I knew he had problems now. He had that problem of staying home and taking all that stuff from Dad. Mama had told me that he had had a fight with Dad. He w-ay fighting back now. He was declaring his independence. I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what to do when he started complaining about how Dad and Mama and Papa, my grandfather, were still in the woods and he was growing up. He was getting away from all that old down-home stuff, and he didn't go for hearing it all the time around the house. I knew he was right, because I'd had the same feeling. You feel as though they're trying to make something out of you that you couldn't
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be and didn't want to be if you could, as though they're trying to raise you as a farm boy in New York, in Harlem.
I knew he was right, but I couldn't agree with him. I couldn't say, "Yeah, man. You got to get outta there." I wasn't sure that he was ready to leave, and I didn't have anyplace for him to go.
He would come down to my place after he'd had a fight with Dad and stay for a night. I knew Mama was all upset, because she'd get on the phone and start calling until he got there. She'd be real upset every time he stayed out after twelve o'clock. She was afraid that he was going to run away. She'd had her troubles with me, and I guess she figured history was repeating itself. Mama had really been through something with me, and I knew this. She had not had any trouble out of Carole and Margie. She'd always said she hoped she wouldn't have any grandsons, because if she had it all to do over again, she'd never have any boys.
I knew she had one reason for saying that, but I didn't want her to have another. I was trying to cool Pimp. I didn't feel that this cat was really ready to make it out on his own. He'd been a good boy all his life, and good boys weren't supposed to be pulling up and leaving home at fifteen.
I had to stop him from coming down to my place, because he was liking it too much. He'd come down, I'd give him money to go to school, money to blow. It was better than being home, because he didn't have anybody to answer to. I never asked him where he'd been or where he was going. He could stay out as late as he wanted to. Cats were always jamming at my place, all the young jazz musicians, the cats playing at the joints around where I lived. They'd be coming up all times of the night, getting high smoking pot and having jam sessions.
There'd be all kinds of bitches up there. We'd be partying way into the wee hours. This was a hip life, the way he saw it, and he wanted to get in. But I knew he wasn't ready for anything like this. It might have had a bad effect on him. The last thing I had to worry about was having my morals corrupted. But Pimp-was younger, and he wasn't ready for this thing, the way I saw it. I was afraid for him, so I had to pull a mean trick on him to stop him from coming.
One night he came down, and he said he was tired of Mama and Dad and wanted me to look for a place for him. This was about twelve-thirty.
I said, "Okay, man," and pretended that I was serious about finding him a place. It was a cold night. I said, "Look, I only have one blanket." I put him in the little room across from me, and he almost froze. The next morning, he was in a hurry to get out of there and get back uptown to his warm bed.
I still didn't think he was ready, and more than that, I just didn't want him to hurt Mama as much as I had. I decided to go up there and talk to him, find out just what was going on. I could ask Mama about it, but she'd say, "That boy just thinks he's grown; he's gon fight his daddy, and he gon go outta here and stay as late as he wants." Mama couldn't understand Pimp any more than he could understand her.
I tried to talk to her. I said, "Look, Mama, Pimp grew up here in New York City. He's kind of different. He didn't grow up on all that salt pork, collard greens, and old-time religion. You can't make a chitterlin' eater out of him now."
Mama said, "Now, look here, nigger, you ate a whole lot of chitterlin's yourself, and chitterlin's wasn't too good for you back there in the early forties when your daddy wasn't doing too good on his job."
"Look, Mama, why don't you listen sometime, just for a little while. I'm telling you your son's got problems. Mama. It's not problems down on the farm. He's got problems here in New York City. And the only way he's going to solve these problems is that you try and help him."
"Oh, boy, sometimes I don't know what's wrong with you. You gon get involved in all that psychology you're always talkin' about and go stone crazy."
"Yeah, Mama, forget it." I just couldn't talk to her.
This day that I'd come up to talk was right after a big snowstorm. It was pretty cold; there was a lot of snow in the street. Traffic was moving at a snail's pace, almost at a standstill. Mama was complaining about how cold it was.
"Mama, why don't you complain to the landlord about this?"
"I called the office of the renting agency twice, and they said he wasn't in. When I called the third time, I spoke to him, but he said that it wasn't any of his problem, and I'd have to fix it up myself. I ain't got no money to be gettin' these windows'relined."
"Mama, that's a whole lot of stuff. I know better than
that. Why don't you go up to the housing commission and complain about it?"
"I ain't got no time to be goin' no place complainin' about nothin'. I got all this housework to do, and all this cookin'; I got to be runnin' after Pimp."
"Look, Mama, let's you and me go up there right now. I'm gonna write out a complaint, and I want you to sign it."
"I got all this washin' to do."
"Mama, you go on and you wash. I'm gon wait for you; I'm gon help you wash,"
Mama started washing the clothes. As soon as she finished that, she had to put the pot on the stove. Then she had to fix some lunch. As soon as she finished one thing, she would find another thing that she had to do right away. She just kept stalling for time.
Finally, after waiting for about three hours, when she couldn't find anything else to do, I said, "Look, Mama, come on, let's you and me go out there."
We went over to 145th Street. We were going to take the crosstown bus to Broadway, to the temporary housing-commission office.
We were waiting there. Because of the snowstorm, the buses weren't running well, so we waited there for a long time. Mama said, "Look, we'd better wait and go some other time.'*
I knew she wanted to get out of this, and I knew if I let her go and put it off to another time, it would never be done. I said, "Mama, we can take a cab."
"You got any money?"
"No."
"I ain't got none either. So we better wait until another time."
"Look, Mama, you wait right here on the comer. I'm going across the street to the pawnshop, and when I get back, we'll take a cab."
She waited there on the comer, and I went over to the pawnshop and pawned my ring. When I came back, we took a cab to Broadway and 145th Street, to the temporary housing-commission office. When I got there, I told one of the girls at the window that I wanted to write out a complaint against a tenement landlord.
She gave me a form to fill out and said I had to make out two copies. I sat down and started writing. It seemed like a whole lot to Mama, because Mama didn't do too much
writing. She used a small sheet of paper even when she wrote a letter.
She kept bothering me while I was writing. She said, "Boy, what's all that you puttin' down there? You can't be saying nothin' that ain't the truth. Are you sure you know what you're talking about? Because I'm only complaining about the window, now, and it don't seem like it'd take that much writing to complain about just the one window."
"Mama, you're complaining about all the windows. Aren't all the windows in the same shape?*
"I don't know."
"Well, look here, Mama, isn't it cold in the whole house?"
"Yeah."
"When was the last time the windows were lined?**
"I don't know. Not since we lived in there."
"And you been livin' there seventeen years. Look, Mama, you got to do something."
"Okay, just don't put down anythi
ng that ain*t true.** She kept pulling on my arm.
"Look, Mama, I'm gonna write out this thing. When I finish I'll let you read it, and if there's anything not true in it, I'll cross it out. Okay?"
"Okay, but it just don't seem like it take all that just to write out one complaint."
I had to write with one hand and keep Mama from pulling on me with the other hand. When I finished it, I turned in the two complaint forms, and we left. Mama kept acting so scared, it really got on my nerves. I said, "Look, Mama, you ain't got nothin' to be scared of."
She said she wasn't scared, but she just wanted to stay on the good side of the landlord, because sometimes she got behind in the rent.
"Yeah, Mama, but you can't be freezin* and catching colds just because sometimes you get behind in thp rent. Everybody gets behind in the rent, even people who live on Central Park West and Park Avenue. They get behind in the rent. They're not freezin' to death just because they're behind in the rent."
"Boy, I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're always ready to get yourself into something or start some trouble."
"Yeah, Mama, if I'm being mistreated, I figure it's time to start some trouble."
"Boy, I just hope to God that you don't get yourself into something one day that you can't get out of."
"Mama, everybody grows into manhood, and you don't stop to think about that sort of thing once you become a man. You just do it, even if it's trouble that you can't get out of. You don't stop to think. Look, forget about it. Mama. Just let me worry about the whole thing."
"Okay, you do the worryin', but the landlord ain't gon come down there in Greenwich Village and put you out. He gon put us out."
"Mama, he ain't gon put nobody out, don't you believe me?" I pinched her on the cheek, and she got a smile out.
After a couple of days, I came back uptown. I asked Mama, "What about the windows?"
"Nothin' about the windows."
"What you mean 'nothin' about the windows'?" I was getting a little annoyed, because she just didn't seem to want to be bothered. I said, "You mean they didn't fix the windows yet? You didn't hear from the landlord?"
"No, I didn't hear from the landlord."
"Well, we're going back up to the housing commission."
"What for?"
"Because we're gon get something done about these windows."
"But something's already been done."
"What's been done, if you didn't hear anything from the landlord?'*
"Some man came in here yesterday and asked me what windows."
"What man?"
"I don't know what man."
"Well, what did he say? Didn't he say where he was from?"
"No, he didn't say anything. He just knocked on the door and asked me if I had some windows that needed relining. I said, 'Yeah,' and he asked me what windows, so I showed him the three windows in the front,"
"Mama, you didn' show him all the others?"
"No, because that's not so bad, we didn't need them re-lined."
"Mama, oh, Lord, why didn't you show him the others?"
"Ain't no sense in trying to take advantage of a good thing."
"Yeah, Mama. I guess it was a good thing to you."
I thought about it. I thought about the way Mama would
go down to the meat market sometimes, and the man would sell her some meat that was spoiled, some old neck bones or some pig tails. Things that weren't too good even when they weren't spoiled. And sometimes she would say, *'Oh, those things aren't too bad." She was scared to take them back, scared to complain until somebody said, *That tastes bad." Then she'd go down there crying and mad at him, wanting to curse the man out. She had all that Southern upbringing in her, that business of being scared of Mr. Charlie. Everybody white she saw was Mr. Charlie.
Pimp was still in this thing, and I was afraid for him. I knew it was a hard thing for him to fight. I suppose when I was younger, I fought it by stealing, by not being at home, by getting into trouble. But I felt that Pimp was at a loss as to what to do about it. It might have been a greater problem for him.
It seemed as though the folks, Mama and Dad, had never heard anything about Lincoln or the Emancipation Proclamation. They were going to bring the South up to Harlem with them. I knew they had had it with them all the time. Mama would be telling Carole and Margie about the root workers down there, about somebody who had made a woman leave her husband, all kinds of nonsense like that.
I wanted to say, "Mama, why don't you stop tellin' those girls all that crazy shit?" But I couldn't say anything, because they wouldn't believe me, and Mama figured she was right. It seemed as though Mama and Dad were never going to get out of the woods until we made them get out.
Many times when I was there. Mama would be talking all that nonsense about the woods and about some dead person who had come back. Her favorite story was the time her mother came back to her and told her everything was going to be all right and that she was going to get married in about three or four months. I wanted to say, "Look,-'Mama, we're in New York. Stop all that foolishness."
She and Dad had been in New York since 1935. They were in New York, but it seemed like their minds were still down there in the South Carolina cotton fields. Pimp, Carole, and Margie had to suffer for it. I had to suffer for it too, but because I wasn't at home as much as the others, I had suffered less than anybody else.
I could understand Pimp's anxieties about having to listen to Grandpapa, who was now living with Mama and Dad, talk
that old nonsense about how good it was on the chain gang. He'd tell us about the time he ran away from the chain gang. He stayed on some farm in Georgia for about two or three weeks, but he got lonesome for his family. He knew if he went home, they would be waiting for him, so he went back to the chain gang. The white man who was in charge of the chain gang gave him his old job back and said something like, "Hello there. Brock. Glad to see you back." He said they'd treated him nice. I couldn't imagine them treating him nice, because I didn't know anybody in the South who was treated nice, let alone on a chain gang. Still, Papa said the chain gang was good. I wanted to smack him. If he weren't my grandfather, I would have.
I felt sorry for Pimp, and I wished I were making a whole lot of money and could say, "Come on, man. Live with me and get away from that Harlem scene, and perhaps you can do something." But before he made the move from Harlem, he'd have to know where he was going, every step of the way, all by himself.
He was lost in that house. Nobody there even really knew he was alive. Mama and Dad were only concerned about the numbers coming out. Papa, since he was so old, would just sit around and look for the number in Ching Chow's ear in the newspaper comic section. When the number came out, he'd say, "I knew that number was comin'. I could've told you before."
I used to watch Pimp sometimes when I'd go up there. Papa would be talking this stuff about the number, and it seemed to be just paining Pimp. It hadn't bothered me that much. But I suppose it couldn't have. I used to be kind of glad that they were involved in this stuff. I guess I had an arrogant attitude toward the family. I saw them all as farmers. It made me feel good that they were involved in this stuff, because then they couldn't be aware of what I was doing and what was going down. The more they got involved in that old voodoo, the farther they got away from me and what I was doing out in the street.
Papa used to make me mad with, "Who was that old boy you was with today, that old tar-black boy?" Mama used to say thinps like that about people too, but I never felt that she was really color struck. Sometimes I used to get mad when she'd say things about people and their complexion, but she always treated all the people we brought up to the house real nice, regardless of whether they were dark- or light-skinned.
I knew that Pimp was at an age when he'd be bringing his friends around, and Papa would be talking that same stuff about, "Who's that black so-and-so?" If you brought somebody to the house who was real light-skinned. Papa would say, "They're nice," or "They're n
ice lookin'." All he meant was that the people were light-skinned.
I remember one time when Papa was telling his favorite story about how he could have passed for white when he first came to New York and moved down on the Lower East Side. He became a janitor of a building there. He said everybody thought he was white until they saw Uncle McKay, Mama's brother and Papa's son. He was about my complexion or a little lighter than I was, but anybody could tell he was colored. Papa said if it wasn't for McKay, he could have passed for white. This story used to get on my nerves, and I thought it was probably bothering Pimp now too. Sometimes I wanted to tell him, "Shit, man, why don't you just go on some place where you can pass for white, if that's the way you feel about it? And stop sitting here with all us real colored niggers and talkin' about it." But if I'd ever said that. Mama would have been mad at me for the rest of my life.
I wondered if it was good for him to be around all that old crazy talk, because I imagined that all my uncles who were dark-skinned—Uncle McKay, Uncle Ted, Uncle Brother— felt that Papa didn't care too much for them because they were dark-skimied, and I supposed that Pimp might have gotten that feeling too. I had the feeling that this wasn't anyplace for kids to be around, with some crazy old man talking all that stuff about light skin and how he could have passed for white and calling people black.
Many times, Mama and I talked about Pimp. She'd say, "I don't know what's gon happen to that boy." She'd always be telling him he was going to get into trouble.
I wanted to say, "Why don't you leave him alone and stop talking that?"
She'd say, "That boy's gon be up in Warwick just as sure as I'm livin'."
I said, "Mama, look, don't be puttin' the bad mouth on him." I could tell her about the bad mouth, because this was something she knew, and she'd get mad. This was the only way to stop her from talking that stuff sometimes.
Manchild in the promised land Page 34