The note I held in my hand was from Dr. Reed. I sat outside of his office that morning nervously chatting with the secretaries in the office. They were talking about the riots.
“Them folks sure showed their asses over in Northeast where I live. Grabbing junk out of Allen’s and Woolworth’s and next to that the liquor store. Girl, you should have seen that mess they were dragging out of the Lerner shops …”
Her intercom buzzed. She picked up the phone.
“You may go in now, Miss Frazier … And good luck, child.”
What did she mean, good luck?
Dr. Reed’s back was turned to me as he looked out of the window onto the campus green. He was a dark, pompous man who clearly thought highly of his long-standing success. He held what looked like a list of grades in his hands. I stood there uncomfortably for a moment. Still looking out of the window, he said: “Have a seat, Miss Frazier.” Then he slowly spun around in that plush leather chair. The wall behind him was full of plaques and photographs. In each photograph, he was giving or receiving some kind of award. His PhD diploma was prominently displayed between two cheap reproductions of Renoir and Degas.
“Your grades are not bad, Miss Frazier. I want to congratulate you on having been a good student. But it is essential that you obey the rules this institution …”
He found out!
“… It has come to my attention that you have violated my directive concerning proper use and conduct in the practice rooms.”
He had me.
“Now that you’re ready to graduate, you’ll need excellent departmental recommendations. And, Miss Frazier, I sincerely believe that all of us here want you to succeed in your chosen endeavors. But you must obey my rules, Miss Frazier … What is happening to civilization? You can play that other music in one of those terrible clubs on U Street. But your applications and general deportment as a student at this university indicate that you have higher aspirations … Keep those aspirations, my child; it is so easy for us, as a people, to fall prey to the baser aspects of human existence.”
Wow!
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Miss Frazier?” He pressed his sleekly manicured fingers together to form a V, which seemed to point directly at my heart.
I got up slowly, barely able to speak. I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from breaking into tears. But I would not let him break me down. I mumbled some kind of something and excused myself as I groped my way out of there. A menacing, electronic curse whirred in the air. Somehow, I made it past Fannie and the other secretaries in the outer office. It was like an echo chamber in a Frankenstein movie … They said something about pink lingerie being dragged along the street as state troopers stood guard over the burning carcass of the city.
* * *
On the phone, she had a soft voice, with a lyrical sort of poignancy about it. It was clearly a different voice from the one she had at the rally; and now muted by the phone, it was a marvelous antidote to the whirring menace that continued to plague my memory of yesterday’s encounter with Dr. Reed.
“We’re having a party Friday night at our place on Ontario Road … Abdul said to call … So, how about it?”
“Thanks, but who’s Abdul?”
“You know him as Eugene … He’s changed his name.”
Why did he have to do that now? All of the fantasies churning within my young heart had Eugene and I on location in some distant erotic country. For a moment, I was angry with him for not sharing his transformation with me.
“Are you still there, Sister?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m looking forward to meeting you in person … Eugene speaks very highly of you.”
* * *
It was a fantastic party!!! Where had all these people been hiding? Most of them were from the university, but I had never seen them before. There were colorful and zany students from the theatre department. Painters from the art department. Mad musicians who I didn’t even know existed. Two or three maverick professors from the English department—one, a woman with a red turban whose long brown arms danced in a circle of passionate wit. Where had all of these people been my four years at this university? There were revolutionary activists from Philadelphia, Cleveland, Detroit, and Harlem. There were different sets of people, all over the house:
In the living room, Jennie was engaged in a spirited debate on the need for a black revolutionary army. Jennie said that was suicidal because the masses had to be organized. The argument was fierce, but there was a great deal of laughter interspersed throughout.
Down in the basement, they were dancing to the music of Martha and the Vandellas, Mary Wells, the Supremes, and the mighty James Brown. In the corner of the basement, somebody passed me a joint, but I turned it down. I get silly and lose prospective when I smoke.
And in the kitchen, there were poets, at least ten of them. There was a thin dark string bean of a woman whose poetry reminded me of my granddaddy’s voice. It was so full of the earth and the sound of life as it is actually lived. The way it made you feel was more like music than literature. It was not like the poetry we studied in Dr. Brawley’s class. That poetry was “beautiful” (like most of my classical repertoire), but beautiful in a distant kind of way. The art of this poetry sprang from the urge to name things anew. As the old folks often said: This is the kind of food that sticks to the ribs. This poetry made you sing and laugh and weep and curse your enemies. Enemies? Who are our enemies? the poets asked.
Then Jennie’s turn came to read, her voice sometimes blazing with images of moribund worlds crumbling. In her poems, women and men died the romantic death of righteous revolutionaries, uttering inspiring slogans as they fought desperately and then died under the awesome firepower of the enemy. There was always something a little corny and sentimental about her concept of change; but that night I loved her poems uncritically. Yet something about her frightened me. She was so much freer than me. Her poems about being a woman, for example, were disturbingly erotic and daring.
And so we partied on into the night, some of us down in the basement shimmying to the music of Smokey Robinson; and others, like me, Jennie, and Eugene, in the kitchen digging on Coltrane while on the stove simmered big pots of peas and rice and spicy creolized stewed chicken.
In a quiet corner, away from the din, I tried to get acquainted with Jennie. I talked on and on about my musical studies; about whether or not I should go to the conservatory, or just get married and have a lot of babies. I went on about how I longed to see places like Paris and Vienna.
Suddenly, she interrupted me: “Don’t you have any commitment to anything other than yourself?” Her question stopped me dead. She was so smug with me then, and her voice was heavily weighted with a tone of moral and intellectual superiority. Yes, compared to her, I was confused about everything. Jennie seemed to have a firm grip on things.
Her family belonged to what she called the “responsible working class.” Her father was a railroad man whose overalls smelled of oil and coal. Her mother worked in a food processing plant in the Frankford section of North Philadelphia. She was the oldest of three children: a brother and a sister. By “responsible” she meant that they were never wards of the state.
They all worked hard. They paid the rent, and later the mortgage, on time. They voted. Did jury duty. Paid taxes. Made sure that there was food on the table. Stood over them while they did their school work. Read them good books. Scraped together money to take them to shows at the Pearl Theatre. And finally, kept them alive and out of jail.
So against all of my best intentions, that night we became friends.
“We need to make a revolution,” she said. “There’s no reason for people to have to live like our people do in this society. This system must inevitably fall. And upon its ashes we must build a new society … That’s what I’m about. What are you about, Sister?”
There was a sudden burst of laughter from the kitchen. I sat there kind of scramble-headed. But she was coolly and quietly arrogan
t as she waited for me to answer. What could I say that could even begin to compare with her grand apocalyptic visions?
Up until those weird dreams of which I have previously spoken, my life had seemed very ordinary and well made.
But I was not spoiled. No, I am not middle-class lace and frills. To be sure, by some abstract standard of accomplishment, we lived better than most Negroes. But my people have never made a big deal about it. You might call my people “conservative,” but it really wouldn’t mean anything to them. Because they hate oppression and degradation. They never put on airs, but they are certain that they can run this society better than most so-called white people. So life was no crystal stair for them. Like most black people, however superficially fortunate, they have had to claw and scratch for every crumb they could snatch from the white man’s table. With all of this in mind, I found the words to answer her.
“Bitch,” I said quietly, “please don’t try that shit on me … I am a person and my name is Linda Frazier.”
She looked at me stunned for a moment. Then she started laughing. I don’t know whether she was laughing at me or with me; but we laughed together, long and hard …
* * *
It was a long weekend. Sometime between that Friday night and Monday morning, I made love to Eugene and plotted with them the takeover of the university. So, I let go. Not knowing where any of this would take me, I became a spring child running wild. My blood afire, my nipples moist with milk …
Monday morning we seized the president’s office, which was located in the administration building. We took over the switchboard. About six hundred of us. All of the campus crazies and passionate ideologues. We chanted and sang slogans as we charged across the campus. We locked the president and his entire staff in the offices. Jennie was in charge of logistics. “Abdul” set up a communications network with other college campuses. I was part of the arts-attack team. We moved on the Arts and Humanities building. We cornered Dr. Reed and the music staff in a department meeting. Our banners demanded black music: Ellington, Parker, Coltrane … They trembled. Dr. Reed and his supercilious flock of incompetents trembled. Seeing them like this, we realized that we had power. In the swirl, I caught a glimpse of Dr. Reed giving me an imploring look. He knew I was with them. But still his mouth was twisted in a painful “Why?”
We pressed our demands on them. A few of the bolder teachers tried to defend the policies of the department, but we shouted them down. Then we played our stomps, rags, blues, and be-bop. We played everything “out,” wailing plaintive, atonal black screeching sounds that made us scream with power. Dr. Reed tried to cover his ears, but the sound was so righteous and judgmental that, despite himself, he was compelled to listen. Yes, it was chaos, but it was good.
We ran the university for seven days. On the heels of our rebellion, more spread to other campuses around the country. Eugene’s press briefings were superb. We made the six o’clock news. Our voices went out on radios and tape recorders all around the world. Yes, it was dangerous. But in a snap I had somehow become reckless in my passion. And in my dreams now, the face of my spectral twin alternately changed her expression from stern acquiescence to wry, cryptic laughter. On the whole, though, she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. Because now I was free to go on. Toward what and where?
No, it was not difficult to wash out my permanent and display this kinky hair like it was a bejeweled diadem. Of course, I briefly thought about my mother’s shock. But I was grown now, and our tomorrows loomed bright before us.
Well, we won most of our demands. Seniors like myself, Eugene, and Jennie would be allowed to graduate. A joint committee of students and faculty members was set up to plan an Afro-American Studies program. The director of the cafeteria promised better food. It was a strange and exhilarating victory. Two nights before graduation day, Eugene and I were back at it furiously. We lay under the sheets together.
“I’ve been accepted to law school.”
“Where?”
“Columbia.”
I was impressed.
“What about you?”
“The conservatory.”
“That’s an odd combination.”
“What’s an odd combination?”
“A lawyer with a violinist for a wife.”
“We’ll have to tell Jennie …”
“Oh yes, Jennie,” he said as he slide inside of me again …
* * *
The next day I met Jennie at the West Indian restaurant on Georgia Avenue. She was unusually buoyant. Maybe a little high even.
“Well, this is it, ole girl,” she said, “we finally made it out of this plantation.”
“What are you gonna do now?” That was the question everyone was asking each other.
But before she could answer, I said: “Go ye forth, Children, and tear down the walls of Jericho.”
She laughed, flashing an exquisite set of teeth. She had recently washed her hair, and there was about her the scent of coconut oil. “Of course, Jericho must fall, my Sister. What will be your contribution?”
“Why must I make a contribution?”
“Because there is no such thing as personal anything as long as the Beast rules the planet.”
“But why must I give my life to that? This is the only life I know. I want to make music and have babies. Is there really anything wrong with that?”
“No, but you can’t collaborate with this system.”
“Collaborate?”
“Yes, collaborate!” She was suddenly very angry. Then she paused and softly stroked my hand with her fingertips. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Where?”
“Chicago, to help organize a revolutionary party.”
“Jennie, I wouldn’t be good at that, and besides, Eugene and I are getting married.” I felt her fingers pause.
“Oh, I see … So you two have really been at it. I wish somebody could have told me before now.”
“We were planning to tell you tonight.” I knew I was taking him away from her; I hadn’t consciously planned it that way, but in the whirl of events my body seemed on fire. My womanhood came down on me, and Eugene got to be a habit I couldn’t break.
“I love you, Linda.” It hung in the air like smoke from a stick of marijuana.
“I love you too, Jennie.”
She almost wept, but held back. “I have an appointment now. Good luck, my Sister.” She kissed me on the cheek and walked out of the restaurant.
She must have left campus the next day, because she did not march down the aisle. She was a summa cum laude student, and they called her name. But she was not there. I met Eugene’s entire family of doctors and lawyers. My family liked his family and his family liked mine. And there was nothing unusual about the rest.
So we married, but there is really nothing very special about us. We take it for granted that we love each other, and that we should succeed in whatever we do. Eugene is a tough lawyer, one of the best of a new breed of black constitutional attorneys specializing in the First Amendment. Me? I’m still trying to get into an orchestra. In the meantime, I fly back and forth to Europe for special concerts. The reviews are good, but nothing big has broken for me over here. I just go on working my stuff on Eugene, playing an occasional gig, and keeping this diary. I suspect that we will have children soon. And as Jennie would say, we will raise them in the proper knowledge of themselves. And what of Jennie now?
She’s on the run, living in Paris or Algeria as a political exile. Expatriate—
* * *
Eugene was out of town. I was working on a new composition about seven years ago when the phone rang. I started not to answer it because it seemed to ring so harshly. It was Jennie. She was wanted for murdering a Chicago policeman. It was in all of the papers. Hadn’t she considered that our phone might be tapped? After all, Eugene had successfully defended movement people. I wiped the instrument clean and put it in the case. I went to the bank and withdrew two thousand dollars in cash.
Suppose they found out and Eugene lost his license to practice law? Suppose they have been followed? This was Jennie’s vortex, no doubt out it.
It was a dingy Irish bar on the West Side. She was not alone. The man was a little younger than Jennie. He wore a suit and a raincoat. He did not take his hat off. We sat at the table facing the door. With his left hand he sipped his drink, but underneath the table, the right hand held a large-caliber weapon. Jennie introduced me to him, but I didn’t really hear his name.
“Sister, you sure look good. How’s Abdul?”
“He’s fine. But he stopped calling himself Abdul several years ago.” I don’t know why I was compelled to tell her that. She could have just as well remembered him as Abdul.
“How’s your musical career coming?”
I laughed nervously. “It just limps along.”
How could she seem so calm in a situation like this? Suddenly, the real danger I was in confronted me. The man kept his eyes on the door. It seemed he got slightly agitated and alert every time a police car passed the bar …
An awkward pause. “Would anybody like anything to eat?” I asked. No. They had eaten already. The drinks were just fine.
“I’m sorry we don’t have time, my Sister. Are you able to help?”
I clutched my bag with the money in it. I would be lying if I said that she looked good. She had lost weight and it showed in her face, which was now gaunt with strain.
Just as I was about to feel sorry for her, she said: “Life is funny, isn’t it, girl? And we ain’t even turned forty yet.” Then she laughed a little, and with a gesture hinted that we should go to the ladies’ room together.
In the john, she said: “I’m sorry we’ll have to cut this visit short, my Sister.”
“I understand,” I said, fighting back the tears.
I took out the money, all the time thinking about Eugene and imagining if the FBI burst in there right then. But nothing happened. I gave it to her. She took it and grasped my hand tightly. Then she kissed me full in the mouth, and said: “For a better world.”
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