“Daddy, did you see that man?” I asked more urgently, but Father ignored me.
I peeked through the side view and the man was still there watching. I think he waved.
“That’s peas over there. See? Look at that. Boy, I usedta pick some peas back in Basile,” Father said fondly after hanging up the CB.
It didn’t matter which crop it was, he always would say he used to pick, cut, or dig that particular crop when he was growing up. Field peas. Mustard greens. Sugarcane. Potatoes. Rice. Turnips. Watermelons. And cotton. Cotton. Even Mother admitted to picking cotton back in the day. Now, when I first heard this cotton admission I recalled the TV movie Roots, with slaves picking cotton. It didn’t make sense to me. How could they have picked cotton? Response? Somebody or the other had a cotton farm and the cotton had to be picked. In Father’s case, it was part of his upbringing as sharecroppers if that’s what was growing. But Mother, she took a more noble explanation, saying that all of her cousins had to go to their grandparents’ house and toil under the sun to make the load as a rite of passage but, more important, as a lesson in hard work and how far black people had come.
Now, all of this was true. No exaggerations. And later I would discover that many people my parents’ age from Texas and Louisiana shared a similar plight. Some by necessity, like Father. Others as an excessive summer camp hosted by family members who still practiced the ancient art of cotton farming. Something about saying that you picked cotton carried a sense of history, strength, and perseverance. And these people from that generation downright bragged about that shit. I had to pick cotton. I had to pick cotton every summer. I had to pick cotton every summer or my uncle wouldna’ gave us nuthin’ to eat.
Since I associated picking cotton with slavery, I’d ask, “Did they whip you real hard?”
“What?” Father would ask.
“The white guy on the horse with the whip. Did he hit you real hard?” I’d inquire innocently, lamenting poor Kunta Kinte trying to escape a color twenty-inch Zenith plantation with foil paper on the antennas. Mother made me watch it, but Father wasn’t interested in reliving the past. I mean he really had a problem with Roots, which was really a show for white folks anyway. Why we gotta keep reminding ourselves about that shit? he’d say in his nonpolitical way. But keep in mind, Mother was the one who bragged about picking cotton, so a TV show that highlighted the labor was right up her child-rearing alley.
“If you was lazy out there, my uncle would get that belt,” both of them would say. Always an uncle who whips your ass extra special.
I continued with the questions about the crops, and Father was more than happy to identify them. In some ways, it was a reminder of Basile and the toils of being a sharecropper, but what I didn’t know was that he was an expert at things that grew from the ground.
He grinned and hummed Charley Pride in between sips of beer, puffs of tobacco, and my questions. But as we got closer to Angleton his mood began to shift and he quieted. It would soon be time for him to perform and he had to get in the zone.
We turned off FM 521 onto a gravel road that led into a desolate rough. Trucks and cars lined the sides of the road leading to an aluminum gate where an elderly black man in cowboy attire sold tickets for entry. Six dollars for adults. Three dollars for kids. Small, rectangular tickets were exchanged and we’d put those tickets in our hatbands. The rodeo arenas all looked the same, some larger or smaller than others. But always the same design, very functional and only the necessities.
A dirt road would lead to a large, usually one hundred yards, clearing in the middle of nowhere with a small arena built of rotting wood. Wooden bleachers sided the arena. Rotting wood, of course, with chutes and a wooden tower, where the announcer rambled from a scratchy PA system. Outside the arena, wooden, yes, rotting, outhouses were placed. And a shack with a huge barbeque pit in the rear served food and refreshments, and almost always hosted a jukebox and pool table.
This was the black rodeo circuit in Texas during the early 1980s. No sponsors. No telecast. Just hard-living rural black folks, mostly, who wagered their entrance fees on their ability to lasso or ride a large animal. Dangerous? Hell yes. Both the event and the people.
We waited in a line of trucks pulling horse trailers. Father scanned the large crowd. Some recognized his truck and would hoop and holler. Father casually nodded at his fans, hiding his glee. It took so long to become somebody. But he earned it—the good and the bad.
“John Frenchy!”
That’s what they called him after he returned to the South following the incident in Los Angeles, but he would say that he preferred the pseudonym rather than his given name because “them cowboy niggas is a rough bunch. They don’t need to know nothing about me.” But they did. They knew where he lived, where he kept his horses, where he worked, all the info. But then again, they admired him because he was deadly accurate with the lasso, the bullwhip, knives, pistols, arrows, spit, and every other thing he learned from those years in Basile, Louisiana, and from film sets in Agua Dulce Canyon, California. A regular Wild Bill Hickok with the charm and grace of a screen actor. He was smooth, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the women in attendance, married or unmarried.
But they also knew that he was tough and would fight at the drop of a dime. Nobody fucked with John Frenchy. Nobody.
Our horses snorted as they shuffled backward out of the trailer. TJ, carved from cream marble with a golden mane, made a stately exit. A proud animal indeed. Father grabbed the reins and huffed a command. The golden horse extended his front hooves, then dipped into a bow. Many looked at the spectacle as Father mounted the prostrating animal. Show-off. I put one foot in the stirrup of my skittish bastard, Black Jack, and he started moving, avoiding my mount, denying my glory.
“Yank the reins, Ti’ John.”
I did, but Black Jack kept moving so I had to mount in motion. Bastard.
Father lit a cigarette, then made a clicking sound. We headed out. He liked to take a spin around the arena when he’d first arrive to see his friends and let everybody know he was there. An impresario of the highest caliber. And off we’d go for our presentation lap. John Frenchy and Lil’ Frenchy. That’s what they called me, and I can’t say that I minded it much. It carried some weight with the rough kids of these rough people, because you sure as hell didn’t fuck with John Frenchy’s son.
Now imagine a black carnival where the smells of barbeque, cigarette smoke, and manure mixed into a delightful rustic aroma and nobody held their nose. All around us, black people of all ages in cowboy attire. Hats and boots. If your clothes were too clean then they’d assume you weren’t a real cowboy. As we moved slowly through the crowd on high atop our steeds, smiles and waves and whispers and nods confirmed Father’s status. He was a rock star and I was his son.
In the 1970s and early ’80s, Father competed in “breakaway” calf roping, where the roper flies out of the chute after a calf that’s given a bit of a lead. The roper must rope the calf, jump off the horse, slam the calf on its side, then quickly tie down all four legs with a smaller rope called a “pinky string.” The roper who can manage that in the shortest amount of time wins. That was Father’s money event. He was going to win that.
But he’d also compete in “team roping,” which involves two ropers who chase a steer out of a chute. One roper must lasso the steer’s horns (called “head”), and the other must lasso both back feet (called “tails”) for time. This required a different type of finesse because the head roper must swing the steer to make the back legs more available. This was John Frenchy’s big question as we rode around the arena. Who was going to be his partner for team roping?
Grown men would tease and pander to get Father to partner with them. They wanted the money and a chance for the buckle. Father enjoyed the attention and admiration with gibes and good humor, a subtle coaxing for side bets and lofty wagers. And while rodeoing is about athletic prowess and skill with the animal, it was also an occasion for good ole signify
ing, drinking, and gambling. This was outlaw business, and those who attended knew very well that only one or two constables might be present and, if so, probably drunk. So you had to watch your mouth and your stuff because anything could happen inside or outside the arena.
Father spotted his close friend, the bull rider Arthur Duncan, who would later become the first black man inducted into the Professional Bull Riding Hall of Fame.
“Eh, John Frenchy, who ya team-roping with?” Arthur Duncan said while helping me off the horse.
“Awh, none of these niggas can rope. Hell, I might have to carry me two ropes and work that steer by my damn self,” Father boasted as Arthur Duncan handed him a bottle of Wild Turkey for a hearty swig.
Father turned the bottle up, then chased it back with a Schlitz. A few slutty-looking rodeo bunnies eyed him from afar with suggestive gestures—batting fake eyelashes with over-applied eye shadow and nail-matching lipstick wet as water, exaggerated leans and bends to highlight skintight Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and danty snakeskin boots, and a “Hey, John Frenchy,” or a “You ropin’ today?” and almost always a “Where’s Mrs. Frenchy?” Answer? Mrs. Frenchy was at home asking the Blessed Mother to watch over her child and make certain Mr. Frenchy didn’t bring home anything she couldn’t wash out with Tide.
Of course, these rodeo bunnies found me absolutely adorable as it was Father’s habit to dress me in the same clothes that he wore when we’d go to rodeos. Strangely, only a few knew of John Frenchy’s affinity for dolls. I was a miniature version of him, I guess. And what greater trophy for a man than an actual living and breathing doll that looks just like you.
But these women fawned over Father incessantly, which only emboldened his hubris as we circulated around the arena before his events.
For his part, Arthur Duncan was the perfect colleague-in-recreation for Father. Duncan was a pure country boy from Brenham, Texas, who’d fine-tuned his championship bull-riding mastery in the Texas Prison Rodeo, where he served seven years for cracking his first wife’s skull after she commented on his complexion. Duncan was dark, very dark, and didn’t take too kindly to disparaging remarks about what the good Lord gave him. You didn’t talk about Arthur Duncan’s complexion or his pride and joy—his signature white cowboy boots.
When Duncan walked out of the Huntsville prison, in 1969, he became a black revolutionary but not with black berets, leather jackets, and propoganda. He carried his protest to the rodeo arenas. The white rodeo arenas. Besides his entrance fee, he typically had to pay much more to enter the events, which were basically white-only affairs in huge arenas constructed of steel and tin. Normally after he’d win an event he’d either have to fight envious cowboys or hightail it back to Brenham, usually both, in that order. But as the years passed and the number of championship buckles and subsequent fights grew, the white pro rodeo circuit accepted him—the man who fought for civil rights on the back of a bull with glowing lily-white cowboy boots.
Arthur Duncan and John Frenchy—the dangerous men—wrapped in a titan aura, a glow that gave them an air of nobility among derelicts, pleasure seekers, and good ole country boys—were royalty on the black rodeo circuit. And for two country boys that was a mighty fine accomplishment. Mighty fine, indeed.
Blues and country music blasted from the scratchy PA in between events. A fight broke out here and there. Somebody had a knife. Another had a gun. Men and women would make eyes and lurid whispers in ears for romps later, when it got dark.
Some were ex-cons like Father’s friend Butterfield, who was a known rapist and car thief. Others were educators like Dr. Poindexter, the veterinarian who taught at Prairie View A&M. He’d give discounted horse vaccinations to these cowboys, most of whom were cowboying on a budget. The Fifth Ward golden boy Mickey Leland kissed babies and provided photo ops for his next bid for Congress. Ntozake Shange sat sidesaddle on a Tennessee walker conjuring verses about a crowd that really didn’t know who the hell she was. Father seemed pleased with all of this as he nursed the beer with a familiar grin. Then he handed me five dollars and told me to be careful. That was it. Off I’d go into this den of thieves, playwrights, politicians, rapists, and veterinarians.
I took off for the refreshment area for a Frito pie and a strawberry soda. A few older kids had commandeered the pool table and were betting on shots, imitating the adults with wagers. Stevie Wonder professed from the jukebox—“that girl thinks that she’s so fine.” And I just tried to stay out of anybody’s way, but my presence wouldn’t go unnoticed. Girls my age were milling about, giggling, writing letters and notes on barbeque-stained napkins to the older boys around the pool table. This had been going on before I arrived. Then I entered and the focus shifted. The back of my neck got hot as a toaster, and it wasn’t because I was John Frenchy’s son, oh no, although that did have its benefits. I was the light-skinned dude in the room and, brother, the letters and notes started coming like I was the postman.
Since kindergarten, I had been well aware of the premium of being light-complexioned among black folks, particularly girls. I hadn’t spent much time around white folks, and when I visited family in Louisiana my skin tone really wasn’t a big deal because there were a lot of people who looked like me. But in Texas, this complexion thing was carrying some weight, both good and bad. I didn’t think too much of it, still working with a developing ego that only sought acceptance inasmuch as it would provide playmates and defense against bullies. At eight, that was my main emotional concern, but I did notice that for the past three years I had gained unearned favor with girls because of my looks. And riding the wall near a pool table in a shanty during a rodeo was no exception. There was a general excitement in their eyes when they saw me. Hell if I knew why. I couldn’t swim. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t pop a wheelie. I could barely throw a football. All of this because Mother wouldn’t let me go on Ricky Street, of course. But somehow none of that mattered and I wondered, if these girls knew all my shortcomings, would their eyes still dance? Or would I be the inadequate fly on the shanty wall that stood before them?
This attention didn’t go unnoticed by the older boys, who were plotting to get their fingers stanky or pull a little tongue. I inadvertently thwarted their plans and would soon become a victim if I didn’t figure something out. One of them, a little closer to my age, noticed what was going on and decided to befriend me, maybe thinking that some of this female attention would rub off on him. It kind of worked. His name was Harold and his father used to fuck him.
Harold was ten years old and was missing his front teeth. Big brown eyes and complexion with a dusty red afro. He had a lot of energy, but most of the boys didn’t play with him because the rumor about him and his father had circulated around the rodeo circuit for some time although no one dared to investigate.
After conferencing with the girls by the jukebox, Harold proudly came over to me and announced that two of the girls wanted to get booty. He pointed at the young vixens, who blushed. Hell, I blushed too. I hadn’t got booty, didn’t really know how except with my action figures, and that didn’t count. Harold then started to chide me about being scared of girls. This went on for hours until Arthur Duncan stepped into the refreshment shack with two young bunnies on his arms, saying, “Lil’ Frenchy! Ya daddy ’bout to rope.”
“You Frenchy’s son?” Harold asked as the older boys gathered around me with looks of astonishment. I told you he was a legend.
“Yeah,” I answered as humbly as I could, then left with Arthur Duncan and his foxy escorts.
Father won both events and left me under the care of a hideously obese woman who sold catfish sandwiches from an Igloo cooler so that he could flip his winnings with a throw of the dice. But I didn’t mind because the main event was coming as the sky darkened and the stolen stadium lights illuminated the dusty arena. It was time for the bull riding.
There are only two rules when you’re a youngster watching bull riding. Don’t put your fingers in the fence and don’t sit on the fence. Usually
, when you become a teenager, you show your courage by sitting on the fence but only after you have stopped shooting duck water. Bull riding is grown men’s business and deadly, as I would soon learn. After Arthur Duncan locked in a competitive time on his bull, a flurry of challengers came and went, most thrown off and some with rides too pathetic to garner any respect or score.
Then a gracile, pecan-colored man with a reddish brown “shag” (black folks’ answer to a mullet) confidently hopped the fence into the arena and headed for the chutes. His Wranglers looked as brand-new as his floral-print Western shirt, both of which looked heavily starched. I smirked, remembering Father once saying, “Cain’t trust no redheaded nigga ’cause a nigga like that grow up mad at hisself, mad at how his hair turned out.”
“That’s my daddy,” Harold said as he joined me next to the catfish sandwich woman.
“Oh yeah?” I responded, rather impressed that his redheaded, pedophile father was a bull rider.
Harold didn’t show up empty-handed either. Three prepubescent girls sat with us, smelling like candy, barbeque, cigarette smoke, and the all-too-familiar manure. They started pinching me.
Harold’s daddy climbed onto the beast with hurried confidence, staring down at the animal’s head with occasional nods to the chute boss and cowboys who strapped his right hand into the bull’s collar. He nodded quickly and the chute opened.
The animal charged out of the chute with angry bucks. Up and down. Twist to the left, then the right. And Harold’s father held on. You could hear Harold’s heart racing as his father reached the eighth second.
BUZZZZ.
The crowd roared. It was a fine ride indeed, worthy of a champion’s score if only he could dismount. He was stuck, locked to an angry animal that only sought to get the damn tickling rope off its hinds. But Harold’s father wouldn’t let go. In fact, he couldn’t. He was tied down to a series of ropes that extended to the bull’s hinds, behind the ribs. This is a sensitive area for many animals that arguably may tickle if touched. The bull hates this feeling just as most people do when tickled. Then there’s the cowbell that’s strapped to the animal for dramatic effect but also confuses it with every ring. So this half-ton beast is getting tickled and a bell is mocking it. No wonder they kick like hell.
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