Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  Placing hands on hips with a backward snap of her head, Sister Gipson stared at Brother Matt with a frown of disapproval.

  “Now look, brother,” she said, “don’t think you’re going to get out of it by talking like that. It’s nothing recent that I’m talking about, it’s something from years ago.”

  “Years ago,” Brother Matt repeated. “How many years ago?”

  “Long enough, and I think it’s time for you to stand up like an honest man and confess it! And since we all believe that public confession is good for the soul I don’t think that you can find any more public place than where we’re standing.”

  Brother Jefferson frowned, turning to Hickman.

  “Revern’,” he said, “maybe you can tell me what this woman is signifying about. After all, this is neither a church, police station, or courthouse; and everybody here, including you, has heard me testify no more than a few weeks ago. So what’s she going on about?”

  Amused and deciding to play along with Sister Gipson, Hickman returned Brother Jefferson’s stare with a blank expression, thinking, Whatever she’s up to it’s got him feeling guilty, and since he knows it’s impossible to live without wrongdoing he’s racking his brain, trying to give whatever it might be a name.

  “I’m sorry, Brother Jefferson,” he said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to put your question to Sister Gipson. Now, as far as I’m concerned you’re about as innocent as a man your age can be, but it’s the sister who’s bringing the charges. And since she’s a bit older than me she knows a lot more about sin and sinning—but wait, since I’m your pastor maybe she’ll let me in on it. How about it, sister; what has this brother to confess?”

  “Revern’,” Sister Gipson said, “I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear what you said about my age, but I’ll be more than glad to tell you.”

  And with flashing eyes she whirled and pointed to where the Jefferson Memorial gleamed in the distance.

  “Now,” she said, “it’s true that from time to time our brother here has testified to many a slip, wrong, and sinful transgression. Yes, sir, and yes, ma’am, he has. As a matter of fact, this man has a Sears, Roebuck catalog of wrongdoing that’s so long and so outrageous that sometimes when he’s confessing I’ve suspected him of doing some bragging!—Don’t laugh,” she said, throwing up her hands. “And that’s not all, because I’ve also noticed that he’s always done it amongst us, and that it’s always been in the family where he knowed he’d be understood and forgiven—even though the good Lord might not have been so sympathetic. But all the time when he was beating his breast and going over his sins at the wailing wall there was a lot of folks who wasn’t present….”

  Pausing with a sly expression Sister Gipson nodded suddenly to a group of white tourists who were gazing toward the Jefferson Memorial with radiant expressions of reverence…. “Like them,” she said softly, “over there. So this time I

  want the brother to stand up like a man and confess for real, and I mean out loud!”

  “Confess what?” Brother Jefferson said.

  “Aw, man,” Sister Gipson said, “quit stalling! You know what I’m talking about! I want you to confess to claiming that you and that man standing out yonder in that monument used to be kinfolks!”

  And now, shouting “What!” Brother Jefferson turned to him with an expression that wavered between exasperation and relief, saying, “Good Lord, Reveren’, do you see what this woman is doing? Here she is standing right in your face and has the nerve to be bearing false witness against me—and I mean boldly!”

  “Aw, man,” Sister Gipson said with a scornful wave of her hand, “why don’t you stop your weaseling and confess!”

  “All right,” Brother Jefferson said, stepping backward and facing the others, “I will!

  “Brothers and sisters, for a second there I was worried that maybe this woman had something on me which I had overlooked, but now that she’s made her charges I’m glad to confess—and here’s my right hand raised to God: The only connection between me and that man out there that I ever heard about is the fact that my daddy, his daddy, and his daddy’s daddy’s daddy was all born in the State of Virginia! And as far as I’ve ever heard or seen they were all honest hardworking men and good Christians. Therefore I’m proud to be a part of their honorable line…. And here’s something else: If Mister Jefferson out there owned any of them, or had anything else to do with our bearing our name, it rests between him and his God! So the sister here can worry about the mixed-up past all she wants to, but as for Matthew Morgan Jefferson … who’s nobody else but me … he’s looking to tomorrow!”

  “Well, praise the Lord,” Sister Gipson cried in the sudden silence. “Because for once our brother has confessed to both the daylight and the darkness of his complicated condition! Yes indeed! And this time his public confession shall cleanse his mind and make him whole!”

  “And free him, don’t forget that,” Hickman added with a grin. “And that goes for all of us—at least in our hearts and minds, so don’t forget it. For while all human knowledge is limited, the dimensions of truth are endless, complicated, and ever unfolding. And while there’s no statute of limitation on the truth of how it came about, all we know is that our brother’s name is Jefferson, which is as honorable a name as Jackson, Jones, or even Gipson—that’s right, sister! So no matter who originally bore the name Jefferson—rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief, lawyer, doctor, or Indian chief—it’s still our beloved brother’s name. And like any other name, including our own, it amounts to no more or less than what he’s made it….”

  “Amen,” sang Sister Gipson….

  “… And he’s been doing that the only way he can…. Which is by the way he lives. So let the past bury the past. All right now, and with the sister having heard his confession, let’s keep moving.”

  “So where do we go next?” a brother called as he started away.

  “Just come along,” he called over his shoulder. “I realize that it’s getting late and we have other things to do, but this discussion makes me realize that now is just the time for us to take a look at something each and every American should see at least once before they die….”

  “And what is that, Reveren’?”

  “You’ll see,” he said, “it isn’t far….”

  And now he walked ahead and alone. Behind him the talk and laughter continued, sounding with a regeneration of spirit evoked by Sister Gipson’s playing joking with their past condition, the dazzle of elegant vistas seen through the springtime air, and moments of history memorialized. The members were enjoying themselves far more than he had dared hope, but now, recalling his own mixed emotions and conflict of mind which had left him shaken during his first visit to where they were headed, he had an impulse to draw Wilhite aside and suggest that they find an excuse for returning to the hotel. Perhaps, he thought, it would be better to preserve this moment of good feeling and return to the Longview….

  But now it was there before him, rising calm and austere in the ambient light. And as he stared in wonder it seemed to slow the scene’s rhythm of trees, grass, and curving walks to a melancholy legato in which the distant, mechanical murmuring of traffic that marked the mindless rush of time was muted by the voiceless eloquence of impermeable stone.

  “What place is that, y’all?” he heard as the others came to join him. “Revern’, is that the place you mentioned?”

  “That’s right,” he said, “that’s the place.”

  “But what is it?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “Oh, yes, you’ll see!”

  And now, approaching the broad sweep of steps he moved upward toward the high-columned space with an uncanny feeling of entering a mystery being cast by the great sculptural form before him. And as its spell of place descended upon him an old, restricted part of himself seemed to fall away, giving him a sense of moving from the familiar world of the given into the misty sphere of the possible. As when, during his initiation as a green youn
g musician his imagination had taken flight and he had suddenly found himself possessed of the power to create his own heartfelt patterns of soul-felt sound while riffing the blues on his battered trombone; or again as when, during the early days of his ministry, he had begun a sermon with dry, uninspired diction and had been arrested by the disappointed look in his mother’s eyes and suddenly felt the power of the Sacred Word surging so rapturously within him that his mind, tongue, and elated heart sang forth with the poetic power of his native, slave-born idiom.

  And now, with footstep slowed and heartbeat pounding he was looking upward, his right foot raised as it fumbled for the ultimate step that would raise him into the full force of the sculpture’s mysterious power. Then, shaking with the sudden force of his emotion, his foot found the final step and moved him upward into the cool, shaded, and sonorous calm of the edifice, and he was passing with a dream-like slowness over stony floor and fluted shadows until, now, he stood facing the great stone image which sat with legs outstretched and arms extended as it relaxed in its huge stone chair.

  And now in the hush descending around him he heard as from afar the voice of a single sister calling out in a tone of awed recognition, “Revern’… Revern’…” a tentative, questioning plea echoing in his mind with the slow sweeping motion of great wings flying… “Revern’? Revern’?”

  Then he, Hickman, was looking up through the calm and peaceful light toward the great brooding face above him. He, Hickman, standing motionless as he stared up into eyes that seemed to gaze from beneath their shadowed lids toward some vista of perpetual dawn that lay far beyond infinity.

  And gazing upward as though listening to the groping explanations of another he thought, Now I understand: It was that brooding facial expression which caused his enemies to accuse him of being one of us! It wasn’t the darkness of his flesh, the cast of his features, or what he did on our behalf—oh, no! It was that expression and what those sorrowful eyes reveal about what it means to be a man who struggles to reconcile all of the contending forces of his country out of a belief in simple justice. It was their sad revelation of what it means to be a man of vulnerable heart and floundering mind who found clinging to an elusive ideal more desirable than all the pride and glory of great wealth and great armies. Yes, that look in those eyes and the struggles which placed it there—those are what made him one of us, and him a most confounded and confounding American…. Yes, he was one of us. But it wasn’t in the skin tone which made him a target of those dirty dozens which his enemies used in attacking his family and background, but in that look in his eyes. That look and his struggle against those who put it there and saddened his brooding expression. It was in all of that, in his being the kind of man he made himself to be. And it was in enduring the ordeal of it all that he became one of us. Oh, yes, he partially failed and came to learn that he could only take one short step along the road which leads to freedom. But in earning that look and the view of life to which it gave rise he joined us in what we have been forced to learn about living. And about what it means to be truly human in the face of perversity. In that too he was like us at our best. Because one thing we’ve been forced to learn is that when man is set down in all the muck and confusion of life and continues to struggle for his ideals he comes as near the sublime as any human being can ever arrive. So yes, he’s one of us. And not only because of his act of freeing the slaves to the extent that the times and circumstances would allow, but he freed himself and a good part of this nation of that awful inheritance of pride which denies us our humanity. And by doing so he became the one man who pointed the way for all who are willing to pay the hard price of true freedom—Yes!

  And as he stared upward into the great brooding eyes he felt a strong impulse to turn and share their distant point of focus, but was held fast, the eyes regarding him quiet and still as though asking a question. And now he was seeking to grasp the mystery of their secret life in the stone; aware of the stone, and yet feeling the presence of something other than stoniness. And as he probed for the secret source of the emotion which held him with a gentle but all-compelling power, the stone seemed to come alive, the great chest appearing to heave as though stirred at last by the aura of acts unfinished and promises unkept which he and his flock brought into its presence, and the sculpture had extended them a silent sign in recognition because of who and what they were; had chosen to reveal its secret life for those who still sought to live and survive by its vision. And then he, Hickman, was searching the stony visage as though waiting to hear it give forth with the old familiar eloquence which he knew only in the form of mute sounds and rhythms conjured by his ear from the printed page—when a sister’s voice sang out as from a distance, “Oh, my Lord! Look, y’all, it’s HIM!”

  And now as her voice quavered and broke in a rush of tears he was silently addressing himself, crying in upon his own spellbound ears even as the sister’s anguished, “Ain’t that him, Revern’? Ain’t that Father Abraham?” resounded in his mind like the cry of an old slave holler called across a moonlit field.

  And too full of emotion to speak, he smiled. And in silence he nodded his confirmation, thinking: Yes, with all I know about him and his contradictions—Yes! And with all I have learned about the ways of men, this country, and the world—YES! And with all I know about white men and politicians of all colors, backgrounds and guises—Yes! And with all I know about the things you had to do to be you and remain yourself—Yes! You are one of the few who ever earned the right to be called “Father.” The Georges and the Toms and the Sams couldn’t bring themselves to do it, but you did. So yes, before all our reasons for holding reservations concerning you—Yes! It’s all right with me—Yes, sir! And although I’m a man who despises all foolish pomp and circumstance, and all the bending of the knee before false values that some still try to force upon us—Yes again! And though I’m against all of the unearned tribute which the weak and lowly are forced to pay to power based on force and false differences and false values—Yes! For you “Father” is all right with me…. Yes!

  And now, still gazing upward into the great quiet face, he rested his hand upon the sister’s arms; hoping to affirm by touch that complex of meaning which he was too full of emotion to convey by word, thinking as now he addressed the great man of stone: Yes, and there you sit after all this unhappy time, just looking down out of those sad old eyes. Just looking way deep out of that old ugly but beautiful, storm-struck, windswept face. Yes, she’s right, it’s you all right; stretching out those long old weary legs as though you’ve just been resting a while before pulling yourself together again to go out and try to bind up all the wounds and injuries that have festered and rankled, and stunk up this land since the day they turned you back into that hard limestone from which you came. Yes, that’s right, it’s you; just sitting and waiting while taking your well-earned ease. Just getting your second wind before arising up to do all over again that which has been undone throughout all the long betrayed years. Yes, it’s you all right, just sitting and resting while you think out the mystery of how all of this mess could have come to be. Just puzzling out how all this could happen to a man’s work after he had done all one could possibly do, and then take the consequences for giving the world his all. Yes, it’s you—sometimes, I guess … sometimes…

  And now he was saying it aloud, his eyes held by the air of peace and perception born of suffering which now he felt emanating from the great stone face, replying verbally to the sister now in a voice so low and husky that it sounded like that of another:

  “Sometimes … I say, sometimes the good Lord in all His perfection gets disgusted with what’s happening in the world and He goes ahead and takes his own good time and He makes himself a man! And sometimes that man gets hold of the idea of what the Lord intends for him to do on this earth, and he gets an idea of how to go about achieving that goal, and that particular and unique man lets his idea guide him as he proceeds to grow and struggle and stumble and sorrow, until finally he comes
into his own God-given shape. And no matter what he has to go up against he goes on to achieve his own lonely place in this troublesome world. It doesn’t happen often—oh, no! But when it does, then even the stones will cry out in witness to his vision, and the hills and towers will echo his words and deeds, and his example will live in the hearts of men forever!

  “So there sits one of the few who have walked this land. The Master doesn’t make many like that, and few that he makes achieve their purpose. Which, perhaps, is just as well. Because that kind of man is such a threat to the sloppy functioning of human affairs that he becomes like a grand dimension reality—which is something for which human beings have little capacity. Nevertheless that rare kind of man loves truth and justice even more than he loves his wife, his children, or his life. And that’s because he knows in his heart, and accepts the burden, of having been designated and set aside to perform those hard tasks that ordinary men are too timid and weak of purpose to tackle. But though frail and flawed, and often blind in his purpose, that kind of man will toil and struggle in the interest of what he conceives as truth and justice until the earth yawns and swallows him down. Yes, but even as he dies, as all must die, his deeds persist. So now you’re looking at one whose deeds will honor this land forever.

  “So look at him a while and be thankful that the Lord allowed such a man to touch our lives, even if only a little while, then let us bow our heads and pray. Oh, no, not for him, because he did the Lord’s work and transformed the ground on which we stand. For in the words which my slavery-born granddaddy taught me when I was a child:

  Ole Abe Lincoln digging in the sand

  Swore he was nothing but a natural man.

  Ole Abe Lincoln was chopping on a tree

  Swore a mighty oath he’d let the slaves go

  Free—And he did!

  “So let us pray, not for him, oh, no! But for ourselves and for all of those whose job it will be to wear those great big shoes which he left for this nation to fill….”