Manchild in the Promised Land

by Claude Brown

  “Yeah, Claude, I know it’s hard to believe that such a person exists.”

  “No, man, it’s just hard to believe that such a person exists in Harlem. I’ve been here all my life, and I never met anybody like that, man—and? preacher too.”

  “Claude, I keep telling you that the man is a minister, and I wish you’d stop calling him a preacher.”

  “You mean to tell me, the man is a colored minister, and he resents being called a preacher?”

  “No, it’s not that he resents being called a preacher. It’s just that I don’t like the way that you’ve described that preacher clique. You make it sound like it’s something somewhat disgraceful, a preacher.”

  “Okay, man, this minister, how old is the cat?”

  “Oh, I imagine Reverend James is about forty-five, something like that. He’s a very energetic man. He has a heart of gold, and he has a love for people that I’ve seldom seen anywhere.”

  “Lou, do you know Ernst Papanek? He was at Wiltwyck.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know Mr. Papanek.”

  “Weli, man, this cat’s got the greatest love for people I’ve ever seen in anybody. He’s been through a whole lot of stuff, in Germany, with the Nazis, and all this kind of business. Nothing has taken it out of him. He maintains this love throughout everything. He’s impressed me more than anybody I’ve ever met as a person who has a great amount of love for his fellow man.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Claude. I don’t know Mr. Papanek that well, but I wish you would come by and meet this man.”

  “Yeah, Lou, I’m kind of curious about this guy. I want to see this preacher, just to see what he looks like.”

  He said, “I keep telling you, he’s a minister, not a preacher.”

  “Well, the minister. I want to see this minister. All right?”

  “Yeah, and, Claude, I wish you wouldn’t refer to him as a preacher when you’re talking to him. This guy is something else.”

  “Oh, yeah? You’re getting into this slang thing in Harlem, huh, Lou?”

  “The ‘something else’? All the boys say this.” We had a big laugh. Lou worked as a probation officer in Juvenile Court, and I told him that maybe the boys were having a greater influence on him than he was on them.

  I had made an appointment to go around to the church on 126th Street and Madison Avenue and meet Lou’s patron saint. I don’t know what I expected, but I went to the church that night. Lou introduced me to the minister, Reverend James.

  He wasn’t what I had expected. He was about medium height, a gaunt man with a very serious-looking face. At the same time, it looked like a kind face, as if the seriousness was not something that was intentional. It seemed as though his face had been made serious by the life he had lived, all the things he had seen. He looked like somebody who might really know things.

  I sat down and talked to him. I didn’t know that anybody with such a gigantic intellect existed in Harlem. When I first met him, I wanted to talk for hours to the guy. I could have gone on and on, and this man would still have been able to talk. Somehow I had the feeling that talking to him that night was more profitable than sitting in the library and reading for weeks. He seemed to know so many things. I hadn’t met too many ministers. I’d met a lot of preachers, and the preachers were phonies. They were guys hollering about God and spouting all this nonsensical holiness.

  I had expected something like this. This was my idea of the colored preacher. But he wasn’t like that, far from it. We sat there for a long time, and he never said anything about God. This sort of puzzled me. I didn’t think there was a colored preacher who could sit and talk for more than three hours without saying anything about God. But this man was doing it. It seemed as though there was far more to the man than I could see in that visit. But that one visit was enough. I knew I wanted to talk to him again.

  He knew a hell of a lot about politics. He could run down the Civil War, shot for shot. It was just astonishing. We talked about things in the Harlem community. I expected him to look down on the Harlem community with an attitude that was partially one of disgust, partially one of sacred disapproval. But he didn’t. He looked at the Harlem community somewhat analytically. More than that, he showed a sympathy for junkies that most of the people didn’t have.

  As a matter of fact, Reverend James seemed to know a lot about street life that I never expected any minister to know. It’s not something that you read in the papers or that sort of thing. He just knew people. He understood human nature, and he knew the kind of people who became involved in street life. When he talked about them, he talked about them as people, not as things, fallen souls, or that sort of nonsense. He seemed to be a person, somebody who really knew what was going on. As a matter of fact, at first I suspected him of being an ex-hustler or something like that; but after talking to him, I knew that this couldn’t be the case.

  Before I realized it, he had me listening to him without any doubts and without any skepticism. I wanted to ask him something about drug addicts, but I didn’t want him to suspect that it was about anyone related to me. I hesitated to say anything. I wasn’t close enough to him yet.

  After a while, I started coming by to see Reverend James just about every other day. I used to like to sit and talk to him. I’d listen to him for hours and hours, and he never got boring. The man knew so much.

  As time went on, he kept telling me about school, and why I should want to go to school, this sort of thing. But now I had a bigger problem, and I wasn’t too set on going to school, not right away. As a matter of fact, I figured I’d need at least a year, perhaps not to solve the problem, but merely to figure out what I should do about it. So one day, I happened to mention to Reverend James that I had a younger brother named Pimp and that I wanted to do something for him. I told him that Pimp had had some trouble in Harlem, and I was afraid to leave him here all by himself, out in the woods.

  He said, “Well, what kind of trouble are you afraid of?”

  “Well, he might get involved in some of the vices.”

  “What vices? Like drug addiction.”

  “Yeah, that’s a possible one, the most probable one, I suppose.”

  “Has he gotten involved in it?”

  For some reason, I didn’t want to tell him. But I didn’t see any point in lying to him. I said, “He’s had a few small bouts with it.”

  Reverend James smiled and said, “Yeah, those small bouts are frequent in our community.” He started telling me that a person must have a strong attitude toward himself and toward life in order not to become engulfed in the vice of our community. He’d said something about a strong spiritual attitude.

  I said, “Slow down a minute, Reverend James. I haven’t done much thinking about this spiritual thing, and I haven’t done too much thinking about this religious thing either.”

  “You haven’t done too much thinking.”

  I looked at him for a while. I said, “Yeah, that’s a possibility also.”

  He said, “Now, your brother, I would imagine that he has done less thinking than you. All youngsters in Harlem are confused in their thinking. Their thinking is influenced by their environment, by external values—not their own, but the values of the community, the people around them.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  “They form their attitudes on the basis of these things. If one boy doesn’t want to use drugs, but everybody else is using drugs, he’s going to feel as if he’s somewhat left out.”

  “Well, yeah. I’ve heard all this before.”

  He told me a little more about drugs and the attitudes toward them. It made Pimp sound so weak to me, it made him sound almost hopelessly lost. I said to myself, I never thought about it this way. It’s an attitude in the community. It’s fostered by the community. It’s the thing to do. I’d been somewhat aware of it, but I’d never given it too much consideration. Aloud I said, “But, look, I came up in the same community and through the same thing.”

  He said, “Yeah,
I’m still wondering about you. It’s something of an oddity. You came up in Harlem, and from what I’ve heard, you’ve had a pretty reckless life, far from dull. It seems as though you’ve been undaunted by all these experiences, and I’m wondering why. You seem to be a pretty intelligent young man, and you can be strongly impressed by some things. That’s going to take a little time to figure out, but in the meantime, let’s get on with the problem of your brother. Look, why don’t you bring him around and introduce me to him?”

  “Oh, that’s fine. But I couldn’t introduce you to him as a minister or as somebody that’s going to help him.”

  “No. What does he do?”

  I told him that Pimp was going to school and that he was working. I said I thought there was no problem that he would go back on drugs now, but I didn’t feel as though I could leave the city without being certain that he was out of the woods and on his way.

  Reverend James said, “Well, you’ve been here all this time. Has your presence here prevented him from getting on drugs?”

  I didn’t answer that question. I said, “I couldn’t go and leave him. That’s all. I couldn’t do that.”

  Reverend James said, “Okay, bring him around when you get a chance.”

  I promised him that I would.

  The next time I saw Pimp, he told me that he had stopped going to school.

  “Why, man? I thought you went for it.”

  He said, “Yeah, but I didn’t like what they were teaching me, man. They didn’t give me the courses that I wanted to take.”

  “You could always change.”

  “Yeah, but I messed around in these for eight weeks. I just got tired of that typing and all that kind of stuff.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, so what are you gonna do now?”

  “I’m gonna wait until the next term starts, then I’m going back.”

  “Okay.” I felt a little bad about it, but I knew that I couldn’t force anything on him. I didn’t mention Reverend James.

  About a week later, I went uptown to see the folks. I said, “How’s Pimp?”

  Mama said, “He’s eatin’ a lot of sweets.”

  It was a big blow; it sort of knocked me down. It didn’t really frighten me; it just made me very tired. I was depressed. It knocked all the heart out of me, all the fight. All I could do was say, “Well, it doesn’t mean that he’s usin’ stuff, Mama, just because he eats a lot of sweets.”

  Mama wouldn’t look up. She was doing one of the neighborhood kid’s hair. She said, “No. No, it doesn’t really mean that.”

  I could hear in her voice that she knew that it was more than just the sweets thing. I said, “You find any works around?”

  “No, I didn’t find anything.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad, Mama. I’ll talk to him and let you know if it’s for real. Did he come home from work yet?”

  Mama didn’t say anything for a while. I waited, and I knew before she answered. I knew because she waited so long. She said, “He didn’t go to work.”

  Then I got nervous. I said, “Mama, has he still got his job?”

  “I don’t know. He just said he was feelin’ bad and wasn’t goin’ in today.”

  “Well, Mama, where is he?”

  “Oh, he said he was going around Ellen’s house. I don’t know. Sonny Boy, I don’t know where that boy is. I don’t know what he’s doin’. I don’t know nothin’ no more. I just don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m better off not knowin’. I don’t want to know nothin’ no more. I don’t want to be hurt no more. I don’t want to be havin’ your daddy tellin’ me about I’m a big fool and about? knew it all the time.’ I don’t want to know nothin’.”

  I said, “Yeah, well, I got to find him.” I jumped up and ran out of the house. I was frantic. I just had to find Pimp. I felt as though he was just getting started again, and if I could find him in time, maybe I could save him. Maybe I could do something. Maybe I could stop him.

  As soon as I got on the street, I spotted him. He was coming up to the stoop. He was hanging out with some boy from 143rd Street by the name of Joe Norris. I asked him, “Pimp, where you goin’, baby?”

  He said, “Hey, Sonny. How you doin’?”

  I could see he was high and trying to fight it. I said, “Look here, Pimp, why don’t you go on upstairs, man?”

  He said, “For what?”

  “Because you look tired, man. Why don’t you go on upstairs and lay down and take it easy?”

  Joe Norris said, “Hey, Sonny, how you doin’?”

  For some reason or other, I just wanted to hit him. I didn’t say anything to him. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in a fight in the streets, but I wanted to hit him. I knew I had to put my hands on something, so I grabbed Pimp.

  This was how it was with me and the anger thing. It would start building up, and I would think that I had control over it. Then, at the height of this “control,” I’d just lash out at somebody. I grabbed Pimp by the arm and said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs, man, ‘cause I want to talk to you anyway.” I went on toward the stoop.

  Pimp said, “Yeah, Sonny, I wanted to talk to you too. I need some money, man. I blew my job.”

  I said, “Yeah, yeah, I figured as much. Come on.”

  This Joe Norris came up behind us. He said, “Look Pimp, when are you …” and I hit him before he got out the rest of what he was saying.

  I had Pimp by the arm, and I was trying to take him away from this guy, or perhaps from the street, from all that, and this cat was pushing it. He was pushing it, and I felt as though he was pushing me. I had told him, not in so many words, but when I just didn’t say hello to him, when I took Pimp away from him, I was telling him, “Get the fuck out of here, nigger.” This was what it amounted to. Still, he didn’t get the message. Before I realized it, I had hit him.

  He was lying down, looking up as if to say, “Sonny, what the hell is wrong with you?” I started to stomp him, kick him in the face.

  Some people were coming out. A preacher who lived in the next house and had known me for a long time came out. Ever since I was a little boy, in my nicer moments, I would run errands for him and his wife. I don’t know if he’d seen me hit Joe Norris and knock him down, but as I raised my foot over his face, I heard the voice of Reverend Caldwell. He said, “Hey, Sonny Boy, how you doin’?” as if he didn’t realize what I was about to do.

  At that point, I realized that I wasn’t really angry with Joe Norris. I was angry with Pimp, and I was trying to put it on somebody else, the way Mama would do. I put my foot down, and I said, “I’m sorry, Joe.”

  He got up and moved away from me. I guess he figured, This cat’s crazy, or something like that.

  When I turned around, Reverend Caldwell was right behind me. He put his hand on my arm and said, “Sonny Boy, I hope you ain’t havin’ any trouble out here with none of these people. Look, they can’t bother you. You’ve shown this Eighth Avenue what you can do. Don’t let none of those young hoodlums out there get on your nerves or bother you, because they can’t do a thing to you. You’re on your own and out of it.”

  I just didn’t want to hear it at that time, but I still had a lot of respect for him. I said, “Yeah, thanks a lot, Reverend Caldwell.” I said, “Come on, Pimp.” I guess Reverend Caldwell thought that I was being a little rude, but at that time I just didn’t care. I told Pimp to go on, and I sat down on the stairs in the hall.

  I felt bad. I had to pull myself together. I didn’t know what had happened. Maybe I was losing out. I hadn’t felt this bad in a long time. I used to feel this way about every other day in my childhood. As a matter of fact, it seemed as though the last time I had felt this way it was the time I jumped up, ran out of the house, and asked Turk and Bucky to go with me to steal some sheets.

  I started thinking about what had happened the last time I had really gotten violent, what had provoked it. I remember I was in a cafeteria down on Eighth Street and St. Marks Place. I had taken Judy in there to get
something to eat. We were waiting, and I had the tray. I used to come in there all the time by myself. It was a Jewish cafeteria, and the counterman was Jewish too. He used to always smile at me and act friendly.

  I came there this time with Judy. We had one tray. We were making our selections together. I had asked her what she wanted. The counterman looked at me scornfully. I said hello to him, because we had always acted friendly toward each other. He just seemed to resent me all of a sudden.

  I thought about it, and I realized that it was my being with Judy. To me, he was saying, “I thought you were a good colored boy; you knew your place.” He could smile at me as long as he thought I was a good colored boy who knew his place. Once I started acting like a no-good colored boy, or a colored man, he stopped smiling.

  After a while, he just turned his back to us. I asked him for something. I didn’t know his name, so I just said, “Hey, mister, we would like a cup of fruit salad.”

  He just never said anything, and he kept his back to us. Two other people came in. They asked him for something. He turned around and served them. I got mad, but I thought, Maybe I’m getting all pissed off about nothing.

  Somebody else came in, and he served him too. Then I knew that he was just doing this to spite us, to spite me. He was saying, “Look, you can’t come in here and bring that white girl in here and get any service.” I felt myself getting hot all over.

  Judy grabbed my arm and said, “Come on, Claude, let’s go.”

  I said, “No, wait, Judy. I’ve got to at least say something. If I go out of here now, I might want to come back and fight him.”

  She said, “Come on, Claude. It’s not that important. Let’s forget it. As a matter of fact, they’ve got crummy food in here anyway. Let’s go on Fourteenth Street.”

  I said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. It’s okay.” They had those heavy plastic trays there. Just when I thought I had control, I threw the tray across the counter and just missed his head. It hit a price sign in back, up over the grill, and it fell down.