“You really are full of tricks,” the guard said as he pulled erect. “Now, what is it this time?”
“You the one who has holt to it,” Brother Provo said. “Why don’t you look and see?”
Staring at Brother Provo as he fingered the object, the guard hesitated.
“Oh, man, go ‘head on!” Brother Provo challenged. “I know they say it’s the root of all evil, but shucks, it ain’t goin’ to hurt a tough fellow like you.”
Shaking his head, the guard replied with a shrug. And patiently smoothing the tightly folded wad he held it toward the lights in the ceiling. And realizing that he was holding a badly creased banknote he gave Brother Provo a blank-faced stare.
“Does all of this belong to you?” the guard said with a grin.
“What do you want me to say,” Brother Provo said as he looked at Hickman with a bland expression, “you just seen it fall outta my hat, and this not being a game of finders-keepers, what can I do but admit that it does. But hey! Take a look at who’s picture is on it! Man, that’s General Tee-cumseh Sherman, the very same General who told the world that war is hell and went on to prove it! Yes, suh! Somebody in your line of work could learn a heap from a man like that!”
Suppressing a smile, Hickman watched the guard drop the banknote into Brother Provo’s outstretched palm as though it were flaming.
“Got you that time, didn’t I,” Brother Provo said, grinning at the guard. “So now I guess you want to look inside my shoes….”
But before the guard could answer the captain rushed forward and pushed him aside. “That’ll be enough of that,” he said and whirled angrily toward Hickman.
“Listen,” he said, “didn’t you say that these were church people?”
“Yes, sir,” Hickman said, “I did, and they are. But that doesn’t mean that they can’t be provoked into acting devilish—and even enjoy it. After all, they’re also Americans….”
“Well, if that’s what you preach you’d better not bring it in here again because we go strictly by the book—the law book!”
And stepping back, the captain swept his eyes along the line of blank watching faces, then down to the clutter of luggage at their feet.
“That’ll do it,” he said, “and now I want you people to shut these bags and get the hell out of here!”
As the group spilled onto the sidewalk smiling and shaking their heads, Hickman beckoned and they assembled around him.
“Folks,” he said, “I can see that none of you are discouraged by what happened in there, otherwise you wouldn’t be in such good humor. And I don’t think I have to explain the reason I couldn’t tell that secretary any more than I did, because that you already know. Neither do I have to explain that I had to do what I did…. Maybe she felt the same way. The point for us now is to find some other way of getting to this man, and if what we’ve been through is any indication it’s going to be even harder than we anticipated….”
“… It sure is, Revern’,” Sister Rogers said, “because these old folks around this town don’t seem to understand anything! We come to try to help the man, and that white gal secretary starts acting like some kind of one-chick hen. And if that wasn’t enough, those guards back there has to jump in and start searching us like criminals! So if these are the kind of folks that’s helping to run this so-called government I tell you we’re up against a powerful lot of ignorance! Why, if we was the kind to depend on the sword instead of the Lord we’d a-been too long gone to even think about it—ain’t that right, Sister Arter?”
“Girl,” Sister Arter said, “we’d have been in the grave and done long finished moldering!”
“Amen!”
“Sister Arter,” Sister Dawkins said, “I’d like to see their faces if they was to search you after you come from performing some of your midwifing duties. And especially for some of our fancy white families.”
“Me too,” Sister Arter said, “because it might teach them some of the facts of life. And I mean both those guards and that snippy secretary. It would teach them something about the connectedness of folks and things.”
[HOTEL]
“YOU’RE RIGHT,” HICKMAN CALLED through the laughter, “but for now we’d better find that hotel which a friend of Deacon Wilhite recommended and get us some rest.”
“Now that I could use,” Sister Bea said, “but from the way things are going it’ll probably be a case of no room in the inn.”
“Oh, no, Sister Bea,” Hickman said, “we’ll be accepted because this is the hotel where our top gospel singers stay when they’re performing in Washington.”
“I hope you’re right, ‘cause for today I’ve had my fill of white folks’ foolishness! What’s the name of this place?”
“The Hotel Longview—whatever that means—but like I say, that’s where we’re headed.”
Arriving at the hotel, Hickman climbed from his taxi and gazed at its façade and surroundings while the members assembled on the sidewalk. So now, he thought, we’ll see how these Longview folks react to us strangers from Georgia….
As expected, the lobby was crowded with whites, none of whom appeared disturbed by their entrance except one young man on his way out who paused and stared at his face with a startled expression.
“A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “he reacted as though he recognized you….”
But as Hickman turned and stared he was interrupted by a squad of bellmen rushing to help his group with their luggage. And now as he moved through the crowd he was pleased by the sight of several young brown-skinned young women and a famous black athlete. And in passing a party of convivial white couples he was surprised when one of the men bowed with an eye-twinkling smile and turned out to be a famous politician from Harlem. And upon reaching the reception desk he noted that the clerk’s reaction to the group was routine but friendly.
Good, he thought, good! This is how it should be: impersonal but gracious. So now, after getting some rest, we’ll get on with the business at hand.
Having seen that the sisters and brothers were comfortable he inspected his room, returned to the lobby, and bought a newspaper. And making his way to an area in which a scattering of men sat lounging and talking, he found a chair and began scanning the paper for news of the Senator.
Which proved unsuccessful, and with a sigh of relief he began reviewing the strategic mistake he’d made in going to the Senator’s office, and was suddenly aware that even the whites sitting nearby seemed undisturbed by his presence.
So, Hickman, he thought, it appears that while some patterns have changed, others remain as they were in the old days. Here you’re made welcome by a popular hotel and greeted by a powerful black congressman, but back at his office a prejudiced secretary prevented you from seeing a Senator.
Which means that you’ve stayed away from Washington so long that you’ve lost some of your skills in interpreting its signs and its symbols. And maybe much too long for dealing with a booby-trapped town where you’ve always needed a map and a scenario for guiding your conduct. Yes, and an expert in D.C. double-talk to tell you what to do when words say one thing and mean their exact opposites.
So perhaps it was a mistake to persuade the members to come along with you, even though most of them have shared your quest from the beginning and are eager to be in on its outcome. Still, you gambled, and now they’re frustrated, and it’s all due to your eagerness.
And Hickman, his doubtful self added, it’s all because you made the mistake of hoping that when so many folks from the old days arrived unannounced you’d get to the Senator. But you didn ‘t, so now the game is back where it started. And not only for you, but for the members as well….
All right! So the problem of getting to the man remains to be solved, but we’ll do it. And even if he still rejects the ties from the past that brought us to Washington, all will be well.
Yeah, but that “if” is as high as the Washington Monument!
Even so, we’ll find this prodigal son of ours and act as th
ough it was he who finally found us. And after telling him that his life is in danger we’ll bless him and leave what happens next for him to decide.
Sure, Hickman, that’s what you planned, but the idea was much too hopeful—which you should have realized; just as you knew very well that anyone unaware of its background would consider your plan as a brainstorm conceived by an ignorant jazzman turned preacher. And in light of the man’s reputation that was illogical.
Yes, but most of life adds up to an illogical blend of disorder and order. That’s why we try to apply logic as a way of reducing our lives to patterns which we think we can manage. And the members accept that fact of living just as I do. Because life in this country has taught them that order and disorder are inseparable. So they knew what they were doing when they took on the risk of this mission.
What’s important is that we came to this town to save the man’s life, and one way or another we’ll do it. So like it or not, what you’re putting down as illogic contains a vein of good sense. And that’s true even if it springs from our hopes of finding some trace of the child we once loved still hidden in the heart of the man who rejects us. That’s the logic of our coming here, and in it the present is being influenced by the past. Yes, and all of the made-in-America color confusion that wrought it….
Yes, Hickman, I know what you mean. But thinking of it here in this lobby full of prosperous white folks is like somebody in a loud, drunk-filled bar thinking he can get their attention by reciting a fable!
Maybe so, but even if nobody listens it’s true, it happened. Because in the not too distant past we old folks were warmed by a little child evangelist with white skin and white features, but whose speech and spirit were shaped by our own….
Yes, Hickman, but that was a long time ago….
… A marvelous child of Ishmaelian origin and pariah’s caste, but his blending of bloods and unusual experience endowed that child with a command of the Word which was so inspiring that we came to accept him as the living token and key to that world of togetherness for which our forefathers long hoped and prayed. And since that child landed among us during a time of great trouble we saw in him an answer to our hopes that this divided land with its diversity of people would at last be made whole. Yes, and instilled with our own stubborn vision and blues-tempered acceptance of this country’s turbulent reality.
It was that child, that mysterious outcast of the race that opposed us, who won our hearts and filled us with hope. So we accepted that child as a gift sent from heaven, and in the unfolding drama of our lives we cast him as a hero and symbol on the order of Christ, our savior. And because of his power and grace with the God-given Word we envisioned him as a means of breaking the slavery-forged chains which still bind our country.
Yes, and then look what happened!
Sneer if you like, but what a wonderful experience he gave us!
And what pains for your trouble!
Yes, but while in those days boy evangelists were fairly common and a wide-open secret that many Southern “whites” were black and many “blacks” white—at least visually—we had known no youngster evangelist of any race who possessed his traits of character or a gift of eloquence which promised that longed-for transcendence of the past which would free us. And since attaining the freedom to be our own unique selves while peacefully coexisting with those who outnumbered us would unify our goals, both religious and social, we rejoiced and gave thanks to the Lord for the sheer existence of our rare gifted child.
Thus, with our little boy preacher as symbol and spokesman we set out to overcome the limitations imposed by our history and this country’s ongoing contentions. And by embracing that child as the unique symbol of a unity to come we hoped that the combined promises of Scripture and this land’s Constitution would be at last fulfilled and made manifest.
So in church house and tent, on highways and in byways, we engaged ourselves in spreading the glad tidings by Word, song, and ritual. And for a few bright years it was our hope-inspired mission, and an act of faith in the promised showing forth of the possible. It was a time of rejoicing and gladness, but then hostile forces before which we were powerless prevailed and once again things fell apart.
And then mysteriously, and to our utter dismay, the child reached his teens and seceded by losing himself in the black-denying world of skin whiteness. So once again, as in the days of our fathers, we were left puzzled by the wreck of our dreaming. For in the mysterious spell spun by our yearning our little orphan of mixed identity had become one of us. And no matter how often we were disappointed by others we had come to expect loyalty from one whom we’d made so uniquely our own. So the blow was shattering, yes! But the dream itself continued to haunt us, as it does to this day, here in the vastness of Washington.
So there you go, it’s still the same story!
Yes and no. At first it came as a harsh reminder of earlier betrayals of our love and goodwill, and a chastening lesson in the undependability of all human hopes, whether in the form of mere dreams or in the promises of those documents of state that our enemies claim to hold sacred but constantly defile. And it forced us to recognize once again that while dreaming is human and most indispensable, even the most exalted of dreams often turn into nightmares.
Thus, in our own secret way we were reliving an experience which the Book of Revelation has so hauntingly described. Which is to say that in the process of exalting the child’s promise we had tasted of that which is honey-sweet to the taste but in the bowels turns bitter. And so now, late in their lives, and in what for them is the most unlikely of places, the sisters and brothers are reaffirming their faith in our child-fostered dream by trying to save the life of a man whose hand has been turned against us and all of our kind.
As you insist, it’s illogical but an act of undying faith. And now in the elusive person of the man whom our lost child’s become we’re here hoping to recapture some of the mystery that glowed long ago from the image of hope which as a child he made manifest….
Yes, Hickman, but as you just admitted, the whole thing’s illogical. And what’s more, when the child shattered their hopes the members were outraged!
How can I deny it? But in time their slavery-born sense of life’s ever comic and blueslike turns of phrase and waywardness muted their anger. So along with me they soon became fascinated by the mystery of how such a devout child could have become a man so devious. Why, having had a choice denied those who took him and gave him protection, did he turn against that part of himself which was a gift of those who loved him? What had we done, or not done? How could that much-beloved child become a man so attracted to the world which denied his friends and protectors that he chose it and denied our gift of unselfish love?
Well, Hickman, that’s the question which sent you here still seeking an answer.
Yes, because over the years since the child ran away, I like the others have been patiently searching him out and following his adventures. And through the dark glass imposed by racial differences and distance we’ve caught glimpses of him here, heard words of him there, despairing over most of his actions and marveling at others—much as we rejoice at the achievements of the government in whose name he now acts and despair at its failures. And in time our lost errant son would become the source of yet another reversal through which we realized that it was precisely his devious scheming that was gradually drawing those like us closer to having an active, if behind-the-scenes, role in that selfsame government. And now, beyond all reasonable expectations, we’re here. Unheralded, yes, but determined to see the past redeemed and the child’s promise made manifest in the present—here in the District of Columbia!
Which is indeed a confounding surprise. For before the boy’s surfacing as a politician we thought of ourselves as simply outsiders who were strictly limited in the role they could play in the nation’s affairs. We had been among the counted—as I said in the pun I laid on that woman—but seldom among the heard. Which was little more than a sig
nifying playing with words, for in view of our lost son’s prominence we have come to recognize ourselves as inside - outsiders and learned to laugh as we do at most outrageous jokes in which we’re projected as fools or as victims.
And why not? For like logic most jokes are two-sided, and we’ve come to realize that no matter what positions the Senator takes, or how much power he amasses, he remains the creature of our own mixture of blackness and whiteness. Oh, yes! He remains our own fallen angel, our own prodigal son. An outrageous notion? Yes! But one for which there can be no earthly undoing. So no matter how hard the struggle has been, we have endured. And as the old saying goes, by simply enduring we’ve switched the yoke and changed the joke that keeps plaguing America.
So now, face-to-face, we’ll seek out the child in the man who denies us while pondering anew the mystery of how he could have become that which he is. And while accepting the fact that what has been done can not be undone, perhaps we’ll learn what went wrong when our dream of felicity collided with this country’s most thorny reality.
For in our own down-home way we are basically realistic. And since our living has taught us that in most human affairs the victimized are at least partially responsible for their condition, perhaps we’ll learn more of the extent to which our own dreams and errors had a role in the agony we suffer.
So, like you say, we erred by placing such a burden of hope on the child. Still, it was an act of faith, and we must accept the fact that such faith is not only thorny but makes us appear as childlike as our enemies would like us to be. For such faith is a testing of life’s possibilities, and the virtue of our old act of faith lay in its being self-chosen.
It was ourselves who invested our hopes for the coming of a more peaceful and tolerant society in the person of a child. It was our own vision of a Peaceful Kingdom in which the child was both visual sign and eloquent symbol. And the fact that he went on to become an insatiable lion in Washington turned out to be far beyond all our imagining. The amazing thing is that although with a few exceptions our own condition has remained much as it was, the child who inspired our dreams for a land of milk and honey has become, much to our despair and amazement, a hostile political power. So today if he rejects our act of good faith and turns us away, it will still be proof that here, and no matter how, an American mystery has been turned into history.
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 79