sometimes she thought I had the devil in me. Aunt Bea said that was probably true “ ‘cause his granddaddy and his great-granddaddy on his daddy’s side both had it.” Next Aunt Bea was telling Mama how my great-grandfather, Perry Brown, had tied his wife to a tree and beat her with a branch until his arm got tired. Then she told Mama about what my grandfather, Mr. Son Brown, did to a jackleg preacher from Silver when he caught him stealing liquor from his still down in the Black Swamp. She said Grandpa circled around that old jackleg preacher and started shooting over his head with a shotgun and made the preacher run smack into a bear trap that he had set for whoever was stealing his liquor. After that the jackleg preacher only had one foot, and everybody said Mr. Son Brown shouldn’t have done that to the preacher just for taking a little bit of whiskey.
I thought, Yeah, I guess there is a whole lotta devil in the Brown family and especially in Dad, ‘cause he sure is mean.
Then I heard Aunt Bea ask Mama a familiar-sounding question: “Do you think somebody done work some roots on the po child?”
Mama said, “Lord, I sho hope nobody ain’t work no roots on my child.” Mama was quiet for a while, then she said, “They got some West Indian people around here who is evil enough to do anything to anybody, and they always ‘fixing’ somebody. I always tell that boy to stop playin’ and fightin’ with those West Indian chillun, but he just won’t listen. Who knows? Maybe he done did sumpin to one-a those kids and they people found out about it and worked some roots on him. Anything might happen to that little nigger, ‘cause he so damn bad. Lord, I ain’t never seen a child in my life that bad. I know one thing—if I don’t git that boy outta New York soon, my hair gonna be gray before I get thirty years old. Sumpin gotta be wrong with the boy, ‘cause nobody in my family steal and lie the way he do, and none-a his daddy people ain’t never been no rogues and liars like he is. I don’t know who he coulda took all that roguishness at.
“Seem like nobody can’t make him understand. I talk to him, I yell at him, I whip his ass, but it don’t do no good. His daddy preach to him, he yell at him, he beat him so bad sometimes, I gotta run in the kitchen and git that big knife at him to stop him from killin’ that boy. You think that might break him outta those devilish ways he got? Child, that scamp’ll look Jesus dead in the eye when he standin’ on a mountain of Bibles and swear to God in heaven he ain’t gon do it no more. The next day, or even the next minute, that little lyin’ Negro done gone and did it again—and got a mouthful-a lies when he git caught.
“And talk about sumpin mannish! I had to go to school with him one mornin’ to see his teacher. I got the postcard on a Friday, and all that weekend I was askin’ him what the teacher wanted to see me about, and all that weekend he was swearin’ to some Gods and Jesuses I ain’t never heard of before that he didn’ know why in the world his teacher wanted to see me, unless somebody was tellin’ lies on him again. And I told him, I said, ‘Mind, now, my little slick nigger, you know I know you, and a lotta those lies people was tellin’ on you was as true as what Christ told his disciples. Now, don’t you let me go to that school and find out these lies they tellin’ on you now got as much Gospel in ’em as those other lies had. ‘Cause if I do, so help me, boy, I’m gonna take down your pants right there in that classroom and beat your ass until the Lord stop me.’ He still kept sayin’ he didn’t dc nothin’ and had the nerve to poke out his lips and git mad at me for always blamin’ him for sumpin he ain’t did. You know that little scamp had me huggin’ and kissin’ him and apologizin’ for what I said to him?
“So, Monday mornin’ rolled around, and I went to school with him. I had to watch him close, had hold his hand from the minute he got up that mornin’, ‘cause I could tell by the look in his eye that if I took my eye offa him, that would be the last time I’d see him for the whole week. When I got to the school and talked to the teacher, I came to find out this Negro done took some little high-yaller girl in the closet one day when the teacher went outta the room. After he done gone and got mannish with this little yaller girl, he’s gonna go and throw the little girl’s drawers out the window. I almost killed that nigger in that classroom. As hard as people gotta work to get they kids clothes, he gon take somebody’s drawers and throw ’em out the window. I bet you a fat man he never throwed nobody else clothes out no window. Ain’t nothin’ I kin do ‘bout that high-yaller-woman weakness he got, ‘cause he take that at his daddy. But I sho am glad they ain’t got no little white girls in these schools in Harlem, ‘cause my poor child woulda done been lynched, right up here in New York.
“They had him down there in one of those crazy wards in Bellevue Hospital, but they let him come home, so I guess it ain’t nothin’ wrong with his head. I think one-a dem doctors did think Sonny Boy was a little crazy though, ‘cause he kept talkin’ to me with all those big words, like he didn’ want me to know what he was tellin’ me. I don’ know, maybe he didn’ say Sonny Boy was crazy. It mighta been that he just don’ know how to talk to regular people. You know, mosta those white doctors don’ know how to talk to colored people anyway.
“Some of his teachers even said he was smart in doing his school-work and when he wasn’t botherin’ nobody. The trouble is that he’s always botherin’ somebody. He had one teacher, a little Jew-lady teacher, she was just as sweet as she could be. And she liked Sonny Boy and was always tryi
n’ to be nice to him. She use to buy his lunch for him when he went lyin’ to her about bein’ hungry, after he done spend his lunch money on some ole foolishness. Well, one day she caught him lookin’ up her dress, and she smacked him. Do you know that crazy boy hit her back’ Yeah, I mean punch her dead in her face and made the poor lady cry. When I heard about it, I beat him for what seem like days, and I was scared to tell his daddy ‘bout it, ‘cause I know Cecil woulda killed him for doin’ sumpin as crazy as that. And when I finished beating him, I told that nigger if I ever heard of him hitting or even talkin’ back to that nice little Jew-lady again, I was gonna break his natural-born ass. Well, they throwed him outta that school right after that, so I guess he didn’t git a chance to do that again.
“Yeah, sumpin is sho wrong with that boy, but I don’ think he’s crazy or nothin’ like that, ‘cause he got a whole lotta sense when it comes to gittin’ in trouble. And when I stop to think about it, I don’t believe nobody worked no roots on him, ‘cause he got too much devil in him to be tricked by them root workers. But what coulda happen is that he went someplace and sassed some old person, and that old person put the bad mouth on him. Yeah, more’n likely that’s what happened to him, ‘cause he always sassing old people. I beat him and keep tellin’ him not to talk back to people with gray hair, but that little devilish nigger got a head on him like rock. Lord, I don’ know what to do with that boy. I just hope Pimp don’t never git that bad.”
When I got tired of hearing how bad I was and about the roots and the bad mouth, I took Pimp to the show. On the way to the show, Pimp asked me to tell him about roots. I didn’t want to tell him that I didn’t know, because he thought I knew everything, almost as much as God. So I started telling him things about roots and root workers based on the tales I had heard Mama tell about somebody working roots on somebody else “down home.” I said, “Only people down South work roots, because you can’t git roots around here.” Pimp wanted to know what was wrong with the roots in the park. “Those ain’t the right kinda roots,” I said. “You have to git roots that grow down South. All kinda roots grow down there—money roots, love roots, good-luck roots, bad-luck roots, killin’ roots, sick-makin’ roots, and lotta other kinda roots.”
“Sonny, do you know how to work roots?”
“Yeah, man, I can work some kinda roots, but some roots I’m not so sure about.”
“Sonny, who teached you how to work roots?”
“Nobody. I just know ‘cause I heard so much about it.”
“Sonny, did you ever work any roots on anybody?”
“No, man, not yet.”
“When you gonna work some on somebody?”
“When somebody who I can’t beat make me real mad, that’s when I’m gonna work some roots on somebody.”
“You gonna work some roots on Daddy, Sonny?”
“No, man, he’s too evil; you can’t work roots on real evil people.”
“Carole said God gon strike Daddy dead if he don’t stop being so mean to us.”
“Uh-uh, Pimp, I don’t think God gon mess with Dad. ‘Cause he woulda did it when Dad cut Miss Bertha husband throat that time or one-a those times when he beat me wit that ironing cord or that time when he cussed out the preacher. No, man, I don’ think God gon mess wit Dad.”
“Sonny, you think God is scared-a Daddy?”
“Man, I don’ know. I know one thing—all the stuff he been doin’ ain’t nobody but the police been botherin’ him.”
“Maybe God gonna put the police on Daddy, huh, Sonny?”
“Yeah, man, maybe.”
“Sonny, Margie said they got snakes down South and they bite people and the people die when the snakes bite ’em. Is that true, Sonny?”
“Yeah, it’s true, but they don’ bite everybody. They didn’ bite Dad, and they didn’ bite Mama, and I know a whole lotta people they didn’ bite.”
“Sonny, is the boogeyman down South too?”
“Man, how many times I done told you it ain’t no boogeyman?”
“But Margie keep on sayin’ it is.”
“The next time she say it, punch huh in huh mout’ real hard and she won’t say it no more.”
“Mama said the boogeyman comes around at night wit a big burlap sack and gits all bad kids and put in that burlap sack and nobody don’t see ’em no more.”
“Man, Mama’s just try’n’-a scare you. You know it ain’t no boogeyman, ‘cause I told you so. You ‘member all those times Mama and everybody use to say the boogeyman was gonna git me if I didn’t stop bein’ so bad? Well, I didn’t git no gooder; I even got badder than I was then. Ain’t no boogeyman got me yet. That’s ‘cause it ain’t no boogeyman. Every place anybody even told me the boogeyman was, I went there and looked for him, but he ain’t never been in none-a dem places. The next time somebody tell you the boogeyman is someplace, git you a big stick and go see him. If I’m around, come and get me and I’ll show you it ain’t no boogeyman.”
“You ever been down South, Sonny?”
“Uh-uh not yet, but I know it ain’t no boogeyman down there.”
“They got crackers down there, ain’t they, Sonny?”
“Yeah, Mama said they got crackers down South.”
“Sonny, what is crackers? They ain’t the kinda crackers you buy in the candy store, is they?”
“No, the crackers down South is white people, real mean white people.”
“Is Mr. Goldman a cracker, Sonny?”
“No, he’s a Jew.”
“But he’s white and look real mean.”
“I know that, but some white people is crackers and some-a dem is Jews, and Mr. Goldman is a Jew. You see, Pimp, white people is all mean and stingy. If one-a dem is more stingy than he is mean, he’s a Jew; and if he is more mean that he is stingy, then he’s a cracker.”
“But, Sonny, how kin you tell ’em?”
“That’s easy. Just ask me. I’ll tell you what they is.”
“Sonny, I ain’t goin’ down South.”
“Why ain’tcha?”
“ ‘Cause they got snakes down dere, they got roots down dere, and they got crackers too. Uh-uh, I ain’t goin’ down dere. You goin’, Sonny?”
“Yeah, I’m goin’.”
“Why?”
“ ‘Cause that judge said I better go.”
Two weeks later, I was on my way down South for a summer vacation that lasted a year.
2
A YEAR later, we were passing a farm in North Carolina. Mama was showing Pimp some goats from the train window. I was glad that she had brought Pimp down with her. I think I had missed him more than I had anybody else in the family. But Mama and Pimp had been down South for about a week before we got on the train this morning to go home, and I was tired of playing with Pimp and answering all those questions.
I wondered if Dad had missed me. I knew he hadn’t. I knew what he would say to me when I got back. As usual, he would have a hard time, stumbling over words and repeating himself at least five times to say nothing more than, “Be good or I’m’a kill you.” I hated that more than anything else. When Dad tried to talk to me, it never worked out. It would always end up with him hitting me, not because of what I had done but because it came easier to him than talking. Most of the time, I didn’t mind. It was easier for me than trying to listen to all that stupid shit he was telling me with a serious face. Sometimes I would bullshit him by looking serious and saying something to make him think he was saying something real smart. I had a special way of bullshitting everybody I knew, and that was how I bullshitted Dad. But most of the time, he would be too mad to be bullshitted, and he would end up pounding on me anyway. I didn’t really care, because I was just waiting and wondering—waiting till I got big enough to kick his ass and wondering if he would want to talk then. I could just see him trying real hard to talk and me not listening to anything, just kicking his ass time after time.
It was going be good to get back to New York and see Danny and Butch and Kid. I thou
ght that Carole and Margie would be glad to see me, and I had missed them too. But I hadn’t missed anybody as much as I’d missed Grace, except maybe Pimp. Grace was the prettiest girl I had ever met, and we were in love, or something like that.
When Grace first came into my class in P.S. 90, Mrs. Newton introduced her to the rest of the second graders as a “nice little girl in a pretty new dress” and told her how we were all glad to have her. Grace never lifted her eyes from the floor while Mrs. Newton introduced her. She looked like she was scared or shy; it was hard to tell which. Anyway, she didn’t look pretty then.
I used to bother all the girls in the class. Most of them I had beaten up at least once. I didn’t like girls much and used to get a lot of fun out of beating them up and chasing them home after school. I chased Grace home one day, but I didn’t beat her up. I pulled on her, grabbed her around the neck, and ran with her hat. After a while, I stopped chasing other girls home and only chased Grace home.
One day when Grace didn’t come to school, Rosalind, one of the girls I used to chase and beat up, asked me why I didn’t chase her home any more. I told her that she wasn’t as pretty as Grace and not to mess with me any more, because I wasn’t going to chase her, but I would punch her in her mouth when I got a chance. Rosalind started saying that Grace looked funny with that brace on her teeth. I punched her in her mouth, and she ran home crying and promised to get her big sister on me. That was the first time I had thought about the brace on Grace’s teeth. I had seen it, but I just never thought about it. When I thought about Grace, I thought about her long hair with the Shirley Temple curls and the freckles on her face that used to look funny. They sure didn’t look funny any more. Anybody who laughed at them had better be able to beat me. Grace was the first girl I ever saw with freckles, and I liked her, freckles and all.
