Flying Home

by Ralph Ellison

  He looked out the window. There were horses now, a herd of them, running and tossing their manes and tails and pounding the ground all wild when the whistle blew. He saw himself on a white horse, swinging a l-a-r-i-a-t over the broncos’ heads and yelling “Yip, yip, yippee!” like Hoot Gibson in the movies. The horses excited Lewis, and he beat his hands against the window and cried, “Giddap! Giddap!” The boy smiled and looked at his mother. She was looking up from her page and smiling, too. Lewis was cute, he thought.

  They stopped at a country town. Men were standing in front of the station, watching the porter throw off a bunch of newspapers. Then several white men came into the car and one said, “This must be it,” and pointed to the big box, and the porter said, “Yeah, this is it all right. It’s the only one we got this trip, so this must be the one.” Then the porter jumped out of the car and went into the station. The men were dressed in black suits with white shirts. They seemed very uncomfortable with their high collars, and acted very solemn. They pushed the box over gently and lifted it out the side door of the car. The white men in overalls watched them from the platform. They put the box in a wagon, and the man said “Giddap” to the horses and they drove away, the men on the back with the box looking very straight and stiff.

  One of the men on the platform was picking his teeth and spitting tobacco juice on the ground. The station was painted green, and a sign on the side read TUBE ROSE SNUFF and showed a big white flower; it didn’t look like a rose, though. It was hot, and the men had their shirts open at the collar and wore red bandannas around their necks. They were standing in the same position when the train pulled out, staring. Why, he wondered, did white folks stare at you that way?

  Outside the town, he saw a big red rock barn standing behind some trees. Beside it stood something he had never seen before. It was high and round and made out of the same kind of rock as the barn. He climbed into his seat and pointed.

  “What is that tall thing, Mama?” he said.

  She raised her head and looked.

  “It’s a silo, son,” she said. “That’s where the corn is stored.” Her eyes were strangely distant when she turned her face back to him. The sun slanted across her eyes, and her skin was brown and clear. He eased down into the seat. Silo, silo. Almost as tall as the Colcord Building in Oklahoma City that Daddy helped to build …

  He jumped, startled; Mama was calling his name with tears in her voice. He turned around and tears were on her face.

  “Come around here, James,” she said. “Bring Lewis.”

  He took Lewis by the hand and moved into the seat beside her. What had they done?

  “James, son,” she said. “That old silo back there’s been here a long time. It made me remember when years ago me and your daddy came over this same old Rock Island line on our way to Oklahoma City. We had just been married and was very happy going west because we had heard that colored people had a chance out here.”

  James smiled, listening; he loved to hear Mama tell about when she and Daddy were young, and about what they used to do down South. Yet he felt this was to be something different. Something in Mama’s voice was vast and high, like a rainbow; yet something sad and deep, like when the organ played in church, was around Mama’s words.

  “Son, I want you to remember this trip,” she said. “You understand, son. I want you to remember. You must, you’ve got to understand.”

  James sensed something; he tried hard to understand. He stared into her face. Tears were glistening in her eyes, and he felt he would cry himself. He bit his lip. No, he was the man of the family, and he couldn’t act like the baby. He swallowed, listening.

  “You remember this, James,” she said. “We came all the way from Georgia on this same railroad line fourteen years ago, so things would be better for you children when you came. You must remember this, James. We traveled far, looking for a better world, where things wouldn’t be so hard like they were down South. That was fourteen years ago, James. Now your father’s gone from us, and you’re the man. Things are hard for us colored folks, son, and it’s just us three alone and we have to stick together. Things is hard, and we have to fight.… O Lord, we have to fight!…”

  She stopped, her lips pressed tight together as she shook her head, overcome with emotion. James placed his arm around her neck and caressed her cheek.

  “Yes, Mama,” he said. “I won’t forget.”

  He could not get it all, but yet he understood. It was like understanding what music without words said. He felt very full inside. Now Mama was pulling him close to her; the baby rested against her other side. This was familiar; since Daddy died Mama prayed with them, and now she was beginning to pray. He bowed his head.

  “Go with us and keep us, Lord. Then it was me and him, Lord; now it’s me and his children. And I’m thankful, Lord. You saw fit to take him, Lord, and it’s well with my soul in Thy name. I was happy, Lord; life was like a mockingbird a-singing. And all I ask now is to stay with these children, to raise them and protect them, Lord, till they’re old enough to go their way. Make them strong and unafraid, Lord. Give them strength to meet this world. Make them brave to go where things is better for our people, Lord.…”

  James sat with head bowed. Always when Mama prayed, he felt tight and smoldering inside. And he kept remembering his father’s face. He could not remember Daddy ever praying, but Daddy’s voice had been deep and strong when he sang in the choir on Sunday mornings. James wanted to cry, but, vaguely, he felt something should be punished for making Mama cry. Something cruel had made her cry. He felt the tightness in his throat becoming anger. If he only knew what it was, he would fix it; he would kill this mean thing that made Mama feel so bad. It must have been awful because Mama was strong and brave and even killed mice when the white woman she used to work for only raised her dress and squealed like a girl, afraid of them. If he only knew what it was … Was it God?

  “Please keep us three together in this strange town, Lord. The road is dark and long and my sorrows heavy but, if it be Thy will, Lord, let me educate my boys. Let me raise them so they’ll be better able to live this life. I don’t want to live for myself, Lord, just for these boys. Make them strong, upright men, Lord; make them fighters. And when my work on earth is done, take me home to Thy kingdom, Lord, safe in the arms of Jesus.”

  He heard her voice trail off to a tortured moan behind her trembling lips. Tears streamed down her face. James was miserable; he did not like to see Mama cry, and turned his eyes to the window as she began wiping away the tears. He was glad she was through now because the butcher would be coming back into the car in a few minutes. He did not want a white man to see Mama cry.

  They were crossing a river now. The slanting girders of a bridge moved slowly past the train. The river was muddy and red, rushing along beneath them. The train stopped, and the baby was pointing to a cow on the banks of the river below. The cow stood gazing out over the water, chewing her cud—looking like a cow in the baby’s picture book, only there were no butterflies about her head.

  “Bow-wow!” the baby said. Then, questioningly: “Bowwow?”

  “No, Lewis, it’s a cow,” James said. “Moo,” he said. “Cow.” The baby laughed, delighted. “Moo-oo.” He was very interested.

  James watched the water. The train was moving again, and he wondered why his mother cried. It wasn’t just that Daddy was gone; it didn’t sound just that way. It was something else. I’ll kill it when I get big, he thought. I’ll make it cry just like it’s making Mama cry!

  The train was passing an oil field. There were many wells in the field; and big round tanks, gleaming like silver in the sun. One well was covered with boards and looked like a huge Indian wigwam against the sky. The wells all pointed straight up at the sky. Yes, I’ll kill it. I’ll make it cry. Even if it’s God, I’ll make God cry, he thought. I’ll kill Him; I’ll kill God and not be sorry!

  The train jerked, gaining speed, and the wheels began clicking a ragged rhythm to his ears. There
were many advertising signs in the fields they were rolling past. All the signs told about the same things for sale. One sign showed a big red bull and read BULL DURHAM.

  “Moo-oo,” the baby said.

  James looked at his mother; she was through crying now, and she smiled. He felt some of his tightness ebb away. He grinned. He wanted very much to kiss her, but he must show the proper reserve of a man now. He grinned. Mama was beautiful when she smiled. He made a wish never to forget what she had said. “This is 1924, and I’ll never forget it,” he whispered to himself. Then he looked out the window, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, wondering how much farther they would have to ride, and if there would be any boys to play football in McAlester.

  Mister Toussan

  From New Masses, November 4, 1941

  Once upon a time

  The goose drink wine

  Monkey chew tobacco

  And he spit white lime

  —Rhyme used as a prologue to Negro slave stories

  “I hope they all gits rotten and the worms git in ’em,” the first boy said.

  “I hopes a big wind storm comes and blows down all the trees,” said the second boy.

  “Me too,” the first boy said. “And when ole Rogan comes out to see what happened I hope a tree falls on his head and kills him.”

  “Now jus look a-yonder at them birds,” the second boy said. “They eating all they want and when we asked him to let us git some off the ground he had to come calling us little nigguhs and chasing us home!”

  “Doggonit,” said the second boy. “I hope them birds got poison in they feet!”

  The two small boys, Riley and Buster, sat on the floor of the porch, their bare feet resting upon the cool earth as they stared past the line on the paving where the sun consumed the shade, to a yard directly across the street. The grass in the yard was very green, and a house stood against it, neat and white in the morning sun. A double row of trees stood alongside the house, heavy with cherries that showed deep red against the dark green of the leaves and dull dark brown of the branches. The two boys were watching an old man who rocked himself in a chair as he stared back at them across the street.

  “Just look at him,” said Buster. “Ole Rogan’s so scared we gonna git some a his ole cherries he ain’t even got sense enough to go in outa the sun!”

  “Well, them birds is gitting their’n,” said Riley.

  “They mockingbirds.”

  “I don’t care what kinda birds they is, they sho in them trees.”

  “Yeah, ole Rogan don’t see them. Man, I tell you white folks ain’t got no sense.”

  They were silent now, watching the darting flight of the birds into the trees. Behind them they could hear the clatter of a sewing machine: Riley’s mother was sewing for the white folks. It was quiet, and as the woman worked, her voice rose above the whirring machine in song.

  “Your mama sho can sing, man,” said Buster.

  “She sings in the choir,” said Riley, “and she sings all the leads in church.”

  “Shucks, I know it,” said Buster. “You tryin’ to brag?”

  As they listened they heard the voice rise clear and liquid to float upon the morning air:

  “I got wings, you got wings,

  All God’s chillun got a wings

  When I git to heaven gonna put on my wings

  Gonna shout all ovah God’s heab’n.

  Heab’n, heab’n

  Everbody talkin’ ’bout heab’n ain’t going there

  Heab’n, heab’n, Ah’m gonna fly all ovah God’s heab’n …”

  She sang as though the words possessed a deep and throbbing meaning for her, and the boys stared blankly at the earth, feeling the somber, mysterious calm of church. The street was quiet, and even old Rogan had stopped rocking to listen. Finally the voice trailed off to a hum and became lost in the clatter of the busy machine.

  “Wish I could sing like that,” said Buster.

  Riley was silent, looking down to the end of the porch where the sun had eaten a bright square into the shade, fixing a flitting butterfly in its brilliance.

  “What would you do if you had wings?” he said.

  “Shucks, I’d outfly an eagle. I wouldn’t stop flying till I was a million, billion, trillion, zillion miles away from this ole town.”

  “Where’d you go, man?”

  “Up north, maybe to Chicago.”

  “Man, if I had wings I wouldn’t never settle down.”

  “Me neither. Hecks, with wings you could go anywhere, even up to the sun if it wasn’t too hot …”

  “… I’d go to New York …”

  “Even around the stars …”

  “Or Dee-troit, Michigan …”

  “Hell, you could git some cheese off the moon and some milk from the Milky Way …”

  “Or anywhere else colored is free …”

  “I bet I’d loop-the-loop …”

  “And parachute …”

  “I’d land in Africa and git me some diamonds …”

  “Yeah, and them cannibals would eat the hell outa you, too,” said Riley.

  “The heck they would, not fast as I’d fly away …”

  “Man, they’d catch you and stick some them long spears in your behin’!” said Riley.

  Buster laughed as Riley shook his head gravely: “Boy, you’d look like a black pincushion when they got through with you,” said Riley.

  “Shucks, man, they couldn’t catch me, them suckers is too lazy. The geography book says they ’bout the most lazy folks in the whole world,” said Buster with disgust, “just black and lazy!”

  “Aw naw, they ain’t neither,” exploded Riley.

  “They is too! The geography book says they is!”

  “Well, my ole man says they ain’t!”

  “How come they ain’t then?”

  “ ’Cause my old man says that over there they got kings and diamonds and gold and ivory, and if they got all them things, all of ’em caint be lazy,” said Riley. “Ain’t many colored folks over here got them things.”

  “Sho ain’t, man. The white folks won’t let ’em,” said Buster.

  It was good to think that all the Africans were not lazy. He tried to remember all he had heard of Africa as he watched a purple pigeon sail down into the street and scratch where a horse had passed. Then, as he remembered a story his teacher had told him, he saw a car rolling swiftly up the street and the pigeon stretching its wings and lifting easily into the air, skimming the top of the car in its slow, rocking flight. He watched it rise and disappear where the taut telephone wires cut the sky above the curb. Buster felt good. Riley scratched his initials in the soft earth with his big toe.

  “Riley, you know all them Africa guys ain’t really that lazy,” he said.

  “I know they ain’t,” said Riley. “I just tole you so.”

  “Yeah, but my teacher tole me, too. She tole us ’bout one of the African guys named Toussan what she said whipped Napoleon!”

  Riley stopped scratching in the earth and looked up, his eye rolling in disgust: “Now how come you have to start lying?”

  “Thass what she said.”

  “Boy, you oughta quit telling them things.”

  “I hope God may kill me.”

  “She said he was a African?”

  “Cross my heart, man …”

  “Really?”

  “Really, man. She said he come from a place named Hayti.”

  Riley looked hard at Buster and, seeing the seriousness of the face, felt the excitement of a story rise up within him.

  “Buster, I’ll bet a fat man you lyin’. What’d that teacher say?”

  “Really, man, she said that Toussan and his men got up on one of them African mountains and shot down them peckerwood soldiers fass as they’d try to come up …”

  “Why good-God-a-mighty!” yelled Riley.

  “Oh boy, they shot ’em down!” chanted Buster.

  “Tell me about it, man!”


  “And they throwed ’em off the mountain …”

  “… Goool-leee!…”

  “… And Toussan drove ’em cross the sand …”

  “… Yeah! And what was they wearing, Buster?…”

  “Man, they had on red uniforms and blue hats all trimmed with gold and they had some swords all shining, what they called sweet blades of Damascus …”

  “Sweet blades of Damascus!…”

  “… They really had ’em,” chanted Buster.

  “And what kinda guns?”

  “Big, black cannon!”

  “And where did ole what you call ’im run them guys?…”

  “His name was Toussan.”

  “Toozan! Just like Tarzan …”

  “Not Taar-zan, dummy, Toou-zan!”

  “Toussan! And where’d ole Toussan run ’em?”

  “Down to the water, man …”

  “… To the river water …”

  “… Where some great big ole boats was waiting for ’em …”

  “… Go on, Buster!”

  “An’ Toussan shot into them boats …”

  “… He shot into ’em …”

  “… shot into them boats …”

  “Jesus!…”

  “… with his great big cannons …”

  “… Yeah!…”

  “… made a-brass …”

  “… Brass …”

  “… an’ his big black cannonballs started killin’ them peckerwoods …”

  “… Lawd, Lawd …”

  “… Boy, till them peckerwoods hollowed, Please, Please, Mister Toussan, we’ll be good!”

  “An’ what’d Toussan tell ’em, Buster?”