Black Like Us
Page 30
The Negro soldiers get orders to move north and drop the men at a way station where displaced people wait.
The two are processed.
The linguist is returned to his adopted country.
The Italian is made a prisoner of war.
The linguist says, “When this is all over I will send for you.”
This is a slender thread.
In the end it is no use.
The beloved hangs himself shortly after he is taken prisoner.
The linguist, this being postwar New York City, gets a job in the kitchens of the Waldorf-Astoria. He translates for the Hungarian chef. When he hears of the Italian’s death he breaks down.
He is committed to the Metropolitan State Hospital where he will die.
A man is seated under a silk cotton tree in the Blue uniform of the mad.
There are no silk cotton trees anywhere near this place.
Epiphytes—plants that live on air—disport themselves above his head. Bromeliads whose sharp pink blooms last months.
The rainforest just beyond the man in mad dress reminds him of the forest where they hid, two men trying to be safe. But his mind’s eye moving closer he notes the difference.
In a contest—in a fancy dress parade of Green—the rainforest would win: a dead heat between the iguana and the breadfruit.
Home.
He places the beloved on the bench beside him. They face the Green impenetrable, listen to its suddenness of sound: shrieks, howls, echoes from within brick walls. The constrictors would tie with the man in mad dress for silence.
He holds his tongue.
CHERYL CLARKE
[1947–]
ONE OF THE MOST WIDELY PUBLISHED LESBIAN POETS WRITING today, Cheryl Clarke was born in Washington, D.C., to parents who respected and affirmed the experiences of black women and instilled a sense of self-determination in their daughter. As a literature student at Howard University in the 1960s, she discovered the works of James Baldwin and the male Black Arts poets of the period—an influence that politicized her. At Rutgers University, in the late 1960s, she read Gwendolyn Brooks, Audre Lorde, and Ntozake Shange, women whose voices profoundly shaped her craft. Clarke’s work draws on historical imagery to comment on contemporary concerns, especially from the perspective of an African American feminist.
Since coming out as a lesbian in 1973, Clarke has published four books of poetry: Narratives: Poems in the Tradition of Black Women (1982), Living as a Lesbian (1986), Humid Pitch: Narrative Poetry (1989), and Experimental Love (1993). She is also noted for her provocative essays “Lesbianism: An Act of Resistance” and “The Failure to Transform Homophobia in the Black Community,” which appeared in This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color and Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology respectively.
Clarke’s work concentrates on the experiences of black lesbians and black women in general, often speaking to the converging points of racism and sexism in American culture. “Women of Summer” (1977) offers a fictional account of African American lesbians in the black liberation movement during the waning civil rights era of the latter 1970s.
Women of Summer
[1977]
If we can just get through this state, N. thought, as she rode the bus next to her comrade, J., who slept nervously next to her.
IForty-five minutes. The friend would be waiting for them at the station outside the town where they would spend twenty-four hours before going south to her grandmother’s house in a small sharecropping town. She and J. would hold up there until they decided on their next point of action.
As she fitfully checked the cars that passed the bus—none of them resembling the charcoal Oldsmobile driven by the state troopers— N. was reminded of the limousine that Poochie had kidnapped the smug deputy police commissioner in.
“Took the mother-fucker in his own ride,” Poochie had laughed sullenly as he pushed the wiry, belligerent white man, blindfolded and at gunpoint, into the basement of L. F.’s brownstone.
“Look at the Long Ranger peein in his boots,” J. had crooned while she frisked the pockets of their hostage and Poochie disposed of the stolen blue uniform he had worn in disguise to pose as the deputy commissioner’s driver.
By the time N. had met Poochie at the docks in a navy blue Rambler, he had sufficiently schooled their hostage that any move of resistance would be treated as an attack on the people. The high-level cop had been cowed enough to submit docilely to the blindfolding, handcuffing, and gagging. N. stripped him of his badge and they both forced him into the back seat of the vehicle. N. took the wheel, while Poochie went back to the limousine to leave a brown envelope containing a typewritten communique:
DEPUTY POLICE COMMISSIONER PATRICK HALLORAN IS A PRISONER OF THE PEOPLE. IF PIG JEFFERSON MADIGAN IS NOT TERMINATED FROM YOUR VIGILANTE SQUAD IN 48 HOURS HALLORAN WILL SUFFER THE SAME DEATH AT THE HANDS OF THE PEOPLE AS YOUNG SISTER AVA CROCKER SUFFERED AT THE HANDS OF YOUR VIGILANTE, JEFFERSON MADIGAN.
—SHAKA
J. was dreaming of L. F., her old madame, handing her a folded newspaper void of print. Blood seeped from its folds. She saw collage images of herself reaching into her stocking leg and taking hold of her blade while the malicious “john” dismissed the threat and lunged himself forward until his chest absorbed the blade to its hilt. She jerked herself awake, in a sweat. The latter was a five-year-old rerun, the former was a variation of a new suspense film her mind had been conjuring of late.
N. put her arms around J. and gave her a reassuring hug: “Be easy, sister.”
N. remembered the day after Halloran’s body was found. H. had come to L. F.’s house. She and J. thought he would blame them for Poochie’s death. She heard H.’s soft voice again and vaguely smiled, reassured:
“Poochie was a street warrior. He made the commitment to die long before they murdered him in that parking lot. His executioners will not go unpunished. But not now. You must fly, while the pigs are disconcerted over Halloran’s funeral and increasing security around Madigan. They know Poochie did not work alone. They are searching for other warriors and calling in their informers. Here are bus tickets. Friends will meet you in the next state and get you further south. Sleep with your shoes and clothes on. Keep your pieces nearby. Be silent and unseen. Peace be with you, now, my sisters. Allah will protect you. The struggle continues.”
N. nudged J. awake as the bus pulled into the station. An empty blue and white patrol car was parked in the lot adjacent to the bus station. J. ignored its presence, but not its threat. They disembarked, scanning the area for the car H. had said would be waiting for them. They saw it and proceeded to get in. The friend smiled, checked her rearview mirror, and drove off. The patrol car remained parked.
“Welcome sisters,” the friend greeted. “You’ll stay with us for twenty-four hours.”
In about five minutes, the friend drove onto a short, curbless street lined with matchbox duplexes, Cadillacs, 225s, Grand Prixs, and VWs. Folks were sitting out on their steps. Young folk were holding conferences over fences, and little children were trading secrets by the street. Two young ones were shooed away by the imposition of the friend’s vintage Dodge on their spot.
“You chaps stay outta the street. Good evenin Miz Johnson. Kinda chilly this evenin. These are my friends from New England. They on they way south. Outta school and travelin,” said the big woman.
N. and J. smiled quickly and coldly, nodding their heads.
“When you leavin?’’ Mrs. Johnson queried out of politeness. “Tomorrow,” N. asserted coolly. “Soon’s we rest up and eat. Been travelin by bus for six hours.”
Into the house. The friend turned on the radio in the front room. “Let’s go into the kitchen. It’s my turn to fix dinner. I better start getting it together.”
“Who you fixin dinner for?” J. cross-examined her.
“You all, me, and my housemate. She doesn’t get home for a couple of hours,” the friend answered casually as she sprinted for the icebox door.
“Hand me that garlic powder in the cupboard, somebody. While you in there, get the Worcestershire sauce. We gon do it up right.”
“You from round here, sister?” N. asked.
“No. Further west.”
The sound of the radio intruded upon the domestic quiet.
Bad Black News. Straight from the street to your soul! The funerals of deputy police commissioner Patrick Halloran and his alleged kidnapper and assassin, Carl “Poochie” Williams, were held today. Williams was slain by police and FBI in the parking lot behind his wife’s building five days ago.
An estimated five hundred people attended Halloran’s funeral. The mayor and police commissioner and four other police and city officials were his pallbearers.
Shortly after the funeral, WBAD reporter Samad Zayd got these statements from Mayor Albright and Police Commissioner Riley:
“The murder of Deputy Police Commissioner Halloran was a cruel and vicious act. No stone will be left unturned in our investigation and destruction of the black terrorist organization, SHAKA.
“Pat Halloran was my friend and colleague. He was a husband, father, and grandfather. He will be mourned by his family as well as by his fellow police officers. With the assistance of the FBI we are calling in suspected sympathizers of SHAKA for questioning. We have detained Erlene Williams, the murderer’s wife, in custody. We are investigating all evidence that might lead to the capture of Williams’ accomplices. We ask for the cooperation of the black community so that we might destroy this band of police murderers.”
Almost simultaneously, WBAD Bad Black News reporter Tamu Malik recorded Imam Hassan Shahid’s eulogy for the deceased Poochie Williams. Williams was mourned by his wife, who attended under the guard of federal investigators, his five-year-old daughter, his mother and father, and 200 friends. Shahid cried throughout his speech, which attacked police killings of black people:
“…How many deaths have black people suffered at the hands of gun-crazy police? Halloran was an enemy of our people though he might never have raised a gun to shoot a black person. He harbored a known murderer of our people— Jefferson Madigan, a devil who gunned down fourteen-year-old Ava Crocker. Our brother warrior, Poochie, always struggled to turn the fascists’ murderous force back on them. But he rests now with Allah who will grant that Poochie’s spirit fertilize our revolution. A-Salaam A-laikum, brothers and sisters. The struggle continues.”
WBAD reports that officer Madigan is still under heavy guard, for fear that SHAKA might carry out its sentence of execution against him. Madigan was not indicted for the murder of Ava Crocker, the fourteen-year-old black girl whom he killed during the process of arrest. Madigan claimed that the youngster was a known drug dealer and that she resisted arrest when Madigan stopped her at twelve midnight on June 15 while on routine patrol.
Police sources reported to WBAD that Williams was also wanted for questioning in the partial bombing of the police station in the precinct where young sister Ava was killed. A witness, who saw two figures fleeing from the direction of the station house immediately preceding the explosion, identified Williams from police mug shot files. The witness could not determine the race or sex of a person whom he described as light-skinned and running beside the person alleged to have been Williams. Police say a woman might have been his accomplice.
Now back to music straight from the street to your soul on WBAD!
For the first time, the friend noticed N.’s light skin and straight, short hair. She took the elbows of N. and J. and escorted them out to the back yard.
“Where were you all when Poochie was murdered?”
“I was barricaded in an old whorehouse when my old madame brought me the paper. All I read was the headlines,” answered J.
“I was reporting to my parole officer,” N. answered with a smile in her voice. “When I heard the news over her desk radio, she asked me did I know him.”
“Well, if we’re lucky, you’ll be in violation of your parole next week. Mine got a warrant on me by now. I ain’t reported in three months,” said J. “How did the pigs get Poochie?”
“Informer,” J. asserted.
“It was just a matter of time before they got him if he stayed in the city,” N. corrected J. “After that tugboat captain saw Halloran’s limousine at the docks, he called the pigs. When they read the communique from SHAKA, the FBI came in on the case. They opened their file on what they call ‘Black Militants’ and did a massive shakedown of all of us in the area. Poochie had been one of the eight brothers and sisters who was tried and imprisoned for a bombing conspiracy that was instigated by an agent provocateur. Naturally, he would be among the first ones the pigs would come looking for.”
“Poochie wanted Madigan, though,” J. commented impatiently.
“I followed the Madigan affair pretty close. And I must admit that I wasn’t surprised when the grand jury didn’t indict him,” stated the friend.
“In a way Madigan not being indicted by the grand jury was a victory for black people,” mused J.
“Why so?” asked the friend.
“Cuz niggers need to be constantly reminded that there ain’t no hope.” “And that wasn’t no witness that ‘identified’ Poochie and some ‘light-skinned figure’ running away from the police station the night it was bombed. It was an informer. They gonna pin every unsolved crime in the city on Poochie to make people think revolutionary justice is the act of one of a few anti-social niggers who have a ‘burning’ hatred of white people,” N. agreed with J.
The friend escorted them back inside. She sprinted again over to the oven door and looked in at her meatloaf.
“Let’s set the table and eat. My housemate can eat when she gets home. We won’t have to wait.”
N. and J. searched frantically for eating utensils in the unfamiliar kitchen, one of many they had found themselves in during the last six months. N. volunteered to make a salad and, hot as it was, J. perked some coffee.
“Will your grandmother be happy to see you all?” the friend directed at both of the strange women who seemed to be getting more comfortable in the work of preparing some grits.
“I know we can stay there. That’s all I know,” N. said curtly.
At that point a short, dark-skinned woman entered the door with an English racer and a knapsack strapped to her back. She parked the bike in a corner and came to the kitchen at the sound of voices and movement. She smiled a greeting at the two strangers and walked over to the big friend, reaching up and massaging her shoulder while the big friend bent over and kissed her lightly.
“This is my housemate, earlier than I expected. Dinner’s ready. Let’s chomp.”
“In a minute,” answered the small woman and slipped her knapsack off her shoulder as she headed toward a closet in the dining area. She pushed a black leather hassock over to the closet and climbed up on it. She rummaged noisily through packages of various junk on the closet shelf. She jumped off the hassock and stuck two rectangular objects into her knapsack.
“Those car tags?” J. queried.
“Yeah, better put them in my bag fore I forget them for tomorrow,” the small friend responded, as if put off by the question.
“Oh, you the one that’s drivin us to W.,” J. nodded.
The tag-woman was about 4 feet 11 inches, N. guessed. She didn’t appear to be a short person. She shuffled into the kitchen and returned with a fully-heaped plate. Saying nothing, she started right into scarfing with the three of them.
“Tastes good, roomie. I was hungry as forty,” the small woman said.
“Yeah, was good. First time in days I been able to relax long enough to eat food,” N. chimed in.
“Um,” belched J.
“How about some cards?” the tag-woman suggested.
“Right on. They used to call me Six Low Sue in th
e House of D,” J. bragged as she curled her lips and spread her nostrils.
“I was hopin you all would play some Pinochle,” the big friend countered.
“Oh, let’s play Bid Whist. Too many cards in Pinochle,” J. pleaded.
The big friend got out a straight deck, riffled it, laid it to the right for J. to cut. She dealt, and N. bid: “Three Low.”
“This ain’t Pinochle, sister. The bid only goes around once. Four- No,” challenged the tag-woman.
J. looked askance at the dealer and her partner, N., and bid: “Six Low.”
“Six-No…Uptown,” said the big friend and picked up her kitty. J. threw two jokers out of her hand and exchanged them for two useless cards from the discard pile.
“Shit,” J. muttered.
“Don’t worry partner. We’ll set them,” N. asserted.
After the big friend played seven spades from Ace to seven, she looked at N. and smiled, “Looks like you all might be goin to Boston tonight before you go to W.”
“I got one book,” J. defended.
“You ain’t have shit in your hand cept those two jokers. I know why they called you Six Low Sue if all you can do is bid a Six Low,” said N. disgustedly.
“Don’t get down on your partner, you gon need her for that one book,” the tag-woman advised.
The big friend played a Queen of Hearts in the last trick of the game and J. bested her with the King hold card.
“Well, I guess you can all rest here for the night. You won’t be going to Boston, after all,” the big friend teased.
“I am going to bed though. That Six-No took me out,” N. confessed. J. shook her head, yawning, in agreement.
The big friend showed them upstairs to a large room with a king-size bed and laid towels at its foot.
As she was getting ready to rest her bag on a chair in the room, N. stopped in mid-motion and said to the big woman, “We can sleep downstairs on the couch and floor. We don’t have to sleep in your bed, sister.” J. curled her lips in response to N.’s willingness to sacrifice their comfort for a floor and a couch.