Cleaning was not a sure thing. Yoyo had to diversify. He would write. Langston Cane was up writing every night and every morning in his kitchen, and he wasn’t even a writer. He even admitted it. Had never published anything. Had never been paid for his writing, except for a few thousand speeches that an educated twelve-year-old could have written. Yet, nevertheless, he said he was writing. Didn’t expect to make any money from it, didn’t know if he’d finish it, didn’t even know if it was worthy of being called a novel, but he was at it, writing every day. So would Yoyo. But Yoyo had to be focused. He couldn’t afford to waste time on hand-wringing, anxiety-laden memoirs that might never be finished or published. No. He had to do something marketable. Something that he could finish in a day, and something that he could sell.
He would write an opinion piece. He had seem them frequently in North America. When he had worked during a year-long journalism apprenticeship a decade ago in St. Boniface, Manitoba, he had noticed them appearing daily in the Winnipeg Herald. Yoyo would fire a few off to the Toronto Times. Two of his old friends from Winnipeg, Hélène Savoie and Mahatma Grafton, were working there. Hélène could help him publish his piece. He wanted to get in touch with her anyway. He wanted to see that woman again. She could help him negotiate a good fee at the paper. Three hundred dollars would be nice. It was more than one month’s rent. It was exhilarating to think that he could make three hundred dollars just by sitting at a table and writing. Yes, Yoyo would start to write. He would take on the major issues of the day. He would sign them Hassane Moustafa “Yoyo” Ali, Underground in America. The first one popped out in two hours.
Dear Reader,
I wish to propose an alternative to the terms used to describe people of African heritage.
I will start by focusing my attentions on a linguistic phenomenon — namely, the term people of color.
It is impossible to evaluate the term people of color without considering its predecessor, colored people. Colored people used to be a term sympathetic to people of Any Known Blood, but no longer. It is now reviled.
Some people today prefer the term people of color. This choice baffles me. You have a noun, a preposition, and another noun. Normally, such a construction would suggest belonging, such as People of France, or Jesuits of Italy, or Knights of Columbus. But it’s an awkward construction. The preposition weighs down the term. Do we say People of Left Hands? It seems to me that of is the operative word. What is the difference, for example, between intelligent people and people of intelligence? The difference is in the attitude of the speaker. The user of the latter term wishes to emphasize the value of intelligence. The word suggests that the next word to follow is positive. That’s why people say The Duke of York instead of The York Duke.
If one sets aside historical nuance, little remains to distinguish between colored people and people of color. The difference resides in the attitude of the speaker. If you use colored people, you convey that you don’t care that the word offends black people today. If you use people of color, you wish to celebrate color. But to this writer, people of color rings with self-importance. It is one thing to celebrate one’s heritage. But it is quite another to see oneself as the navel of the universe.
I propose that we entirely abandon the words color and colored.
May I submit the term people of pigment? True, the weighty of remains. But the tone of self-importance is neutralized by alliteration. Matching the first letters of adjacent words is common in children’s literature, and in cartoons. In English, even more than in French, alliteration has the effect of adding a touch of levity. Porky Pig. Mister McGoo. People of pigment. Follow me through, dear readers. To express this idea in terms of an arithmetic equation, pomp + levity = equanimity.
Let’s examine other arguments in support of people of pigment. For one thing, the new term constitutes a clear departure from the word color. It is unlikely that any reasonable person will suggest replacing this expression with pigmented people, which, unlike colored people, has no tradition in our lexicon. For another, pigment is a compact and pithy little word. It is merely two syllables, and easy to pronounce. In the term people of pigment, both nouns start with the bilabial explosive p, a highly enjoyable consonant for the mouth to deliver — one that gives a person the sensation of power, or at least control of one’s destiny. Finally, by retaining the word of — perhaps the most underrated preposition in the English language — we ensure that people enjoy the desirable connotations of pride and respect. People of pigment, unite under this new term.
Yoyo mailed the story to Hélène Savoie, who, as I heard later, fed the story to the op-ed editor — a man named Brian Coolidge. He tossed it down on his desk on top of a pile of unsolicited pieces. He said he didn’t read handwritten copy. Hélène took it back, typed it on her computer, printed it, and gave it back to Brian. “You’re the most persistent —”
“Just read it,” Hélène said. “This guy has a quirky take on things. You might like it.”
Brian pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his long nose. He chuckled in the second sentence. He laughed midway through the fourth. He roared with laughter three more times and, at the end, declared the piece the best satire he’d seen in a year.
“He didn’t intend it as satire,” Hélène told Brian. “Do you think it’s funny?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
“So do I. So will half the city. I’m using it on Friday.”
By Wednesday of the next week, the Times had received eighteen letters to the editor praising Yoyo’s piece. One letter-writer complained that Yoyo’s piece was a vitriolic attack on the sensitivities of people of color. But that writer drew fire from four other scribes in the following days. Brian asked Hélène to send Yoyo a note with the cheque. Could she please ask if he had any more articles kicking around?
Chapter 16
I STOPPED BY ANNETTE’S PLACE twice over the next few days, but did not find her home. Or, at least, she did not come to the door. The second time, I could see from the street that there was a light on in her apartment. Maybe she’d had enough of me. Perhaps she had another man up there. The two years of celibacy had been tough. Staring ahead at another long road of abstinence promised to be even tougher. I tried not to think about Annette or Ellen. I dove into writing again. I was ready to resume the story of my grandfather, Langston Cane the Third.
In April 1923, two sharp blasts from the Marlatt and Armstrong tannery awakened the Cane family at six-thirty on their first morning in the new Oakville residence.
Actually, they awakened young Mill, who was a light sleeper, and her mother Rose, who wondered who had cause to blow on a whistle at such a pagan hour. Langston Cane the Third slept through the whistle, and the ruckus Millicent raised over the cold enamel toilet seat, and the voice Rose used to settle her daughter down. “Don’t irk me, daughter, I’m not in a mood to be irked. Sit on that toilet before I heat up your behind with the back of my hand.”
Langston slept through the sound of the milkman ringing his bell as he led his horse-drawn cart of farm milk. He slept through the clatter of hooves and the tinny horn blasts of Studebakers and McLaughlin-Buicks driving on Colborne Street. He slept through the second tannery whistle at nine, and he was still sleeping when Rose came to rouse him at nine-thirty.
“Wake up and eat your last grits and scrapple. I walked over to the dry goods store. The owner has never even heard of grits. Or scrapple.”
“We’ll have to try another store,” Langston sighed.
“He said he knew every store in town and that I’d never find grits or scrapple. Up here, he said, Grits are Liberal politicians. Some people dislike them, he said, but nobody has gotten around to eating them.”
“Sounds like a jovial fellow,” Langston said.
“He was. Spoke with an accent. British, kind of. But not quite.”
“How about if you and I practice our British accents in bed?”
“Millicent is awake, I’ll have you know,” Rose s
aid. “Why don’t you get dressed and make yourself useful?”
“I was hoping you found me useful last night.”
Rose snorted. “We don’t want to get overrun with babies.”
“We’re far from overrun,” Langston said.
“We’re heading that way, I tell you. I’m with child.”
Langston jumped up and hugged Rose. “Since when are you pregnant?”
“Since about twelve hours ago.”
“You can’t be pregnant. You couldn’t know it yet.”
But she was. And she did.
After breakfast, Langston heard a timid rap at the door. He opened it, and a gust of cold air blew in. He shivered and said hello to a young black man who looked about sixteen or so. He was built like a twig, and as black as the night. He had friendly eyes, big teeth, and a voice like a bird. “Hello, Reverend Cane. I’m Aberdeen Williams.”
“Step right in, Aberdeen Williams. It’s cold out there.”
Aberdeen stepped in, removed his hat, offered his hand, and smiled. “No, not really. You’ll get used to it. I hope I’m not troubling you.”
“Not at all, sir, not at all,” Langston said. He liked what he saw: a young man with bright, attentive eyes. A man of a caring and Christian disposition — something Langston would later declare that he could determine at a distance of twenty paces, solely by examining a man’s carriage.
“Nobody calls me sir, Reverend. Aberdeen will do. Or Ab.” Aberdeen had a high voice. He also had a slight stammer that receded in the thick of conversation. He was no taller than five seven.
“Aberdeen is a fine name,” Langston said. “I’ve always been partial to names with three syllables. Wish I had one myself.”
“It comes from Scotland, Reverend.”
“You’re the oddest-looking Scotsman I’ve ever met.”
Aberdeen laughed. “My grandfather insisted on the name. He had heard all about the hills and the beauty of Aberdeen, in Scotland, and he insisted that my mother name me that way.”
“Be thankful they didn’t call you Edinburgh.”
“The A.M.E. folks are going to like you, Reverend. I can see that.”
Rose approached the door. “Ask the gentleman to take off his coat.”
“I’m no gentleman, ma’am. I’m just Aberdeen. Pleased to meet you.”
Rose smiled at him. “Call me Rose. And come have tea with us.”
Mill, nearly three at the time, wandered into the kitchen where they sat. Langston beckoned to her. “Come sit on my lap, child. Meet our new friend.”
“No,” Mill said.
Langston frowned. Since the family had reunited, he hadn’t had any luck getting his daughter to sit on his knee or hug him or play with him.
“Mother’s daughter,” Rose explained to Aberdeen.
Aberdeen and the two adults sat down. Mill climbed up on Aberdeen’s lap and let her head fall back against his chest. Aberdeen grinned, embarrassed.
“Looks like you’ve found an admirer,” Rose said.
“Hi, Mill, I’m Aberdeen.”
“Hi, Have-a-Bean. I’m Mill.”
Aberdeen let it drop that he’d been the A.M.E. Church sexton when the last minister had been present, and that he hoped to have the honor of continuing with that work. Langston said he was sure they could come to an arrangement. Rose excused herself, saying she had some work to do. Mill stayed put. “Mill, don’t you want to come with me?”
“No,” Mill said. “I want to stay here, with Have-a-Bean.”
“Actually, cutie-pie,” Langston said, “Daddy has to step outside now. He wants to ask Aberdeen about a broken gate.”
“Oh, all right.” Mill climbed down and ran out of the kitchen.
Langston put on a thick gray sweater and stepped outside. Aberdeen wore only a light spring jacket.
“You’ll freeze out here,” Langston said.
“No such thing,” Aberdeen said. “It’s nice out today. Look.
The ice has cracked on that puddle over there.”
“Where I come from, ice would be a crime in the month of April,” Langston said. He didn’t have to show Aberdeen the broken latch on the gate. Aberdeen walked right up to it and toyed with the hood. He asked for a screwdriver and wrench. Langston brought them outside.
“See how it’s bent here, on top?” Aberdeen said. “It looks as if somebody flattened it with a rock. That stops the metal tongue from entering the mouth of the latch. I’ll see if I can straighten it out. If not, I’ll get a new one.” Aberdeen screwed the latch more tightly into place, then twisted it up. “It’s not pretty, but it ought to work now. Try it.”
Langston slid the gate shut. The latch fell down easily over the metal tongue.
“There you go,” Aberdeen said.
“You’ve just become the A.M.E. sexton and handyman,” Langston said. “What do you charge, by the way?”
“I don’t charge for that,” Aberdeen said. “I’m not one for being a deacon, or for public speaking. But I can fix anything.”
“Well, that’s good. Because I can’t fix anything. My father couldn’t, either.”
“I hear tell your grandfather was quite something with his hands.”
“How do you know about my grandfather?”
“He was a Langston Cane, too, wasn’t he?”
“How on earth did you know that? From my reckoning, he would have been here in the 1850s.”
“My people have been here for a long time. My grandfather also came here as a fugitive slave. Your grandfather, or so the story goes, was quite the rat catcher. From what I hear, he could catch any rat he went after.”
“I can see we have a lot to talk about.” “We do, Reverend. We do.”
On his third day in Oakville, Langston discovered Neall’s ice-cream parlor. A bell rang as he entered the shop. He stood before an ice-cream counter, behind which a curtain was drawn. He heard something from behind the curtain. At first, it sounded like running water. He listened again. It was ice. Ice being stirred, crushed, broken, stirred some more.
“Just a minute,” someone called from the back. One of the roundest women he had ever seen stepped through the curtain. “Yes, sir,” she said.
Langston wasn’t wearing his collar. He checked with his fingers, to be sure. Indeed, he wasn’t. And he wasn’t known to the people in this town. He was a stranger, a black stranger, and they still called him sir. Langston decided then and there that he liked Oakville.
“I’d like a small amount of ice cream,” he said.
“All we’ve got is butterscotch ripple for the time being.”
“A pint of that, please,” he said.
She handed him a container. “Packed this morning,” she said. “Do you have somewhere good and cold to keep it?”
“I’m going to dispense with it in short order. I have two helpers.”
She laughed. “They’ll love you for it.” “They’d better,” he said, smiling.
Mill was napping when Langston got home. He nudged her shoulder.
She stirred, and complained. “Ehhhh.” “Mill, I have ice cream here.”
“Ehhhh.”
Langston got a spoon, dug out a fleck, and placed it on her lips. She brushed it off with her arm and turned from him. “Go away, Daddy.”
He felt anger flash across his forehead. He was tempted to shake her and have harsh words with her. She had barely spoken with him since the family had reunited. But he stopped himself. Better to leave her alone, wait for her to come to him. Langston carried the ice cream back to the kitchen. They had no ice yet, and he didn’t want to eat it alone.
“Rose?” he called out. No answer. “Rose,” he called out louder. Still no answer. He heard sounds from the bedroom. Conversation. Laughter. He strolled that way. Aberdeen was in their bedroom, on top of a stepladder, attaching a shade to a naked bulb. Rose leaned against the wall, heaving with laughter as Aberdeen told a story about how hard it was to find colored people’s food in Oakville.
&nbs
p; “And then,” he said, “I said to the man in the store, ‘Well, if you don’t have scrapple, what do you have?’ and he said, ‘Just regular food, mister. Regular food for regular people.’“
During their first week in Oakville, the Canes found all sorts of salesmen knocking on their doors. Men selling ice, flowers, bread, milk, and fruit all came by. The baker’s man moved his bread in the back of a new McLaughlin-Buick, but the others brought their goods on horse-drawn carts. Mill would have nothing to do with any of them, except the ice man. She thought he was selling ice cream, so she followed Rose and Langston out the front door. Langston patted the horse’s head.
“Since when do you know about horses?” Rose asked him.
“Since the war,” he said. “There were horses in every French village. Want to pat the horse, Mill?” “No. I want to pat it with Mommy!”
The ice man, who was about sixty, with blue eyes, a gray-white beard, and forearms shaped like bowling pins, chiseled off three brick-shaped chunks. “You folks must be from the States,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” Rose asked.
He hammered a chisel so that the ice cracked down the middle. “Because you look in people’s eyes. People in these parts won’t look a stranger in the eye. Unless they’re missionaries or want your money.” The ice man chipped a bit of ice, shaped like a thin wedge of cheddar, brushed off the flecks of sawdust, and handed it toward Mill. “Sugar, would you like a sliver of ice?”
Mill stomped her foot. “I don’t like sugar and I don’t like slivers.”
Langston told his daughter to say thank you. Mill refused. “Say it, Mill, or you’re going inside.”
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