And IDEAS can kill—yes, that’s right! For in this weird, cantankerous country of ours with all of its newspapers, books, radios, and television bringing all kinds of information to all kinds of unknown, cranky, and volatile people … even the NEWS can kill.
For just as the world is made up of different peoples with different strokes, the news means different things to different folks. Therefore the same ideas that have the power to quicken one man’s mind, strengthen his will, and make him hale, hearty, and whole, can make another man mindless, dead, and forever still!
And a lack of charity can kill. For refusing to share with the weak and homeless can lead them to discover their potential power and allow some con man to use it and organize their resentment against you.
And the same is true of condescension and self-righteousness. For it is in our nature as human beings, men, women, individuals, and groups, to bring down arrogance and pompous, puffed-up Pride. Therefore even though it is our tradition to punish such things with laughter and scorn it remains most deadly.
And brushing aside the opinions of the weak (like those of that little Indian baby) or the weaknesses of the strong, or the vision of the blind, or the blindness of visionaries, or the holiness of sinners—all or any of these can lead to deadly confusion and to death by confusion.
And ignoring the justified complaints of our fellow human beings can kill—even as playing too long upon the guilt of the strong when we press our just claims against them. For then it can backfire and make them even more steadfast and unyielding in their unjustness. And in defending their acts and wrongdoings they will kill us in the name of the very ideals and principles upon which we base our just claims.
For if driven into a corner and deprived of the slipperiness of words, they will turn upon us in anger, saying, “Yes, so all right, you’ve made your point, but we kill you in the name of DEMOCRACY!”
Or they will say, “Yes! What you say is true, for we see your suffering and sympathize. But nevertheless we must deny you freedom in the name of a future freedom, one which is higher and more GLORIOUS!”
And then if we keep pressing—as we have to do, oh, yes!—and cry out and appeal to them in the name of Almighty God, they will shrug their shoulders and perhaps even smile as they inform us in the most reasonable of language, “Ah yes, you are right again. But you must understand that WE have OUR history just as YOU have yours, but unfortunately both are against you. Therefore you must understand that there is nothing personal in what we do, because we kill you in the name of our God, who in all things is most JUST and GENTLE!”
So while we stand confounded by their insistence that God’s will and what they call “history” are one and the same, they will rear back and kill us in the name of their God, and feel not only justified in what they’ve done but as innocent as a babe and hound-tooth clean! …
Okay, Rev, if you insist, but we’re almost back to the real world, so you’d better pull that hound’s tooth and get it over with….
That, my friends, is the bind we’re in. But the saving grace is that we see the lay of the land and the structure of his lie, just as we see the joke in his thinking that we willingly accept it. But here we must remember that if we hate our enemies for rejecting our humanity we’ll end up participating in our own DESTRUCTION.
So let us remember the ties that bind us to this land and to those who oppose us—not for their sake, but for the sake of our own salvation. And since blind blackness can kill no less than blind whiteness, and just as self righteously, there’s no lasting satisfaction to be found in blind retaliation based on our blackness. Yea, we must love our enemies as ourselves—not because we bow down before their will—oh no! But because both we and they are committed to the same transcendent ideal. Yes, and it is in the name of that unifying ideal that we both toil and suffer, and it is precisely because of that shared ideal that they shall fail and we shall prevail.
Therefore, my sisters and brothers, let us cling to OUR version of the all-encompassing vision and heed the glad tidings that bind us to this land. Let us survive and give hope to ALL its people….
… In other words, dear sisters and brothers, he’s telling you to quit all your messing around and get your black selves TOGETHER!
Feeling a loss of motion, he opened his eyes to find the bus rolling through the downtown streets of the city, and shook his head as he thought, Hickman, urging folks to live in faith is fine, but hitting them over the head with poorly organized ideas is something else. So since that’s about the homeliest homiletic you’ve ever come up with, you’d better remember that corny sermons make for gloomy Sundays and half-empty churches….
Now that the bus was parked before the famous downtown hotel, the aisle filled with passengers. And as they made their departure he remained in his seat and looked out to see them take off in various directions. Some with their luggage were hailing taxis while others moved toward the hotel to the jovial welcome of its uniformed doorman. And as he watched people on the sidewalk approaching the hotel from both directions he was reminded that he faced the annoying problem of finding a room before proceeding to drop in on Janey.
But now, looking to see the young Indian mother moving past with her baby peeping over her shoulder, he recalled his joke about the infant puzzling over his identity and surged with laughter.
No, little Chief, he thought, I’m neither Peter Wheatstraw disguised as King Kong the Baptist nor King Kong disguised as Wheatstraw, I’m Hickman. And with a wave to the baby he cooed, “Bye-bye, little bright eyes, it’s good to have seen you.”
And with a bubbling burp, the baby waved back, and cooed, “Goo-goo!” with a smile.
[VISIT]
LEAVING THE BUS, he recovered his baggage and became aware that the business area was far more crowded than during the old days. Across the busy street people were hurrying along, exchanging comments with voices raised against the roar of traffic, groups arriving in cars, taxis, and limousines were joining those entering the hotel in a mood of excitement, and while others waited patiently to follow the scene became one of good times and well-being.
And now, thinking to find a room as quickly as possible, he crossed the street and began edging his way along the crowded walk toward an idling taxi; until, seeing the face of its driver, he veered and kept walking.
It would save time, he thought, but even if he accepted me as a passenger it’s unlikely that he’d know where rooms are available on the East Side of town. Then, as he scanned the curb ahead for an empty taxi driven by a Negro, a detail from the scene behind him loomed in his mind.
And again he was approaching the hotel, baggage in hand, but this time seeing several passengers from the bus among the crowd waiting to enter, and in moving past the burly white doorman dressed in the uniform of a Prussian general he could see him smiling as he welcomed the young Indian mother and her alert young infant….
Yes, he thought, it happened, but still living under the spell of the old days I was so busy protecting myself from the indignity of rejection imposed by both law and custom that I refused to see it….
And suddenly it was as though he had willingly cooperated in making himself the butt of a game played by the past on the present; a malicious game in which the dead challenged the living to run the risk of reaching the ever-receding frontiers of freedom and face up to its mysteries. And now, frowning at the thought, he stopped in his tracks.
Hickman, he thought, you’ve been away a long time, so exactly how much things have changed in this town is debatable. But let this teach you to remember that these days wherever you happen to be in this country and see doors opening to others you’re obligated to run the risk of giving them a try—otherwise how can you assume that you’ll be rejected while placing all the blame on white folks?
And with an abrupt round-about-face he proceeded at a resolute pace to retrace his steps to the hotel. Where, with a nod to the doorman he entered the lobby, took a quick look at the guests in the lobby, an
d bracing himself for the possibility of being turned rudely away, or grudgingly accepted, strode straight to the reception desk and slammed down his baggage.
But no, without the slightest hint of hostility, the reception clerk asked him his name, address, and home phone number, wrote it down, assigned him a room, and signaled for a young, brown-skinned bellman to escort him. And to the bellman’s polite “This way, sir,” he pointed to his luggage and moved toward the banks of elevators where groups of passengers were waiting.
He noted with an old performer’s sensitivity to the moods of audiences that no one in the group was paying him more than casual attention—until, drawing closer, he saw a robust elderly man give him a quick double take, and the scene became charged with uncertainty.
Then, as he prepared for a verbal assault, he heard the man exclaim, “Why, I declare, if I’m not mistaken it’s Big Lon Hickman!”
And stifling a gasp he stopped short in amazement.
“No, sir, you aren’t,” he said, “but …”
“… How did I know about you?” the man said with a grin. “Well, I do, and I’m delighted to see you.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” Hickman said, “but I’m afraid …”
“… That you don’t remember me?”
“That’s it, and while I wish it were otherwise, I don’t.”
“I know, but it doesn’t change the fact that there was a time when you gave my wife and me a great deal of pleasure.”
“Now that’s a pleasure to hear, and it’s most kind of you to tell me.”
“No, I’m not being kind, I’m only trying to redress a wrong I committed years ago when I simply cheered from the crowd instead of telling you personally. Understand? Because things being what they were I simply didn’t know how to approach a man like yourself. Come on, Big Lon, you know what I mean! It took time, and that’s what this country needs more of: time. When we danced to your music our attitudes were different, but now times have changed, so I’m free to tell you. Hell, yes! And I’ll add something else …”
“All right, I’m listening.”
“That I felt that you and others like you were not only fine artists, but national treasures!”
“Now, that really is a surprise! And I’m honored, but I’m not sure I deserve it….”
“No buts about it, you were good, damn good! So since I’m too old to go fencing with words, let’s just say that there are still a few like me around who appreciated your music. That’s right, and I’m one who’s delighted to tell you.”
And now, with the elevator arriving and passengers piling in, the man stepped aside with a gracious, “After you, Big Lon.”
“Thank you,” Hickman said, and with the door closing and the car ascending he felt the probing of curious eyes.
With the elevator coming to a stop on the fourteenth floor, the door slid open, and with a nudge from the bellman he turned to his admirer and nodded.
“Sir,” he said with a smile, “you’ve really made my day.”
“And you mine,” the man said, “so take care, and good luck.”
“Thanks, and God bless you,” Hickman said. And in turning to leave he was met by the intense stare of a young, blue-eyed man whose expression appeared to be one of surprised recognition.
Moving down the hall and seeing the bellman giving his battered leather briefcase a look of approval, he asked, “Who was that gentleman?”
“That was Mr. William Callahan, who’s better known as Wild Cat Bill,” the bellman said. “He’s a big oil man who got rich during the old days. Owns two of the tallest buildings in town and a big estate in the suburbs but prefers to live here with us. I wish there were more like him, because unlike some of the others he’s nice to have around.”
“He certainly seems to be,” Hickman said.
“And you can believe it,” the bellman said. “Not only does he tip well, but he gives a lot of money to things like museums and symphonic orchestras. But if you don’t mind my asking, how’d he come to know you?”
“He didn’t, he only knew me as a musician.”
“Were you a rock man?”
“Oh, no, I came along much too early for that. In my day we were mostly bluesmen, stompers, and swingers.”
“Those must have been some pretty fine times,” the bellman said, “and according to Mr. Callahan you must have been good.”
“At least that’s his opinion,” Hickman said. “Anyway, it’s good to be remembered.”
And now, entering the room assigned him, he stood watching the smooth swinging style with which the bellman placed his briefcase and suitcase expertly on a rack at the foot of the bed with amusement. Then, as a compliment to his guest’s importance, the young man danced out a gracious expression of the hotel’s concern for his comfort, snapped on the lights in the bathroom, and adjusted the air conditioner.
And now, moving with a graceful it’s-a-mere-courtesy-of-the-house stride toward the door, the bellman smiled.
“That should do it,” he said, “and if there’s anything you need—food, drinks, or whatever—just buzz the desk and I’ll come running. Yes, and if you need help in finding your way around town I’m also pretty good with directions.”
“Thank you,” Hickman said as he extended a tip. “It’s been quite a while, but I’m pretty sure I still remember how to get where I’m going.”
“Good,” the bellman said, “and thank you. But if you haven’t been here recently, watch your step; because they’re tearing things down even faster than they’re building them up.”
And with a smart salute the bellman was gone.
Removing his jacket, he hung his suit in the closet, stripped to his waist, and made for the bathroom with his traveling kit. Where, after bathing his hands and face, he began combing his head as he stared at the mirror. And suddenly reminded that the young Indian mother had been responsible for his being in the hotel, he recalled her baby’s response to his greeting on the bus and erupted with laughter.
Hickman, he thought, the way that little rascal gooed at you sounded like he actually overheard that half-awake sermon as it ran through your mind. And if so, he was right on target. Still, just in case you go crazy and try converting some Indians you should ask to hear one of his sermons. After all, some babies are born leaders; wasn’t Bliss but a few years older when he began preaching?
Returning to the bedroom and noticing the telephone sitting on a table, he settled down to phone Janey to let her know that he would soon be on his way but decided against it.
No, he thought, she’ll only get herself worked up. So it’s better to simply appear and go on from there….
Leaving the hotel on foot, he headed east, expecting to cross the maze of railroad tracks which he remembered from the old days and continue uphill and then down to the Negro business-and-entertainment section. But to his surprise he discovered that the tracks were now elevated, and found himself walking through the cool shade of an underpass toward the bright rise of the sidewalk ahead. Then as he emerged into the heat he was again surprised to see that the area once occupied by an ice-cream factory was now given over to empty lots marked off for parking.
And this, he thought, after they became famous for making the best ice cream in town. Good butter-pecan, strawberry, and that blue specialty they made from hawthorn berries—blue haw, they called it….
Continuing east, he remembered the block as a mixture of rooming houses and family dwellings, but although the walk was still shaded by some of the same trees, most of the structures were gone. And suddenly remembering that the railroad had run parallel with the street that divided the eastern section of the city from the white business district, he turned and looked down the slope from whence he’d come. And yes, although now overshadowed by elevated tracks, the street was still there.
But you have to watch them, he thought, because when they start expanding they go about it like the joke about bathing with nothing more than a washbowl and a pitcher of water: First
you wash down as far as possible, then up as far as possible, and then in a rush to get it over and done you wash “possible.”
So first they divide a town and move as far from us as they think possible, then they build as close to the dividing line as they think possible, and finally as the town keeps expanding they say to hell with you folks and go about bulging the line until they’ve crowded us off in a corner…. So much for them, us, and the un-washable impossible possible!
And now on sudden impulse he began crisscrossing the street, taking long strides and avoiding passing cars as he looked for more signs of change.
To the north whole blocks had been razed, and although he remembered nothing impressive about what was gone he felt a stab of sadness that was relieved by the sight of a single construction site on which workmen were busy erecting a building. Then as he continued toward the corner ahead, the broad stained-glass windows of a familiar church loomed against the sky and he hurried toward it with a sudden sense of urgency.
Reaching the corner, he paused and stood staring at the tall brick structure and thought with a sense of relief, Thank God it’s still standing. For having seen many such neighborhoods destroyed, he knew that churches were the last structures to be demolished and took the fact that Janey’s church was still standing as a reliable indication that the old neighborhood was enduring the stresses of change.
For now, as in years before, green grass grew on the slopes of its high embankments, its broad oaken door and brass handles and hinges gleamed in the sun, the black handrails leading up from the walk below newly painted, and the old haven of a church loomed like a time-battered rock in a turbulent land.
In the old days Janey would’ve had to knock me in the head to get me in there, he thought, but now I’m overjoyed to see it. Like that man Callahan said when he surprised me, it took time. But Time is both change and stability—so now let’s have a look at what’s happened to that once famous hall where we played all those dances….
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 110