He would have been retiring soon anyway, I imagine. But it’s a sad day for the neighborhood. Harlem has lost part of its social consciousness.
NEW YORK AMSTERDAM NEWS
OCTOBER 26, 1974
National Memorial African Bookstore, Inc.
101 West 125th Street, New York, NY 10027
Special SALE Notice
TO THE PEOPLE OF HARLEM
From the National Memorial African Bookstore
The oldest Black Bookstore in the U.S.A. with the largest collection of books by and about Black people in the world, regrets to announce that after 35 years of serving the Harlem community as a branch of the learning tree of knowledge, we are being forced to move from our present location at 101 West 125th Street, to make room for the completion of the State Project.
We are currently running an anniversary sale which will continue throughout the months of November and December. We have 20,000 Black books which are regularly priced from $3.00-$10.00, however, during our sale they will sell for 99 cents each. We also have 50,000 current Black publications which are being sold for 1/2 the regular list price. There are hundreds of children’s books included in these collections. Of special interest to the parents of Harlem, we have 20,000 paperbound books giving the history, in pictures, of how the children of Africa live. These books will be given away to every child between the ages of 5 and 10 years old who visits the store accompanied by their parents, whether or not you make a purchase. So hurry in, while the supplies last!
Bookstores should note that they can buy these books cheaper than from the publishers. Book collectors are especially invited to view our collection of hundreds of out-of-print and rare books, by and about Black folks.
So come on in and replenish your libraries—Bookstores, libraries, school teachers, parents and colleges are all welcome.
We’re going to call it a day—I’m going away, I’ve paid my dues, now I’m buttoning up my shoes and going to some island that I’ll choose.
Lewis H. Michaux
Snooze
I walk up to the bookstore today and almost fall out right there in the street. Mr. Michaux is selling all his books. He’s closing down. Hell, he’s being shut down . . . by the Man.
I about cry when I read his sign. . . . “This is the end of a perfect day. Farewell to my good friends of Harlem. Thank you for your support over these many years.”
Class. That’s Mr. Michaux in a word. Class.
If it wasn’t for him, there’s no way I would have finished school. I didn’t do great, but I got my diploma. A real diploma, not just a G.E.D. Then took some business college classes. Been working down at the community center for years now. Just got another promotion. Finally got me a business card—“Samuel Walker, Youth Supervisor and Program Director.”
I’se been a-climbin’on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners . . .
I’se still climbin’,
If it wasn’t for that one man. . . .
I’ll have to tell the kids at the center to get to the store before it closes. Mr. Michaux would like that, and it wouldn’t do them any harm either.
SPIRIT MAGAZINE
1975
MICHAUX’S—THE MAN AND THE INSTITUTION
BY GERALD GLADNEY
He saw what time and design had done to his people. He felt the need to do what he could to alter that state. He saw a place for himself in the world of the printed word. Such is the beginning of what is formally known as The National Memorial African Bookstore ; what the owner calls “The House of Common Sense and the Home of Proper Propaganda;” what is affectionately known as “Michaux’s.”
When Dr. Lewis Michaux established his institution, the Harlem Renaissance was waning and the Great Depression weighed heavily on the country. The situation was anything but promising for a new black business, but Dr. Michaux—who frankly admits that he knew nothing about the book business when he started—established and maintained an institution that has served the black community for nearly four decades.
At last inventory, Dr. Michaux stated he had “225,000 volumes of black books” in his collection. These volumes included books by, about, and of importance to black people—the works of historians, the poetry and fiction of black people, and publications that discuss the Western religions and their roots that have helped to shape the lives of black people—enlightening discussions that one is not likely to come across in the churches.
But The National Memorial African Bookstore is more than a bookstore—which is probably the reason it’s called Michaux’s. His name encompasses much more than the word bookstore. The store at one time housed a Black Hall of Fame. Michaux’s contained what seemed to be an endless list of dynamic images that ranged from the fathers of all civilization to the prophets of this century.
Michaux’s carried spoken-word recordings, photographs, art, black magazines and was the center for many of the famous Harlem rallies. One that Dr. Michaux recalls fondly featured keynote speaker Ghanaian President Kwame Nkrumah.
Another very important and very human aspect of the store was that one did not have to be economically endowed to enjoy the fruits of the institution. Many penniless black seekers of knowledge crossed the threshold of Michaux’s and were allowed to use the store as a reference center so that those students could supplement/supplant their education/non-education.
Dr. Michaux himself is a primary source of information on contemporary history. He knew, counseled, and instructed Malcolm X, as well as others who patronized the store.
In all probability, I wouldn’t be writing this article if we weren’t in the process of losing Michaux’s. Up until about seven years ago, Michaux’s was located just off the northeast corner of Seventh Avenue and 125th Street. Then the store was forced to move closer to Lenox Avenue in order to provide space for the construction of the state office building. Now the continued construction of the state office complex is forcing Michaux’s out of business, for he cannot afford another move. Vice President Rockefeller, then governor, had promised Dr. Michaux a place in the state office complex, but the subsequent change in the New York State leadership has dealt a severe blow to the fulfillment of that promise. So now we face the loss of this important black institution.
Dr. Lewis Michaux is eighty years old. He wants to retire. He has earned—with a capital ‘E’—the right to retire. But the need the store spoke to still exists.
One can only hope that the Michaux magic will remain in the hearts, minds and folklore of those who touched him and were touched by him.
But the retail store, the reference center, the home of the continuous propagation of “Proper Propaganda” can be maintained. And the history of Michaux’s is unimpeachable evidence for the need to maintain those elements. That much we owe ourselves, and the realization of this is the highest tribute we can pay to Dr. Lewis Michaux, the man, and the institution he created.
NORRIS E. MICHAUX III
When I first moved to the city, I would visit Uncle Lew at the bookstore when I was playing at the Apollo. Back then, I would always be with a different band—Chocolate Syrup, Slick and the Family Brick, Moment of Truth. We had many conversations in the back of his bookstore. He always encouraged me to stay with music, but not “sing the blues.”
One time I visited the store I was calling myself “Jesus.’” I had really flipped. Uncle Lew said every time he sees me, I’m starting over. He asked what was wrong with having a purpose like Jesus but using my own name? Look how far I could have come, he said, if I had just been myself from the beginning. And I would still be building.
When I went back a month or so later, I was becoming MICHAUX III. At least I had come up with the concept. That’s when he told me his story about the seeds. He said,
A person has to have confidence in what he’s going to do. If he don’t, he’s not going to do it long. He has to have confidence first in his idea and next in himself.
Two men hav
e different ideas and they go to work on them. Now the first fella’s idea may come up soon. Yours may linger a long, long time, but any idea, if it’s well done, will come up in its own time.
You can plant five seeds at the same moment—tomato, potato, cabbage, lettuce, beets—plant them at the same moment. And they all don’t come up at the same time. If the beet would get discouraged because the cabbage come up in front of him, then there wouldn’t be no beets. And if the cabbage would get discouraged because the tomato come up before his program, then there wouldn’t be no cabbage.
Now the evidence of a test that’s gonna come in your time of doing is the sacrifice. Hungry—that’s in the making of the program. Broke—that’s in the making of the program. All these things will discourage you. But you can’t let them discourage you.
I believed that I would do a thing, and I went to work doin’ it.
LEWIS JR.
I grew up in that store. One of my jobs on weekends was carrying the signs out in the morning. And the African flags . . . putting them in the holders near the curb.
I was only about eight or nine when Muhammad Ali came in the bookstore. I’ll never forget. His hand was so big, when he shook mine, it was like a giant’s. I met Malcolm X there too.
That’s all over now. The store is closed. Dad was able to sell many of the books, but they went so cheap, he’s taking a loss. I guess we should be thankful the state offered temporary storage for what’s left.
A broken leg’s bad enough, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Moving the rest of the inventory will have to wait until after I get this cast off. Dad doesn’t have the energy. The cancer makes it harder and harder for him to work. And Mom can’t do it alone. The store would already be closed if it wasn’t for her. I know we can get people to help us with the books, but we need to be at the warehouse and the store to supervise the move and keep track of the inventory.
I know Dad’s glad to be retiring, but he’s disappointed that the store won’t be continuing. He should be proud. Because of him, many blacks were encouraged by the words they read to go out and achieve, many found pride in a heritage they never knew before, and black writers reached more readers.
I’d like to find a way to reopen the store on a small scale. Maybe offer the rare editions and some contemporary black titles. I’m not Dad and never will be. But I might be able to carry on some of his work.
LEWIS
MARCH That old devil cancer is winning all the battles. Norris wanted to die at home, but when I saw him last week, I knew he’d never leave that hospital bed. He passed on today. I guess we all gotta go sometime, but none of us has figured out why pain has to be such a big part of the going.
Norris had his issues, but he didn’t have a bad life. Sinah’s a good woman and he’s got three sons and some grandchildren, even great-grandchildren.
I suspect that job at the felt company wasn’t his first choice, but it supported his family. And he did leave his mark on the world—the children, of course, and his “Charleston” years of dancing and shooting pool.
If I was writing his eulogy, I’d say my brother loved his family, the pool table, the beach, dancing, and even that old bullet scar. He got quite a kick out of showing it to the grandkids and telling his puffed-up version of the story.
My time’s coming. What will they say about me?
FIRST ANNUAL LEWIS H . MICHAUX
BOOK FAIR FLIER
MAY 1976
On Friday and Saturday, May 21 and 22, the Studio Museum in Harlem will sponsor the First Annual Lewis H. Michaux Book Fair, in honor of one of the true legends in the world of book selling, and the institution he established and maintained for nearly four decades, the National Memorial African Bookstore. Admission is free. The event is from noon to 6:00 P.M. each day.
The book fair will include displays of books by and about blacks, and the offerings of over fifty small presses, commercial, and academic publishers. There will be an exhibition of Mr. Michaux’s photographs of black literary figures and some of his rare books, manuscripts and letters. Several noted authors will participate in readings and workshops.
When the bookstore closed for good in 1975, New York lost one of its most beloved and important institutions. The book fair is not intended to reopen the bookstore, but to pay tribute to its founder, Dr. Lewis H. Michaux.
LEWIS
I’m not easily surprised, but the folks at Seton Hall University sure got me with that honorary doctorate. I guess I’m finally a professor . . . legitimately. I didn’t need it, but it sure feels good.
The book fair, too, gave me a boost. Seeing black publishers, writers, and readers coming together. That’s what’s needed for black publishing to grow and survive.
They called it the “ First Annual Lewis H. Michaux Book Fair.” I’m not long for this world, but maybe the spirit of my work will live on.
NORRIS E. MICHAUX III
I’ve been thinking about what Uncle Lew said—when you plant your seeds, they don’t all come up right away. And about the need for confidence. He told me to look back on everything I’d done and use it as a foundation to move forward.
At the hospital, I talk to Uncle Lew about a song I wrote about the seeds of our family tree. “I’m taking your knowledge and Uncle Lightfoot’s knowledge and using it to create my own philosophy.”
He’s weak. The cancer’s bad. But he manages to say, “You’re building upon a strong family, a strong history that will be lost unless somebody picks it up. There has to be somebody who’s a part of it in spirit to keep climbing, to make it a reality.”
I leave the hospital inspired. Confident. Grateful. And sad—knowing it might be the last time I see him.
I know Uncle Lew told me not to, but tonight I might have to sing the blues.
LEWIS
AUGUST Looks like this hospital will be my last address. I remember how pitiful Lightfoot and Norris looked in their final days. Guess it’s my turn.
It would be nice to have some more years. For Bettie. And our son. Suppose I should have thought of that when I was smokin’ them cigarettes and working twelve-hour days at the store. I know that got old for Bettie. I could have retired sooner. Ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now.
Shouldn’t complain though. My life was no crystal stair, far from it. But I’m taking my leave with some pride. It tickles me to know that those folks who said I could never sell books to black people are eating crow. I’d say my seeds grew pretty damn well. And not just the book business. It’s the more important business of moving our people forward that has real meaning.
Lightfoot had the money, but I got something else. Where did I get that literary idea? I could have been an iceman.
When I found out about the cancer and started replaying my life, I got to wondering. So, I said, “Lord, what do you think? Did I do all right?” I got my answer about a week later.
Bettie and I were downtown in Horn and Hardart’s having a cup of coffee when a young man came over and touched me on the shoulder.
“Mr. Michaux,” he said, “I don’t know if you remember, but my father bought me a book on medicine from you. You said I should become a doctor.” He handed me his business card and said, “If you’re ever in Boston, please stop in my office.”
That little boy, Calvin was his name, that little boy grew up to be a doctor! I managed to stand and shake his hand. Then he hugged me like we were old friends. My eyes teared up and I knew, if I let myself, I could bawl like a baby.
Lightfoot got the money, but I’m leavin’ this world a rich man. As Frederick Douglass said, it’s the delight of my soul to have done something to better my race.
Snooze
AUGUST 25 When I heard Mr. Michaux died today, it sent me back to Dunbar.
Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day;
We even lay the book away;
But oh, how sweet the moments sped
Before the final page was read!
We tried to read between the lines
The Author’s deep-concealed designs;
But scant reward such search secures;
You saw my heart and I saw yours.
BETTIE
AUGUST 25 When you left today, I was overwhelmed with a cold feeling of loneliness. Yes, you are no longer in pain and, yes, you are in a better place. But I’m not ready—the consequences of loving an older man. Twenty-four years is not enough. People say I can “start again” at fifty-six, but who on this earth could take your place?
I’m just so mad, Lewis! Mad at you. And that damn bookstore. Good riddance. All the hours. All the years. So much of your life, of yourself you gave to that place, to its people, to everyone but me. You were the store. The store was you. It’s what made you the man I loved. But I wish it had gone long before you.
Lewis Jr. is my comfort now. It’s hard to believe he’s a man. When I told him you were gone, he hugged me and said, “We’ll make it, Mom.” His voice was shaking, but his arms felt strong . . . safe.
Thank you for our son, my darling. Thank you for a life with purpose, a life with spirit. Thank you for our life together that was too short, but oh so very, very sweet.
Charles E. Becknell
Alex Haley said that when an older person dies, it’s like a library burning to the ground. I think Haley was saying we, as African Americans, don’t talk enough with our grandmothers and grandfathers and extract their life information. They take it with them when they go, and that library’s gone.
No Crystal Stair Page 10
