The Strivers' Row Spy

by Jason Overstreet

  “Understood. I will inspect it thoroughly. I hear everything you’re saying. I feel Africa in my bones.”

  “You know, Sidney . . . I was treated like a god wherever I traveled in the Caribbean. Thousands swarmed me at each and every stop. And now I return to America, only to be challenged by these second-rate Negroes like Cyril Briggs, A. Philip Randolph, and Chandler Owen. But I’ll show them all the reach of my power.”

  “Your power cannot be questioned.”

  “And it will be on full display in a few weeks, once our second International Convention of the Negro Peoples of the World begins. I understand that Du Bois is readying himself to leave for France soon again. So while we’re having our convention, he will be attending the second Pan-African Congress. That is a convention of dreamers. Ours is a convention of doers. Where would you rather be?”

  “Here, of course. I’m a doer.”

  “I know this,” he said, scribbling something on the drawing. “So was Blyden. And he knew the dangers of having uppity white Negroes like Du Bois in power. When speaking about the importance of all Negroes returning to Africa, Blyden once said, ‘The Negro leader of the exodus, who will succeed, will be a Negro of the Negroes, like Moses was a Hebrew of the Hebrews—even if brought up in Pharaoh’s palace—no half-Hebrew and half-Egyptian will do the work.’ He also said, ‘When I am dead, write nothing on my tombstone but . . . He hated mulattoes. ’”

  “He made himself clear, didn’t he?” I said.

  “And I will make myself clear. I’ve said this before. Du Bois is not a real man of color. He is a little Dutch, a little French, a little Negro . . . a mulatto. He is a monstrosity.”

  He still wasn’t looking up, but just in case he could see me, I nodded my head to suggest I agreed. But my hatred for Garvey had never been more intense. I wanted to reach across the desk and pummel him. Instead, I just glared at him as he continued making notations.

  “Du Bois’s NAACP will soon go under,” he said.

  “I hope so. But why?”

  “We are pulling members away from him one by one. And now we must go for his big fish. Du Bois is only as strong as the top men around him. William Pickens is one of those. He’s a Yale man. I’ve learned that he is unhappy with his pay. I will offer him a cabinet position.”

  “How can he help?”

  “He was a professor of foreign languages. We could use a man of his ilk, especially when we land in Africa and begin reaching out to Europe, Asia, etcetera, building relationships with world leaders. I will make Pickens an offer he won’t refuse. Money is a powerful thing.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “The UNIA contingent I sent to Liberia is laying the groundwork for all of us to move there soon. Cyril Crichlow is heading things up on our behalf. I am offering up a loan to the Liberian treasury. But we must raise money. Getting folks excited about this new ship and going to Liberia will be the key to raising enough funds for the loan. And this Liberian excitement will also be the key to keeping the Black Star Line afloat. I think the two million dollars we’ve proposed will do the trick?”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Well, it can be raised. I raised quite a bit in the Caribbean. Now we must double our efforts. Besides, if Charles D. B. King, Liberia’s president, thinks he’s going to secure the millions he’s seeking from the American government, he’s a fool. And why would he even consider taking money from them? Such a deal will only stifle their independence.”

  “So you’re saying you’ll give them two million to develop Liberia in exchange for them allowing you to bring Negroes from the West Indies and America there to be a part of this development?”

  “Indeed. It goes hand in hand. Millions of proud returning Negroes, anxious to work, raise families, and purchase goods will only boost Liberia’s overall economy. And we shall go soon, develop a massive plot of land near Monrovia, and live like we were meant to live. It’s all here on these architectural drawings.”

  “I see.”

  “And who will be the lead engineer of all of this, you might be wondering?”

  “Well, you’ll want the very best. I know that.”

  “You, Sidney. You will oversee the construction of this new African city—this Negro capital of the world.”

  I paused at the thought. “I’m humbled by your suggestion, sir.”

  “You know, I’ve been asked on more than one occasion if I actually expect to take all of the millions of Negroes in the West Indies and America back to Africa on my ships. And I always say, we were all brought here on big, filthy, ugly boats, but we shall return on big, clean, beautiful ones.”

  He moved his face very close to the drawing and frowned. Something he saw was unsettling. Taking his pencil, he drew a big X through a portion of it.

  “Doesn’t this idiot of an architect know that I want a much larger office? These measurements are incorrect. Such a miniature office isn’t fit for the Provisional President of Africa.”

  He took a ruler from his drawer and slammed it on the desk. He then placed it above the portion of the drawing he’d crossed out. I’d never seen him so focused, so engineer-like.

  Running his pencil along the ruler, he began changing the measurements of his future office. With his nose damn near touching the drawing and his focus squarely on the ruler, he began speaking slowly, as if doing so would help him concentrate.

  “All through the previous century,” he said, “coloreds from America made attempts to return to Africa. Paul Cuffe sailed into Sierra Leone with several Negro families in 1816. But what I’m proposing is moving every family. And I don’t believe President Harding will be opposed to such an exodus. He seems to be a decent white man, and I think it’s important that the UNIA begin to project a pro-U.S. government image.”

  “Why now?”

  “Let’s just say I believe President Harding, if given the choice, would choose me to represent colored America over Du Bois. And the more I denounce communism in favor of capitalism, the more I denounce Du Bois’s integration platform in favor of separation, the more likely it is that our movement can gain the support of the new president.”

  I adjusted in the chair and crossed my legs as he continued with the pencil and ruler.

  “Also, Sidney, perhaps the government will call off the dogs . . . the authorities that seem dead set on forcing me out of the country. And, of course I actually believe in capitalism and separatism.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He was actually admitting that he was willing to kowtow to the government to save his hide. Didn’t he understand that forcing them to accept integration was the brave thing to do—that it was, in effect, standing up for Negroes, not selling them out?

  I found it laughable and naïve that after all the negative things he’d said about white America and the government, he now believed that cozying up to the president was going to keep officials from getting rid of him. I wanted to tell him he was a marked man and that there was no getting around it. I also wanted to know more about his newly professed respect for the president.

  “What about Harding strikes you as decent?”

  “Well, as you know, Harding said, ‘Race amalgamation there can never be.’ This is certainly in conflict with Du Bois’s views and directly in line with mine. So I believe Mr. Harding and I see this race issue in the same light. And, like me, he is not afraid to say what he thinks publicly.”

  “But didn’t the president also say that both races should stand against social equality?”

  “Yes. And he is right. We cannot be socially equal to the white man in his country. In his American society, he makes the societal rules. He sets the agenda. We must establish our own society.”

  “We’re well on our way.”

  “In the meantime,” he said, still drawing the proper measurements for his office, “I must stay out of trouble, both here and abroad. I got myself in a bit of a pickle with British authorities while in Jamaica. They were upset over what I said at Liber
ty Hall before heading to the Caribbean. Do you remember what I said about the British Colonial Secretary?”

  “You mean your comments about Winston Churchill?”

  “Yes. I am testing whether or not you pay attention to my speeches.”

  “You said something along the lines of him being the greatest Negro hater in the British Empire.”

  “Good! Very good! I went on to say that he was appointed because of his willingness to carry out that savagery and brutality among the darker and weaker races of the world through a system of exploitation that will bring bankrupt Britain the solvency she so much desires.”

  “Right. I remember.”

  “When the British authorities confronted me with the quote, I denied having said it. Unfortunately, my words had been printed in a very peculiar place—in my own paper, the Negro World.”

  I immediately let out a bit of a laugh. Garvey abruptly stopped drawing, as if making sure he’d actually heard me. But he didn’t look up. He simply stared at his pencil for a second, then continued drawing. Somehow I think he intended to tell the story in a funny way and didn’t mind my reaction. Nevertheless, I quickly regained my composure.

  “And, Sidney, what doubled the matter is Churchill himself had supposedly read my words. So I was told. Not a pleasant encounter with those authorities to say the least.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “This Churchill oversees these various colonies—these slave plantations if you will. He sickens me. Great Britain may think they own my native Jamaica. They may believe they own beautiful Sierra Leone, but they are wrong on both counts.”

  “Sierra Leone borders Liberia, correct?”

  “Yes. Why else do you think British authorities fear me gaining a stronghold there? They want to keep me as far away from Sierra Leone as possible. They know my presence will embolden the natives. They remember 1898, when the natives rose up and fought the British for their independence.”

  “The Hut Tax War. I’ve read of it.”

  “You please me very much, Sidney. So well informed. Hundreds of British soldiers and hundreds of natives were killed in that war. But, of course, the natives were ultimately crushed, their leader, Bai Bureh, captured, and almost a hundred of his close confidants hanged by the cowardly Brits.”

  “Maybe the British authorities think you’re the new Bai Bureh.”

  “All I know is they fear me. I’m sure they pay close attention to everything I say. I’ve made it crystal clear to them how much I intend to fight against British colonialism. It’s evil. It must be eradicated. And I’ll continue to say so publicly.”

  “Amen,” I said.

  And I meant it. Garvey did occasionally say things I agreed with wholeheartedly. But Du Bois felt the same way about British colonialism. What colored man with a pulse didn’t?

  “Counter to that,” he continued, “here in America I must take a different course. When it comes to speaking out against the U.S. government, those men in Washington will be pleased to know I’m turning over a new leaf. No more agitating the powers that be, especially if such actions threaten our goal of heading home to Africa with me at the helm. Time to play nice.”

  But how long could he play nice once he was arrested and thrown in jail? I saw that day coming very soon.

  24

  WITH LORETTA NOW SEVERAL MONTHS ALONG, I TRIED TO THINK OF ways to lighten her load a bit. I decided to take her to a Broadway play. Shuffle Along was premiering. I’d gotten the tickets from Phil Daley, who’d intended to use them, but another event required his attendance. Loretta was very much looking forward to getting out of the house and seeing the much-talked-about musical.

  As we entered the 63rd Street Music Hall, I marveled at the well-dressed patrons funneling through the foyer and into the theater, all of them white. Loretta was so lively, so happy, and walking with great anticipation. It was as if she were made for showy events like this. And I certainly felt handsome in my black tuxedo.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Stunning. I love you in black. But you’re beautiful in all your dresses.”

  We had presented ourselves at the box office, and now, with stubs in hand, we started toward the entryway of the orchestra. Approaching the usher, I couldn’t help but notice the quizzical look on his face. He stopped us.

  “May I see your stubs, sir?”

  I handed them over and he eyed them, obviously trying to confirm that we were heading in the right direction. He handed them back and, with a bit of a frown, pointed us toward our seats.

  “You’re in the second row,” he muttered. “Right orchestra. The two seats on the end.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Taking Loretta’s hand, I led the way to our seats. The theater was just about full, and loud with chatter. I was overcome with pride to see so many pouring in to see a Negro musical. Presenting all black faces on stage performing a play written by people of color was a first for Broadway.

  “This is a splendid scene,” Loretta said, taking her seat.

  “The play is getting rave reviews,” I said, easing into my chair. “How are you feeling?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I mean, how are both of you feeling?” I reached over and discreetly touched her stomach, which was now showing a bit of a bump.

  “We’re fantastic.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Just hold my hand,” she said, giving me a big smile, as I took her hand in mine.

  “It should be starting in about ten minutes. Oh, I forgot to mention something. Claude sent word that the Liberator hasn’t forgotten about you. Max Eastman still intends to do a write-up of your work whenever you do a showing.”

  “How thoughtful. I wonder how much Ginger has to do with that?”

  “Is she still seeing him?” I asked.

  “We tend to avoid the subject. His divorce isn’t finalized.”

  “What? He’s married?”

  “Yes,” she said. “So to speak.”

  “So to speak?”

  “Max never wanted to get married. He doesn’t even believe in marriage, according to Ginger.”

  “Then what does he believe in?”

  “Bolshevism and Russia,” she whispered. “He intends to go very soon.”

  “So does Claude. Hmm. Both he and Claude in Russia. Interesting.”

  The woman seated next to Loretta began looking at her as if she wanted to strike up a conversation. And she did.

  “Pardon me.”

  “Yes,” said Loretta.

  “Do you happen to know how long the play has been running?”

  “I read that it’s been up for about four months.”

  “Oh. My husband and I love Eubie Blake,” said the middle-aged woman.

  “So do we. My husband raves about him.”

  “Well, you two make a lovely young couple.”

  “How kind of you. Thank you very much. I hope you enjoy the play.”

  I noticed the usher approaching us, still with that same frown. An older gentleman accompanied him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “This is the theater manager, Mr. Loving.”

  “Yes,” I responded. “How can I help you?”

  “Well,” said the stuffy manager, “you must understand, sir, we don’t allow coloreds to sit in this section of the orchestra. I must ask that you and your wife sit in the special section at the left rear of the orchestra.”

  I turned and saw a tiny designated area where about twenty coloreds were seated. Granted, they were orchestra seats, but they were very far back.

  “Pardon me?” said Loretta. “We have tickets for these seats. Show them, Sidney.”

  “Don’t bother,” said the manager. “We’ve seen your tickets. We kindly ask that you follow theater protocol and make your way to the colored section.”

  My heart fell into my stomach. I’d tried to avoid ever letting Loretta experience such embarrassment. But I knew she’d eventually come face-to-face wi
th the sting of racism. I always wanted her to see me as her protector, someone who wouldn’t allow anyone to talk down to me. But here it was, and the look on her face hurt me more than the manager’s request itself.

  “These are our seats,” she continued. “I don’t understand.”

  “Please,” said the manager, as many in the audience looked on and whispered. “The show is about to commence.”

  I felt glued to my seat. I felt heavy and a bit dizzy. I felt powerless. And at that very moment I knew like never before why I’d agreed to be a spy. I knew that the cause of my work was to see Du Bois’s dream of complete integration come to fruition and never to be treated like a dog again. I was experiencing a seminal moment. I could hear Garvey’s voice in my ear. “You shouldn’t be in that white theater anyway, Sidney! We must start our own theaters!”

  But I wanted to be in this theater seeing this show. I wanted my wife to continue her conversation with the lovely woman next to her. I wanted to experience Shuffle Along up close. But America wasn’t willing to let me. I thought about my unborn child and committed right then and there to doing everything in my power to make sure he or she could sit in these seats someday. Fighting back the anger, I squeezed Loretta’s hand and led her out.

  “Come on, sweetheart.”

  She felt very light, as if there was no strength to her. As we entered the foyer, I turned and looked into her empty eyes. Directly behind us walked the manager and usher. Would turning and hitting one of them square in the face do anything to relieve her pain? I wondered, but then realized that my being in jail for years would only hurt her and leave my baby without a father.

  “Sir,” said the manager, “the entrance to the colored section is straight ahead to the right.”

  “We’re fine,” I said, still walking, the two of them following. “I think we’ll pass on seeing the show from the slave quarters.”

  “Now please calm down, sir. At least we’ve begun allowing you-all to sit in the orchestra. It was only the balcony before, and before that you weren’t even allowed in.”

  “Well praise God!” I hollered, the two of us stooping just before exiting the building. I stiffened my back. “We surely thanks you, Massa!”