How Sweet the Sound

by Vanessa Miller

  The way she was feeling right then reminded her of how low she’d felt after being knocked out of the Miss Bronze America competition after placing in the semi-finals. Shar’s mother had spent the last bit of money they had to purchase the material for Shar’s dress. She had wanted to win that competition to pay her mama back, but instead they had fallen further behind in their bills and had to take on more day work to make ends meet. “It’s not fair,” she whispered.

  “What’s not fair?” Emma Jean asked as she came into the room she shared with Shar.

  Startled, Shar jumped. She then sat up in bed and pulled the cover close to her chest. “Don’t you knock?”

  “We share this room, remember? Although, you do seem to be in it a lot more than I am. What’s going on, Shar? Have you been crying again?”

  Shar turned her head and wiped the tears from her face.

  Emma Jean sat down on the edge of the bed. Her voice was sympathetic as she said, “Look, Shar, I know that what happened with Matthew was awful, but it could have been worse.”

  “How could it have been worse? Matthew’s arm is broken, and he can’t play the guitar.”

  “He’s still alive and his arm will heal. In the meantime his brother, Nicoli James, has stepped in and offered to play the guitar for us.”

  Shar grabbed some tissue and blew her nose. “I didn’t know Matthew had a brother.”

  “He showed up last night.” A big grin spread across Emma Jean’s face as she added, “And girl, he is so handsome, I could hardly remember the words to the song we were singing for drooling over him.” Emma Jean then began fanning herself as if she needed to cool down.

  Laughing as she watched Emma Jean fan herself, Shar said, “Nobody is that handsome.” Although she remembered drooling over Landon Norstrom a few times while sitting in that choir stand back home.

  “You just need to get out of this bed and come see for yourself.”

  The laughter stopped as Shar thought about the days that she had spent as a prisoner of the boardinghouse she was in. She’d stayed in that bed for the last three days, only getting up to use the bathroom. “I don’t know, Emma Jean. I feel bad that you all are out singing every night, and I’m stuck in here. But every time I think about leaving, I imagine all these terrible things happening to us.”

  “Well, nothing has happened to us these last few days. Maybe God will provide peace for us during the rest of the tour. Just look at this nice boardinghouse we’re staying in. If God didn’t help us find this nice lady, then who did?”

  “Mrs. Smith is nice to us,” Shar agreed.

  “You know what I think?” Emma Jean asked.

  “What?”

  “I think God has placed Mrs. Smith into your life to be your angel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Open your eyes, Shar. Mrs. Smith didn’t shut the door in our faces when we asked to rent the room. Matter of fact, she seems to be waiting on you hand and foot. Bringing you breakfast and dinner when you don’t get up to get it yourself.”

  “I didn’t ask her to do that.”

  “That’s just what I mean. Mrs. Smith did that stuff for you, simply because she can tell that you’re hurting and wants to help.”

  Shar’s eyes filled with tears again. “She has been trying to make me smile. I think she feels bad about what happened to us in Mississippi.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Mrs. Smith is white.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “These is good white folks. That’s why I say she is your angel. I’m telling you, Shar, God directed us to her house.”

  When Shar didn’t respond, Emma Jean said, “Come on, girl, get out of this bed and let’s go. We’re singing at a Baptist church, and you know they won’t allow our musicians to play. So we are going to need all the best voices in the choir tonight.”

  Shar admired Emma Jean. She had a beautiful voice and knew why she wanted to sing: in order to bring hope to God’s people. Shar knew that her voice was beautiful also. She loved gospel music, but she couldn’t say with total conviction why she wanted to sing. Did she want to help people . . . bring them hope, like Emma Jean? Or did singing gospel music bring hope to her only? “I don’t know if I’m ready to come back to the choir tonight,” she finally said.

  Emma Jean stood up. “Suit yourself. But if you keep lying in this bed, you won’t be able to sell that sheet music for Mr. Dorsey.”

  Emma Jean had a point. She might not know why she had chosen to sing gospel music, but she did know why she was on this tour. “You’re right. I need to clear my mind and get back to work. Wait for me downstairs. I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”

  Shar climbed out of bed. She then walked down the hall, got into the shower, and decided to forget about her troubles. However, forgetting about her troubles also meant forgetting about Landon. Because his absence in her life was troubling her more than she ever thought possible.

  As the warm water caressed her body, Shar turned to the one person who she knew she could request an audience with any time of the day or night. “Dear Lord, I feel so weak right now. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t have anyone but you to turn to. I need You to help me.” As she said those words, she thought about the unanswered cry for help that she had sent to Landon. She was comforted with the knowledge that God would never ignore her.

  Getting out of the shower, Shar put on her best dress and headed downstairs. Emma Jean was waiting for her by the kitchen because they were not allowed to sit in the living room. Nor were they allowed to enter or leave out of the front door of the home of these good white folks. She and Emma Jean left out of the back door and walked the two miles to the church they were singing at that afternoon.

  By the time they made it to Marsdale Baptist Church, Sallie looked like she was about to lose her mind from worry. When Shar walked through the door, she breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Thank God. Gal, I was hoping that you’d get your act together and show up here tonight.”

  “I hope I’m not too late, Mrs. Sallie. I didn’t think you’d be selling the sheet music until after service.”

  “Don’t worry about the sheet music. Mahalia is stuck in Chicago. She won’t be able to sing tonight, so Mr. Dorsey wants you to sing. I was just getting ready to send someone after you.”

  Shar couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had traveled from city to city, state to state with this tour for over a year and had not once been allowed to lead a song. And then on the night that she had all but decided to stay in bed and cry her eyes out, she gets the opportunity to lead a song that Mahalia Jackson was supposed to sing. “Will I be singing ‘Never Turn Back’?” Shar asked with excitement in her voice.

  Sallie laughed, “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t know enough about life to sing that song?”

  “B-but that’s the one I had been practicing.”

  “Now you can practice this one.” Sallie handed her the sheet music and then said, “And hurry up. You’ve got an hour.”

  Shar looked down at the sheet music and was astounded to see that the song she was supposed to lead was “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” This was the song Mr. Dorsey wrote after his wife and newborn died within days of one another. Mr. Dorsey had been in St. Louis when he received the telegram about his wife dying in childbirth. He rushed home only to discover that the baby had died also. As the rumor went, Mr. Dorsey locked himself in the house and almost had a nervous breakdown. But while he was alone, pouring out his heart to God, he wrote the song “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.”

  Mr. Dorsey was in the sanctuary with the rest of the choir rehearsing the songs. Shar didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of him and the choir by trying to lead a song she had never practiced before, so she rushed outside. She stood behind the church and began to sing . . .

  Precious Lord, take my hand.

  Lead me on, help me stand.

  I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.

  As she sang the
words, Shar realized that either Mr. Dorsey or Mrs. Sallie knew exactly how she had been feeling these last few days . . . tired, weak, and worn. She had even just prayed and told God that she was weak and needed help. She was feeling this song, like it was a part of her soul. Tears streamed down her face as she opened her mouth and belted out . . .

  Through the storm, through the night,

  Lead me on to the light,

  Take my hand, precious Lord

  Lead me home.

  “Bravo, bravo,” a man said while clapping his hands and walking toward her.

  Shar had closed her eyes as she sung the last verses of the song. She hadn’t seen anyone standing behind the church building and was startled when he started clapping. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was coming back here.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to me. I was the one listening in on your performance.”

  Shar wiped the tears from her eyes. As she did that she was able to clearly see the man walking toward her. He was gorgeous. High yellow with shiny black hair that had been parted down the middle and slicked back. With that thin, trim mustache he looked like a colored Clark Gable.

  He stuck his hand out to her, “I’m Nicoli James, Matthew’s brother.”

  She shook his hand and said, “I’m Shar Gracey.” Oh my God, Emma Jean was right. This man is too fine. Shar normally didn’t go for high yellow men. They were much too pretty for her taste, but something in Nicoli’s dark eyes mesmerized her.

  “Well, Miss Shar Gracey, you sing like an angel. I almost raised my hands and shouted hallelujah.”

  He was still holding her hand. She slid it out of his grip and stepped around him. “I guess I’d better get back in there. I need to practice this song with the choir.”

  “Honey, trust me, you don’t need no practice. Even Mahalia Jackson, on her best day, never sounded as good as you do singing that song.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Dorsey feels that way. He rather likes the sound of Mahalia’s voice. When she sings, I sell twice the number of sheet music than I do on any other night,” Shar told him with conviction. She thought he was kind to compliment her so, but she didn’t need him lying to her about sounding better than Mahalia.

  “All right, you go on in. I’ll be listening for your sweet voice once the program gets going.”

  As Shar turned to walk away, she wondered why Nicoli wasn’t headed back into the church with her. No one else was behind the church building, and Nicoli wasn’t practicing his guitar; he didn’t even have it with him. Besides, Marsdale Baptist wouldn’t allow him to play it today anyway. But she didn’t know him well enough to butt into his business, so she didn’t ask any questions.

  Shar went into the sanctuary with the rest of the choir members and began practicing the songs with everyone else. When she added her voice with the others, Mr. Dorsey suddenly held up his hands and stopped the choir from singing. He turned to Shar and said, “Now I know what has been missing these last few days. Nice to have you back, Miss Gracey.”

  Wow! Did he just say that her voice made the difference in his choir? Shar was truly humbled to hear Mr. Dorsey say that, since she hadn’t heard a word of praise from him in months. “Thank you, sir. I’m happy to be back.”

  “All right, now let’s finish this rehearsal before the members start showing up for the afternoon service,” Thomas Dorsey said.

  They rehearsed three more songs and then broke for prayer. Nicoli walked into the sanctuary as they were getting ready to hold hands and bow their heads. He came and stood next to Shar and grabbed her hand just as Mr. Dorsey began the prayer. Shar had to admit that she didn’t hear a word of Mr. Dorsey’s prayer because she could hear nothing over the loud flutter of her heart as Nicoli squeezed her hand.

  10

  Chicago Defender—June 6, 1936

  The Problem of Better Housing

  By Robert R. Taylor

  No single group has a greater stake in the benefits to be derived from a sound national housing program than the Negro. He will be one of the chief beneficiaries of a well-administered housing plan because of several obvious reasons:

  First, the Negro is an underpaid worker and his wages are generally too low to warrant his paying a normal economic rent for housing. Second, most properties occupied by Negroes are owned by absentee landlords, whose sole interest is to extract the maximum revenue while offering minimum services and maintenance.

  Third, racial discrimination forces Negroes to accept disgraceful housing facilities, which are almost always located in decaying or slum districts. Fourth, in bargaining for the use of property the Negro is denied advantages accruing from the application of the fundamental laws of demand and supply because of the restricted residential zone in which he is huddled . . .

  Landon and Robert had parted ways a few years back on the housing issue. Robert believed that Negroes would be helped if more low-income housing projects were built. But Landon believed that low-income housing would increase the Negroes’ dependence on the government and stifle economic growth. However, Landon agreed with everything Robert had to say in his article. Especially the part about Negroes being denied their bargaining rights for better housing because their buying ability was restricted to certain residential zones. Homeownership outside of the Black Belt was the key to opening the community’s eyes to better days that were just on the horizon.

  Landon was scheduled to meet with William Toliver in a few minutes. He had hoped the NAACP chief counsel, Charles H. Houston, would be meeting with him today. But Houston was knee deep in another board of education case like the one he’d just won in Baltimore with Thurgood Marshall. Landon understood what the primary interest of the NAACP were, however, he intended to do his very best to convince Attorney Toliver that decent housing for colored people in Chicago was just as much a civil rights issue.

  There was a knock on his office door. Landon yelled, “Come in.”

  Nettie opened the door, grinning from ear to ear. She skipped into the room with her hands behind her back. “So, how are you feeling on this most important day?”

  “I’ve just been sitting here praying for God to open Mr. Toliver’s eyes so that he can see that we need their help.”

  “I have faith in you, Pastor. You’ll convince him.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” Landon said while pointing heavenward.

  “Well, I guess we’ll soon see because Mr. Toliver is here. Are you ready for the meeting?”

  “I pray that I am.”

  “I’ll send him in,” she said as she began walking out of the office.

  Landon picked some envelopes off his desk and handed them to Nettie. “Can you put these in the mail today?”

  “Sure thing, boss.” She closed the door behind her.

  Landon rubbed his hands together and lifted his head toward heaven. “Lord, You and You alone have seen me and my people through a mighty long list of injustices. Help us with this one as well.”

  As Landon finished his request to his Lord and Savior, his door opened, and William Toliver walked in carrying a brown leather briefcase. Landon stood up and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming to see about us, sir.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Pastor Norstrom. The NAACP is very interested in the plight of colored people in Chicago. We have heard of your struggles and want to help. But we need to make it clear that our resources are still very thin.”

  Landon understood what he was saying. Toliver was a southerner. And many southerners were still migrating to Chicago, believing that this was some sort of Promised Land for colored people. But Landon was going to show Toliver a land that Moses would have been ashamed to lead his people into. The Black Belt wasn’t flowing with milk and honey, but with trash and baby-killing debris.

  Landon put on his hat and coat and said, “Let’s take a walk. I’d like to introduce you to a few people.” They stepped outside of the church onto State Street. The Black Belt consisted of about thirty blocks of small d
ilapidated houses. Young and old men hung out on porch steps or the corner grocer or they just walked aimlessly up and down the streets. Trash was piled high in front of most of the homes. Rats the size of cats could be seen nibbling on the trash as they walked down the street.

  A rat scurried toward Toliver. The man jumped as the rodent passed by him to get to a pile of trash on the other side of the street. Toliver said, “Don’t you all have mandatory garbage collection requirements in Chicago?”

  Landon smiled. He hadn’t even knocked on his first door and the man was already getting the picture. “They say their resources are limited, and we are last on their list. So we can go weeks without seeing a garbage truck.”

  They turned the corner and walked past a few houses until they were standing in front of a one-story, single-family dwelling that had seen better days . . . much better days. “This is the home of Mr. and Mrs. James and Penny Flowers. They are allowing us to look through their home today because they believe it will help you folks at the NAACP see what’s really going on. But Mr. and Mrs. Flowers are proud people. They’ve worked hard for what they have, so try not to say anything against the home. Let’s just let them guide us through it and tell us what they need help with. Okay?”

  “I’m not here to make snap judgments. I want to observe and take my finding back to the home office,” Toliver said with conviction.

  “Well, okay then, let’s go.” Landon knocked on the door and then waited until it was opened. “Good day, Mrs. Flowers.” He gave the older woman a hug. “Thank you for your willingness to help with our cause.”

  “It seems like everybody’s got some cause or another these days,” the old woman said as she stepped aside to allow Landon and William Toliver into her home. “But if you young folks wasn’t always on your soapbox, I reckon wouldn’t much get done.”

  They took off their hats and stepped in. “God has blessed you with a right understanding, Mrs. Flowers. And we sure appreciate you,” Landon said. He then turned toward his guest and told Mrs. Flowers, “This is Mr. William Toliver. He’s an attorney with the NAACP.”