Exile Blues

by Douglas Gary Freeman

  “I don’t think he meant that he didn’t believe in the word of God,” said Mattie.

  Prez said, “It’s just that I’ve been reading some of the words of God and I don’t believe in them.”

  The preacher gasped; the other men seemed to eagerly await whatever was coming. Prez got up, went to his room, and came back with the Bible and his notepad. He began to read.

  When he finished, the adults’ faces were ashen and angry.

  “Where did you get that stuff from, son?” asked Reverend Dorsey.

  “From right here, in the Bible.”

  “No, no, I mean how did you know those words were in the Bible?”

  Prez got up, went to his room, came back and showed them the booklet: God Loves All His Children Equally but Separately. His mother took it first. It got passed around with the adults flipping through the pages.

  “Celia, ahem, I mean, Miss Adams, where did you put my briefcase?”

  “Right there in the kitchen.”

  “May I get myself a glass?”

  “Right in the cupboard,” said Mattie.

  “Would you gentlemen care to join me?”

  All the men went into the kitchen. There was the sound of glasses clinking, liquid pouring, the ice tray being pried from the refrigerator, and more glass-clinking. Miss Stevens got up to use the bathroom. Aunt Celia closed the Bible, confiscated Prez’s notepad, and placed them both out of sight. Mattie sat and continued to wring her hands and purse her lips.

  After some time, the men came out of the kitchen and Prez could hear what they were saying.

  “They’re just another White Citizens’ Council—the Klan, pure and simple.”

  “Bladensburg is right down the road from here. Not ten minutes.”

  “Bring the bottle with you.”

  Reverend Dorsey was holding the booklet in his hands. He walked over to where Prez was seated and bent over close to Prez’s face. His breath reeked of alcohol, which Prez hated. But he just sat and said nothing.

  “Never ever again doubt the Word. Am I clear, son?”

  Prez did not respond.

  Raising his voice, he said, “I said never doubt God’s word again, boy!”

  Prez, surprised at his own composure, remained still and quiet. He knew to try and ignore male drunkenness.

  “Easy now,” said Mr. Edwards—to whom, Prez wasn’t sure.

  “THiS!” the reverend’s voice screamed, as he held the booklet aloft before continuing in a quieter, controlled voice, “has nothing to do with the word of God and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. These words are the thoughts of madness and hate. The organization responsible lives in hell with the devil. Their church is really Satan’s palace. Oh, I know the little innocent-looking pamphlet sounds good and reads righteously because it quotes passages from the Bible.”

  As he spoke, the reverend began tearing pages from the booklet.

  “And when you go to the Bible,” continued the reverend, “there they are in black and white, the same words. But it’s how the white man uses language to trick us, to make us believe something is there which really isn’t.” He tore pages in half and half again. “The truth is that this is all a lie!” The halves and quarters were torn into even smaller bits. “The truth is that this is all . . . it’s all . . . bullshit!”

  He rushed over to the living room door and out onto the balcony and threw the “devil’s confetti” into the air.

  “Bullshit!” the reverend yelled again as he leaned over the side of the balcony, cursing the drifting bits of paper.

  Of course, it would be Prez with a broom and dustpan who would have to sweep that “bullshit” from the driveway.

  31

  Washington, D.C., Wednesday, June 12, 1963

  Tala and Salome had been chiding Prez since he turned sixteen that May.

  “It’s time for you to get your license, man. We’re tired of driving you everywhere.”

  “I’ll use your car for the test, Tala.”

  “Oh, no you won’t!” She laughed. “Use Salome’s. She’s right down the street from you.”

  “Sweet sixteen, huh, Prez. At last.”

  “Don’t start, Salome. That was over a month ago.”

  “What? I just wanna say that even though you don’t have a license, we know you can pop a clutch. Yeah, you just can’t pop a cherry.”

  “Howard University will not accept you in that condition,” said Tala. “But, seriously,” she stopped laughing, “we’d like for you to come with us this morning.”

  Prez agreed to do something as unnatural for him as not breathing; training for non-violent protest.

  *

  “We don’t serve no nigras in heeyah, boy. So why don’t y’all just git up and git on outta heeyah. I said git!”

  Prez sat bolt upright, rigid as a board, and not because he was scared. He was mad as hell. Just before being addressed as a “nigra” he had to sit idle while Lorraine Lorton got a pile of flour poured all over her head. She gasped for air so hard she seemed to choke.

  Then big Leroy Dunnigan was actually pushed backward while sitting in a chair, almost smashing his head on the floor. And Prez had to just sit there and do nothing.

  So Prez steeled himself for what was coming next, because he was told not to move from that chair and not to strike out in self-defense or, especially, in anger.

  “You little rat-faced nigra, you ain’t movin’!” Prez felt something on top of his head. It started moving and getting wider. It was warm.

  “Lookit that! Never seen no cornbread that burnt befo’.”

  The molasses began slowly moving down his forehead towards his eyebrows. He took an extremely deep breath and wiped the molasses away from his eyes with the towel he had been given.

  This horrendous abuse continued down the line of seated young Negroes. Prez’s little brother Gus was there too. Not so little anymore, he was a strapping handsome boy almost six feet tall. He had agreed to come along with Prez just to see what it was like. He didn’t like the idea of not defending himself against a physical attack, and was shocked that Prez would take part in anything like that. Prez, ever aware, realized that his little brother was a bit afraid.

  “Lookit what we got heeyah! A dandy-lookin’ nigger if eva there was one. Nigger got himself some penny loafers, a powder-blue cardigan. I tell you! Nigger even got a goddamn process on his stupid head. Nigger, you ain’t white, you just a goddamned nigger! Sitting here lookin’ stupid and . . . hey, buddy, come over heeyah, this one is scared to death. Well, what the hell you doing here if you scared?”

  Prez looked over. He was ready to intervene.

  “You over there, the burnt-cornbread nigra! Whatchew lookin’ at? Better keep lookin’ straight ahead and pay no attention to what’s goin’ on over heeyah!”

  Prez looked away.

  “I said you just a nigger. That process o’ yours don’t make you white. Well, since you still sittin’ heeyah after I told ya ta leave, guess I’ll have ta give that process a spit-shine.” He spat on Gus’s head.

  Prez jumped up and punched him.

  “Prez!” screamed Salome.

  “Goddammit, Downs. Goddammit! You just knocked Raymond out. What in heaven’s name is wrong with you? Get some ice,” pleaded Chauncey.

  “I’m not sure you’re supposed to use ice cubes. Just pour some ice water down his underwear,” offered Leroy.

  “That’s so goddamn ‘street,’ Leroy.”

  Chauncey began to curse everything and everybody that was “street.” Prez turned Raymond over and lifted him to a sitting position. He applied the bag of ice to the back of his neck.

  Tala was too angry at him to even look at him. She wanted to scratch his eyes out. She felt betrayed. She had convinced the committee that Prez was really ninety percent intellect and ten percent �
�street” even though it appeared the inverse of that was true.

  “Wha’ . . . what happened?” a very groggy Raymond said, straining to open his eyes. “That’s cold. My neck is freezing. Man, my head hurts. What happened?”

  “Prez hit you,” said Salome.

  “You spit on my brother,” Prez said, still holding the ice pack to Raymond’s neck.

  “I told you exactly what the training would entail,” said Tala.

  “I guess I didn’t really think anyone would actually spit. Shouting ‘nigger,’ pouring stuff over our heads, that’s one thing. But to actually spit on another person is too violent.”

  Salome said, “Didn’t we agree that for Prez it was going to be one strike and he’s out?”

  As Prez and Chauncey lifted Raymond up and sat him on a chair Chauncey asked Prez if he had anything to say.

  “Yes. Can we sit?” The seven of them pulled chairs around Raymond. “When I was a little boy I was fascinated by the tale of John Henry—a big strong black man who on one single day beat a machine at laying railroad tracks. The effort killed him. He was so obsessed with his tools and his way of working that he forgot that the tracks were being laid to carry people to a destination. It is the destination that is sacred, not the tools you may be accustomed to using. Non-violent tactics are a tool. But freedom is our destination. And just like a dead John Henry never riding that freedom, those of us who die in this struggle will never be free because freedom is for the living.”

  “Mr. Ninety Percent! Didn’t I tell you?” exclaimed Tala.

  Prez wondered what the heck she was talking about. He took a little paperback book from his pocket. “This is Negroes with Guns. It was written by a man who lived in North Carolina and who started his local branch of the NAACP. His name is Robert F. Williams. He was in the Army. In fact, some of the fathers from my old Lincoln Park neighborhood knew him, they were in the Army with him. You know that, Tala.

  “Robert F. Williams and his whole community were being brutalized and murdered by the Ku Klux Klan and nobody would protect them. The Klan even tried to lynch him and the only reason he is still alive is because he defended himself.”

  Opening the book, Prez started reading: “‘It has always been an accepted right of Americans, as the history of our Western states proves, that where the law is unable, or unwilling, to enforce order, the citizens can, and must act in self-defense against lawless violence.’ I am not saying that I disagree with the tactic of non-violence. And I am not saying that I like weapons, because I don’t and you know that. I am strengthening my point that non-violence is not the only valid tactic to achieve our freedom, so don’t pretend that it is. And don’t claim that any other tactic is illegitimate. And don’t dare say that if we witness acts of violence against our people, which will cause them to be brutalized or murdered, that we are to do nothing about it. That’s a form of suicide.”

  The others looked a bit dumbfounded. Or was it awestruck? No one said anything until Leroy joked, “Anybody got a joint?”

  “You know you can’t smoke in here, Leroy.”

  “Hey, Chauncey, man, can’t you take a joke?”

  “This is not a time for joking. We have a very serious matter before us. Well, I suppose, two. The first is settled. As Mr. Downs has admitted that he is not suited to do non-violent actions. because he cannot remain non-violent. That also must apply to you, Mr. Gus Downs, and you too, Leroy. You all come from the streets. You have that street way about you. You are unsuited to be in this organization.”

  “Don’t stop there. Include me, said Lorraine. Heck, I’ve had my own girl-crew since I was eleven.

  “This is bull, Chauncey,” said Salome, “You all don’t know this but my family’s first home was in Columbia Heights. My first boyfriend was a B-Boy. Does that make me unsuitable? Are you going to kick me out?”

  “Well, kick me out too.” said Tala, “because I’m a Lincoln Parker and I still flash my green. Do you know anything about Lincoln Park, what that neighborhood has been through, or exactly what Prez’s contributions have been to bringing peace there?

  “I’m afraid Chauncey has no idea what you’re talking about,” said Raymond. “I’m not sure he needs to. His business is to make sure the rules and regulations of the D.C. chapter of this organization are adhered to.”

  “You talk all that turn-the-other-cheek talk,” said Gus, “and you want to train us to take all kinds of abuse from racist white people. You want us to be passive and forgiving while we are being hurt, maimed, and maybe even murdered. You claim to want to achieve freedom. Well, I think you’re both full of shit. My brother cracks one of you in the jaw and you can’t find forgiveness in your hearts so that we can achieve some unity. Rules and regulations? I think you’re just making stuff up as you go along here to cover up that you are prejudiced. You are bourgie snobs.”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” said Chauncey.

  “Gus is right,” said Leroy. “I’ve heard the talk—that saying you older cats have. You say there’s the race struggle, the class struggle, and the ass struggle. This is the class struggle going down right now. And you are bringing it on.”

  “No, it’s not about class,” said Tala, “it’s about caste. It’s about the social stratification of sub-classes to further entrench structures of privilege and entitlement. When we say that somebody is ‘street,’ we are placing them in a sub-class, even below someone who is working class. ‘Street’ really means somebody who doesn’t have a regular job, is on welfare, or hustles for a living. We help maintain stereotypes that end up victimizing us all.

  “Thanks for listening,” said Prez. “I’ll leave. No hard feelings here.” He got up and walked out. Gus, Leroy, Lorraine and Salome followed him out the door. Tala got up and followed them to the door. She stood outside and watched them turn on U Street and guessed they would stop at Ben’s Chili Bowl. Damn, she thought, as she shielded her eyes while looking up at the sky, a half-smoke sausage and a beer would do the trick right now.

  She heard the phone ringing behind her but ignored it. Someone else could get it. She turned around just as Chauncey had put the phone down. He sat down and dropped his forehead into his upturned palms.

  “Medgar Evers is dead. They shot him in the back.”

  32

  Washington, D.C., June 19, 1963

  The streetcar stopped a few blocks from where he wanted to get off. “Everyone off here,” the driver shouted. “Can’t go any further.” There were four streetcars in front of them not moving. The traffic was also at a standstill. Cab drivers made it worse by attempting impossible U-turns only to become stuck in weird diagonal positions.

  Prez jogged down the street. Even before he reached the intersection where Garfinckle’s Department Store stood he could hear the terse words and threats being exchanged between the white police and the largely African-American crowd. The police, alerted that there would be a protest, had arrived before sunrise and cordoned off the sidewalk. They blocked the entrance to the store. A white man in a suit stood outside the door and appeared to decide who would be let in. Those allowed in were all white since the store only employed whites. Worse than that, African-American customers were not allowed to try on shoes and clothes.

  At 10:00 a.m. when the store was supposed to open to the public, a pudgy white police sergeant standing beside the suited man yelled into his bullhorn: “You must move away from the door and clear the sidewalk. If you don’t move, we will move you!”

  Horns kept honking, profanities spewed like fireworks, and racist taunts flew at the protestors like projectiles.

  “We have the right to be on the sidewalk,” a protester yelled.

  “You won’t move me,” exclaimed another voice. “You won’t move any of us!”

  “Whoever said that,” screamed the sergeant into his bullhorn, “you can take your coon ass back to
Africa. Now git your black asses off the goddamned sidewalk and out of the street!”

  “Ain’t nobody movin’, filthy cracker!” someone yelled.

  The sergeant gave his bullhorn to a patrolman and grabbed the patrolman’s nightstick. The patrolman seemed just as shocked as the protestors when the sergeant rushed towards the protestors with the nightstick and raised it to strike. But no sooner did he raise it than it was snatched from his hand and held high above his head. The crowd roared in approval. Prez was close enough to see that it was Wellington who had the nightstick. Reevie-Boy and Dee Cee stood on either side of him. Prez squeezed through the crowd to reach them.

  “You late, Prez.”

  “Like old times now, ain’t it, Prez?”

  “Great to see you, man.”

  “We all here like we promised.”

  Prez looked around at them and almost got soggy-eyed.

  “I missed you cats, ya know. But here we are now, in the present, living for the future.”

  Prez walked up to the sergeant and said, “I’m here to negotiate.”

  “Y’all hear that? This little nigger wants to ‘negotiate.’” The sergeant guffawed and looked around at his officers who obliged with nods and smirks. Still, their fidgeting body language betrayed their trepidation. They knew they were not in control of the situation.

  “Sergeant whatever-your-name-is, I could be just as rude and disrespectful as you. I could call you an ignorant Neanderthal who was still living in caves when my African ancestors were inventing math, calculating the distance between the earth and the stars, and building the Pyramids. I could call you a redneck humanoid that lacks enough melanin to acquire any skin tone so you take your big fat gut and flat butt to a beach and lie in some sun to try to get a tan. But I would rather address you respectfully as sir, and ask you, sir, if you would like your nightstick back.”