“Why, I beg your pardon, sir!”
I leaned forward and in a fit of rage yelled, “Well then go ahead! Beg!”
“Excuse me?” said the manager, confusion on his face.
“Beg me to pardon you.”
There was silence as he and the usher stood there gawking at us. The foyer was empty save for a few more ushers scuttling about. I waited for him to reply but didn’t hear a peep.
“That’s what I thought. You can’t bring yourself to beg a nigger for anything. You’re the worst kind of man. You’re not the type to whip us down South, but you’re perfectly fine running a so-called ‘fine establishment’ in uppity New York City that treats colored folks like garbage.”
“Sir . . . please,” he calmly said.
“No! I respect a man holding a sign in front of him that says he hates Negroes more than I respect you—a phony who hides behind a nice suit and fancy surroundings. You just don’t want anyone to know you’re a bigot. We’re in New York, not Alabama. There’s no law forcing you to follow this protocol. You choose to continue enforcing such barbaric rules.”
He stood there, beet red, along with his young sidekick. Somehow it was apropos that we had come to see a play entitled Shuffle Along, because that was exactly what we intended to do, rather than see the musical from the cheap seats. We stepped out into the night air and, with our spirits broken but pride still intact, shuffled along.
Driving home, I tried to imagine what Loretta was feeling. I recalled her birthday party and how I’d tried to explain Loretta’s upbringing to James. I knew she’d been shielded from discrimination her entire life, living in an upper-class colored community, encountering whites only while attending institutions that supported equality of the races.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded yes. But she wasn’t okay. Her father had succeeded in creating a unique reality for her, but in doing so he’d also created a very fragile soul. Of course, I knew she could ultimately survive the ugliness that existed out there, but how much would it change her?
“I love you, Loretta,” I said, thinking of the latest letter I’d sent to Du Bois.
“I love you too,” she quietly said. “Let’s just get home. I’ll make us some tea.”
I nodded, my mind still on the letter. After what had just happened inside that theater, I wondered if I was actually doing enough to keep Du Bois one step ahead of Garvey. The letter had been brief.
Dear Dr. Du Bois,
Please know that Marcus Garvey has every intention of offering one of your top men, William Pickens, a job offer he can’t refuse. He has learned that Pickens is unhappy with his pay there at the NAACP and intends to lure him away from you by offering him a cabinet position and a lot of money. He also intends to begin pulling your top members away one by one and believes this is the way to weaken the NAACP and strengthen the UNIA. Finally, please be aware that Garvey intends to make his Back to Africa plan come true by offering President Charles D. B. King of Liberia a two-million-dollar loan.
Sincerely,
The Loyalist
Glancing again over at Loretta, I thought of her future. I knew there’d be no more private school walls or liberal college fences to protect her. Her interpretation of the world was being challenged. However naïve it was, I loved her rosy optimism. I wanted to protect it. Millions of well-to-do white girls were afforded it. Why not her? I didn’t believe that she had to experience man-made ugliness in order to be a true artist. Life itself provided enough natural pain, like the death of her parents.
“I’ll drive by Fats’ and get us some of that cake you like,” I said, trying anything to lift her spirit just a tiny bit.
“Okay.”
I wondered if she no longer saw me as her knight in shining armor, the one who could do anything, even convince the racist theater manager to buck the rules and allow us to remain in the second row. Her admiring me was, in many ways, all I lived for. In the recesses of my mind I knew that even my becoming an agent was so that I could make possible a pathway to ascend to some impressive position in society—one that no other Negro had occupied.
“Cake and tea sounds good,” I said. “And I’ll read to you.”
She nodded yes as I continued driving, observing the many colored men walking the night streets, most of them very poor-looking, lumbering along as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders, wondering where to turn for some relief from the mighty grip of oppression. They were me and I was them.
But I was in denial in a sense, trying at times to pretend that I didn’t have colored skin. I had no desire to be a king as Garvey did. I just wanted to be free to rise as high as my ability and ambition would take me, and for Loretta to have no limitations placed upon her. I never wanted to pause and take the time to realize my true position in American society, that of a second-class citizen. Death would be better than accepting such a role.
25
OCTOBER 21, 1921, TURNED OUT TO BE A DAY I’D NEVER FORGET. James, Hubert Harrison, William Ferris, and I were sitting inside the machine house atop a gigantic steam shovel at the future sight of the Abyssinian Church, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee. We sat on the left side of the car frame with our legs hanging over.
It was early in the morning and none of the contractors had arrived yet to continue the excavation that had been going on for months. With nearly a quarter block of freshly dug dirt surrounding us and the sun barely peeking over the brownstones of West 138th Street, William opened a copy of the New York Times.
“Don’t you be bringin’ us no bad news this early in the mornin’, William,” said James, nibbling on his doughnut. “Gosh darn New York Times!”
William looked up and we all surveyed the various large mounds of freshly dug soil—some of which looked like fifteen-foot pyramids. The morning mist had dampened the ground, and we could smell the earth.
“I tell you what,” I said. “It looks like it may take another two years before this project is finished.”
“Gotta build it right,” said James. “Build it strong.”
“You see how the landscape drops down over yonder?” I said. “This big ol’ steam shovel we’re sittin’ on is at ground level. But the other half of this lot is already about fifteen feet deep. They’ve gotta dig this whole lot deep enough for a church basement.”
“You know how to operate a scary monster like this here, Sidney?” asked Hubert.
“Yep. But it takes a team of folks. Three. The engineer, fireman, and ground man. The engineer operates the shovel.”
“That’d be you?” Hubert asked, taking another doughnut from the brown paper bag.
“Mm-hmm. And if one of you wanted to be the fireman, you’d be in charge of tendin’ to that big boiler at the back of the house.”
They all three leaned back and stared at the large boiler as I reached into the bag and took the last doughnut.
“Good golly,” James jokingly said, chewing with his mouth open before I continued.
“You’d have to stoke the flames with coal and maintain just the right amount of pressure, enough to provide the steam needed to power the movement of that long dipper stick and heavy bucket out front. You reckon you’re up for the job, James?”
“Think I’ll stick to preachin’ if you don’t mind.”
“I think that’d be good,” I said, taking a big drink of coffee. “For all of our sakes.”
“You done good on helpin’ Reverend Powell out on this,” said James. “He a good man. One of the best. Sho nuff! You’ve done the Lord’s work on tryin’ to get this here church built. And believe me, your reward is comin’.”
“I cannot believe my eyes,” said William, staring at the newspaper. Something had obviously caught his attention and he handed the paper to James.
“What in the name of the good Lord do we have here?” asked James, setting his cup on the car frame, taking the last bite of his doughnut, and pulling the paper close. “I said don’t you bring me no bad n
ews this early, William.”
“What does it say, James?” asked Hubert.
“It says that President Harding just gave a speech in Birmingham, Alabama. The headline reads, HARDING SUPPORTS NEW POLICY IN SOUTH. A subtitle reads, NEGROES ENDORSE SPEECH.”
“But continue reading, James,” said William.
“It says, ‘Marcus Garvey, President General of the Universal Negro Improvement Association, sent the following telegram to President Harding yesterday congratulating him on his speech on the Negro question as delivered at Birmingham, Alabama.’ ”
“That’s what I thought it said,” quipped William, angrily taking the paper back from James. “I just wanted to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. I thought I saw Marcus’s name on that paper.”
“Marcus’s telegram reads just like this,” said William: “ ‘Honorable Warren G. Harding, President of the United States. Please accept heartfelt thanks of four hundred million Negroes of the world for the splendid interpretation you have given of the race problem in today’s speech at Birmingham. The Negroes of the world at this time, when the world is gone wild in its injustice to weaker peoples, greet you as a wise and great statesman, and feel that with principles such as you stand for, humanity will lose its prejudice and the brotherhood of man will be established.’ ”
“Jesus,” said Hubert.
“I can’t believe my ears,” added James.
“Wait,” said William. “The telegram goes further saying, ‘All true Negroes are against social equality, believing that all races should develop on their own social lines. Only a few selfish members of the Negro race believe in the social amalgamation of black and white. The new Negro will join hands with those who are desirous of keeping the two opposite races socially pure and work together for the industrial, educational, and political liberation of all peoples.’ ”
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Believe it or not, no,” said William. “He writes further: ‘The Negro peoples of the world expect the South of the United States of America to give the Negro a fair chance, and your message of today shall be conveyed to the four hundred millions of our race around the world. Long live America! Long live President Harding in his manly advocacy of human justice! I have the honor to be your obedient servant.’ ”
“Wow,” I said.
“He then signs off,” continued William, “‘Marcus Garvey, President General, Universal Negro Improvement Association and Provisional President of Africa.’ ”
“Did he really say, ‘I have the honor to be your obedient servant? ’” asked Hubert.
“Mm-hmm,” said William. “God as my witness. I wouldna believed it myself were it not right here in bold print. And in the New York Times at that.”
James grabbed the paper from William, slapped it with the back of his hand, and then threw it off the steam shovel.
“Marcus done miscalculated here,” said James. “Dr. Du Bois, Mr. Weldon Johnson, and the rest of the Talented Tenth will use these words against him like none he’s spoken before. They will use it as a rallying cry for American Negroes—those born here—to unite. And I don’t say ‘American’ lightly. American brothers and sisters won’t go for this. I won’t go for it.”
“Neither will I,” said William. “The last straw.”
“Absolutely not,” said Hubert. “Unacceptable.”
“Ain’t no Negroes raised in America ready to talk about being obedient to no man,” said James. “To God, yes. To a man, no. This a cryin’ shame.”
As the conversing continued, I recalled the conversation I’d had with Garvey. And though he’d told me of his plans to begin pushing a pro government agenda, never did I expect him to be so barefaced about it.
“He’s toadying to authorities,” said Hubert. “But he’s overreaching. It’s too big a switch. One day he’s railing against the government, the next he’s kissing their rear ends. It makes him look scared, desperate, and weak.”
“Tell you what,” said James. “If I was President Harding and received a letter like this from Marcus, it would only make me more suspicious of him. It’d surely make me think he’s up to somethin’.”
“Isn’t Marcus smart enough to see that?” I said. “What’s he thinking being so obvious—showing his hand so foolishly?”
“I’m through trying to figure out what he’s thinking,” said William.
“What Marcus has forgotten to realize,” said Hubert, “is that the very thing that made so many follow him was his brashness—his willingness to stand up to the white man and be ever so combative, even threatening.”
“Instead,” said James, “he’s now saying, ‘Look at me. I’ll be a good Negro, one you ain’t gotta worry about, as long as you let me be the leader of these millions of ignorant colored folks.’ But he’s got one problem. We ain’t ignorant.”
“Well said,” injected William.
“And,” added Hubert, “perhaps he should shelve his fantasy of being king of Africa. He should try focusing on being servant of his people here in America and in the West Indies. Be a servant, not a king!”
“Look here,” said James. “This is just between us, but I have officially parted ways with Marcus. I just haven’t done so publicly . . . yet. I’m going to start my own movement—one focused more on the American Negro.”
“When will you inform Marcus?” I asked.
“When the time is right. He can already smell something fishy when it comes to my challenging him in meetings and such.”
“He also can’t stand the way so many hang on your every word,” said William, “or how they scream and shout with approval when you speak at Liberty Hall. I could swear they cheer louder for you than they do for Marcus. And he detests it. I can see it in his eyes.”
“Listen,” said James, “when I do get this movement up and running, I want all three of ya’ll to be a part of it.”
We all just nodded, our thoughts still on the article. If James, Hubert, and William were any indication, Marcus had finally found a way to bite the hand that was feeding him. His top supporters were now falling off.
* * *
Later in the day I found out that Speed had also read the Times article. Of course, it had struck him in a much different way.
“I’ve got to hand it to him, Q,” he said. “Appealing directly to Harding. Does he think we’re fucking stupid?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Watch yourself, Q!”
“Then tell me,” I said, “what’s his angle?”
“He wants to keep the races separate so he can build his movement in the shadows, away from us with the guns and laws and prisons. He wants to buy time, enough time to build up his damn global army. Enough time to turn those empty toy guns into loaded rifles. He wants a bloody war of the races. He wants to kill, just like the Bolsheviks killed the czars. We’re the motherfuckin’ czars! Don’t you see, Q?”
“Does that we include me?”
“Sure, Q.” I could see him rolling his eyes through the phone. “Why not! Listen. What you, my colored friend, need to be concerned with, is stopping his damn revolution.”
“I’m doing my job,” I said. “Always have. I’m focused on the Orion purchase, just as we’ve previously discussed.”
“He’s now got every colored in the world thinking he’s in with the president. Slick sonofabitch! Coloreds will see this Times article as some sorta meeting of the minds between two leaders. Damn Africans are too ignorant to know the difference.”
“I think you’re misjudging coloreds as a whole,” I said. “You don’t know enough about us to make such claims. Stick to bashing Garvey, not the entire—”
“You know what I mean, Q. Not your type.”
“My type?”
“Look, Garvey and Du Bois have already shown that they’re communists. But now, with this letter, Garvey somehow expects whites to think he’s an America lover? Talk about lurching.”
“Just don’t insult my people. We are not a monolith
.”
“Mono-what?”
“Never mind,” I said.
“What Garvey’s actually doing, Q, is showing the Russians that he’s organized, that he can gather all the coloreds of the world up and hand deliver them to the Bolsheviks in their quest to take over the world.”
“Du Bois as well?” I asked.
“Of course. He’s targeting the uppity ones, though . . . the ones with money and education. Hell, Du Bois left for France today according to 6W6.”
“Is 6W6 going with him?” I asked, pleased that Du Bois knew exactly who Mann was because of my handiwork.
“No. He’s not going. But this trip of Du Bois’s comes after he attended a fundraiser just the other night at James Weldon Johnson’s house where a bunch of commies got together to help raise money for some colored poet’s trip to Russia. A Mr. Claude McKay.”
“Is that right?”
I knew about the event already from Hubert, who’d actually attended.
“Got the list of commies in attendance right here,” he said. “C77, as you know, is attached to Mr. Johnson.”
“Who’s on the list?” I asked. “Maybe I’ll recognize one who’s also in with Garvey.”
“Well, I know you know one. Hubert Harrison was on the old list that 800 gave us way back when you were first getting in. Remember your lunch down in Greenwich Village way back when?”
“Of course,” I said, feeling a bit stuck. “I see Hubert Harrison around a lot. But he stays busy editing Garvey’s paper.”
“Well, he was there with Du Bois at the fundraiser, Q. Also there were Walter White, Jessie Fauset, and a Rosamond Johnson. Any ring a bell?”
“No, just Hubert,” I said, already aware that he’d attended only because Claude had insisted.
“Also on the list,” he continued, “is a Mr. Heywood Broun, a Mr. John C. Farrar, and a Mrs. Ruth Hale. Bunch of these folks are white at that. There’s definitely a Red takeover in the works, Q.”
“Good work by C77, though.”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 24
