There are people who don’t understand what I’m trying to do. They don’t matter. I’ve got folks who are helping. Some let me comb through books in their basements. Said I could take what I wanted for my inventory. I found Booker T. Washington’s Up from Slavery and four others on Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Mary McLeod Bethune, and George Washington Carver. So I’ve got five books, a building, and a hundred bucks.
I’m starting my business tomorrow.
Philadelphia Banker Richard Wright
I remember Lewis Michaux when he was deacon of the Church of God here. He was on our board of directors for a time. Not someone a person would be likely to forget. Clever, ambitious, a bit rebellious. Ultimately there was some kind of break with the church. A clash of personalities, I believe. But there was something about Lewis. He was his own man. Likable too. Now he’s trying to sell books in Harlem and asking me for a business loan.
I did some checking. A New York fellow I talked with told me he’d seen Lewis walking up and down 125th Street selling books from a pushcart. Apparently he is also washing windows to make ends meet. He’s obviously not afraid of hard work and shows some tenacity in this book enterprise.
As a Philadelphia bank, Harlem is out of my lending area, but sometimes rules should be broken for worthy causes.
LEWIS
Thanks to old man Wright, I finally got more books into the store. Just in time too. Lightfoot cut me off. That church of his is bringing in all kinds of money. He’s got real-estate investments and has gotten friendly with the Roosevelts and other bigwigs. Lightfoot’s got means and influence but won’t give me a quarter. Says his money belongs to the Lord and he isn’t about to give it to the Devil. Seems he’s objecting to some of the books I’m selling—books on playing the numbers and some about sex. I say, if you want to read a real racy book, read the Bible. If a sexy book gets them in the door, I’ll show them a sexy book. Then I’ll show them Douglass or DuBois or something else of value. If you’re in the book business, you’ve got to sell books.
It’s hard though. Most of our people are just trying to pay the bills. It’s tough to get them to even look in the window, much less come into the store. That’s why I’m back to doing what Lightfoot and I did for Poppa’s fish business—movin’ my feet and takin’ the goods to the streets. Still don’t get many takers. I’m lucky to make a dollar a day or even six bits. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.
Yesterday, a man came by and asked, “Are you Elder Michaux’s brother?”
I said, “Yeah.”
“Well, you’re crazy!” the man said. “I was in Washington last Sunday, and your brother had twenty-five thousand people in Griffith Stadium singing, ‘Happy Am I,’ and they were dropping half dollars and dollar bills and even checks in the collection baskets. Here you are, up in Harlem, washing windows and trying to sell a Negro a book. You’ve got to be kidding.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with the man. Sometimes it makes no sense even to me. Lightfoot is down there selling property in Heaven, which people gladly buy. And here I am.
I’m thinking the way to hide something from the black man is to put it in a book. It’s a shame.
But I just keep on being crazy and sleeping in the cellar and eating soup at the Chock full o’Nuts coffee shop across the street.
I just keep on.
I’m thankful for one difference from those days selling fish. I like the smell of books.
LEWIS
JUNE We lost one of the greats. Garvey’s gone. He died way over in England, but we’re feeling it here. Gone, but I hope never forgotten.
I’ll carry on his message—Back to Africa. Blacks in this country should go. Go see Africa, learn about it, learn from it. Stay if you want, but you don’t have to.
Truth is, the whole continent of Africa is governed by white people. And down in the West Indies, beautiful places like Bermuda—when you see somebody with a white collar on and a pen writing something, he’s white. When you see a black man, he’s got a mop and a broom. Black people in this country aren’t what the slavers stole. We don’t fit in Africa anymore. I’m placing my bet on the opportunity right here.
My bookstore can be a boot camp for the cause.
Harlem Street Vendor
Michaux’s got a storefront, but he must not be getting many customers. Just about every day he’s walking up and down the street selling books. Or trying to.
Me, I just set up my table and wait for customers to come. This guy parks a cart of books on the corner and calls out, “Don’t get took! Read a book! Come on by and take a look!” He’ll stop people and talk to them about reading. After a while, he moves to another spot and starts yelling something else like, “If this selection isn’t perfection, there’s more at my store!” Guess he thinks you have to be some kind of actor to get business.
Not me. I do all right, just sitting here. ’Course I’m not trying to sell books. People always buy smokes.
Michaux can lay it on pretty thick, but I don’t think he’s making much. Last week, I saw him at Chock full o’Nuts counting out change to pay for a grilled cheese sandwich. Didn’t have enough, so he offered to wash their windows. The cashier paid the difference.
LEWIS
I don’t pray anymore. When I first started out with Lightfoot in the Church, I had but three books. A hymn book, a Bible book, and an empty pocketbook waiting on the Lord. I found out by reading other books who the Lord is. I read up on all the gods in all religions, and I found out who the real Lord is. That is the landlord. He comes to see me every month. So praying doesn’t get it. Work gets it. And I’m working hard.
LEWIS
MARCH Mother finally got some peace. What a life she had. Eleven of us, plus the four babies who died. Seems she was either chasing after children or being chased after, and scrubbing floors in between. No wonder her nerves were shot. She went to her Maker happy though. Lightfoot, her pride and joy, gave her that.
I know I was mostly just trouble for her, but she said she loved me. Maybe someday I’ll make her proud.
LEWIS
After years of living in Pittsburgh, Norris has decided to move his family to New York. Not the city. He and Sinah are moving to Aunt Sadie’s house in Port Chester. It’ll be good for Sadie. She’s been a widow woman for a while now and getting on in years. I’m sure she could use some help with that big old place.
Norris has been traveling back and forth looking for work. I told him he could partner with me in the bookstore, but he wasn’t having it. He laughed and said, “What? You a Boy Scout now? This is me you’re talking to.” He doesn’t understand what I’m trying to do.
My little brother’s got a pool cue in his back pocket, always hoping to make a bet. Looking for fast money. But I heard Sinah wouldn’t leave Pittsburgh unless Norris had a nine-to-five, so he must have found some kind of job. He changed the subject when I asked, so I didn’t push it.
It’ll be nice to have more family around.
NORRIS
It’s good to be in New York to stay. Pittsburgh’s okay, but Sinah’s family was always up in my business. It was like living in a fish bowl.
Aunt Sadie and Sinah are peas in a pod, so catfights won’t be a problem. Sinah’s smart about letting Sadie have the last word.
It’s obvious that Lightfoot had a hand in financing this house. His stamp is all over it. The place is so huge, privacy won’t be an issue. And as my boys get out of the service, there’ll be room for them ... and their families, when the time comes.
Making some dough is the thing now. In Pittsburgh, Sinah let me get away with working the billiard table. I’ve mastered that one thing and she knows it. I was bringing home some scratch. When money was tight, she let me slide ’cause there was still some support from her family.
But she made it plain she wasn’t coming to New York unless I had a “real job.” Her words, not mine. So I took this situation at the American Felt Company just across the border in Glenville, Connecticut. It
’s factory work, but at least I’ll be on the graveyard shift. I like the night.
Lewis wanted me to throw in with him. But selling books? To colored folks? I may be a gambling man, but not when the odds of winning are zero.
LIGHTFOOT
I have to give Lewis credit. He’s making his mark with that bookstore of his. Granted, not always in the way I’d like, but I’ve been hearing mostly good regarding the impact of the store on the Harlem community. And more important to me personally, the business seems to be providing Lewis with purpose.
In this way my prayers for my brother have been answered. I don’t much care for some of the books he’s selling, but I’ve known Lewis long enough to realize there are certain things that are beyond my control.
I worry less about him now that our sisters Margaret and Ruth are working in the store. Lewis showed some wisdom in hiring them. Even that pretty Batch girl, who Norris’s son is set on marrying, is on the staff. There’s something especially rewarding about a family business. Poppa would approve.
Now if Lewis would pay closer attention to the statements he makes, the causes he supports, and the company he keeps, he might end up doing quite well, in spite of himself.
OLIVE BATCH, Store Bookkeeper
Mail-order business at the store is really picking up. More and more families are sending books to overseas soldiers. And since we’ve started mailing out our catalogs, we have so many college and university orders I can hardly keep up.
I know some people in the Michaux family think poorly of Lewis, mainly because of some shady activities in his past. But I watch him as he works in the store. He enjoys people and seems happiest when he’s among them, helping them, and talking about books and about life.
I like Lewis. He’s not two-faced like some. He is who he is.
Chicago Entrepreneur
I am interested in going into the book business and approached Carter G. Woodson for guidance. His stellar reputation in scholarly circles and connection with the Negro History Journal led me to his doorstep.
“I’m a historian. I’m a writer. I’m not a seller of books,” Mr. Woodson said when I met with him. “The man you need to interview about Negro book sales is Michaux in New York.”
Woodson was right. Lewis Michaux knows about books . . . and selling. And he shared his knowledge with enthusiasm. A trifle self-impressed but a fascinating man, and his National Memorial African Bookstore is a literary treasure.
Gus Travers,
New York City Newspaper Reporter
(OFF THE RECORD)
There’s been some buzz about a place up in Harlem, and my editor sent me over to check on it. Turns out the National Memorial African Bookstore, with the exception of such things as dictionaries and Bibles, sells only books by and about black people. The shop is certainly a point of interest, but the real draw is the owner.
The first impression you get of Lewis Michaux is from the signs he’s put outside. One banner above the entrance says, “World History Book Outlet on 2,000,000,000 Africans and Non-White Peoples” and includes pictures of African leaders and people like the black nationalist Marcus Garvey, the man who was trying to get American Negroes to go back to Africa. Garvey was not a person who many influential Negroes supported, so this Michaux character is clearly not part of the mainstream. Nor is he a political fence-sitter.
The sign that seems to attract the most attention reads “The House of Common Sense and the Home of Proper Propaganda.” When this reporter asked Michaux what it meant, he said, “Even truth carries a propaganda.” Another store sign reads “This House Is Packed with All the Facts About All the Blacks All Over the World.” Even if you call it bad poetry, you only have to stand outside for five minutes to see its effect. People point and laugh and start talking and many go inside.
Michaux is small, but you wouldn’t miss him in a room of a thousand people. His quick wit and sharp tongue might be intimidating if he weren’t such an everyman. Michaux’s got a rare kind of charm. He’s a born salesman with a passion for books, but more than that, he’s a kind of storefront philosopher. People call him the Professor. When I asked why, he said, “I am a professor in my own field. I have nothing against college knowledge, but don’t overlook the experience of a man who has lived with a thing. You see,” he said, “I don’t have to pull no punches. I don’t stammer. I don’t talk from no manuscript like a trained Negro has to talk so he’ll be sure not to offend the folks whose shoes he’s shining.”
It seems Michaux has an opinion on everything and isn’t shy about sharing it.
This reporter is expecting to hear more about him in the future.
LEWIS
Many so-called Negroes been asking me about Garvey. They don’t really want to know about the man. They’re asking more as a challenge. They want me to explain him, defend him. They don’t get the importance of Garvey or his movement.
Garvey was a brilliant individual. The things Garvey said, you couldn’t rub ’em off. They stuck. When a man is doing a thing, he has to do it the way he sees it. The trouble Garvey had was from within. At that time, DuBois and all those outstanding professional Negroes were against him because he advocated Back to Africa. Garvey was bigger than anything those educators could come up with, and they had to dispose of him. They couldn’t have him coming in getting the attention of millions of people when they couldn’t.
At the time, nobody was talking any philosophy about our heritage, our background. Naturally, Garvey clicked. But the structure had to get rid of him. People got jealous, and they sicced the dogs on him. All those people were against Garvey because he had a tangible program.
And he wasn’t for sale.
LEWIS
Sparks from the Anvil arrived today. A fitting title. One of his church members decided to put together the little sayings Lightfoot’s been dropping into his sermons over the years. Many of the entries are unremarkable, but some are real gems:
If there’s no Devil, who gets the credit for raising all the hell?
Be willing to help anybody who is down, but don’t go down helping him.
You have got to have sense to make dollars.
The Devil is a great ventriloquist; don’t be his dummy.
You can’t do wrong and get by long.
Guess I’m not the only poet in the family, or bookseller.
I don’t always agree with Lightfoot, but he’s certainly skilled with words and understands the force behind them—a quality shared by many great men.
LEWIS
I should get Langston in for a book signing. His new poetry collection, Montage of a Dream Deferred, is strong medicine. His way of speaking simply and honestly about black life cuts straight to the bone. I don’t think he’s rolling in dough, but he seems to be eating higher on the hog. People are reading him. And he’s earned it . . . was only eighteen when he wrote “The Negro Speaks of Rivers.” He’s gotta be fifty now.
When we first met, back in the day, Hughes made almost no money writing. He was trying to establish himself as a poet and it was hard going. He said he appreciated me starting up something that would make a market for black writing.
He still stops by now and then. Our relationship is the books, period. And that’s enough.
Calvin
Walking down the street in Harlem with Pop, I see a bunch of people gathered on the sidewalk.
A man’s standing on a stepladder pointing and shouting, “You can be black as a crow, you can be white like snow, but if you don’t know, and you ain’t got no dough, then you can’t go, and that’s fo’ sho’!”
Pop laughs and shouts back, “That’s fo’ sho’, brother!”
“Tell me mo’!” someone else calls out.
The man on the ladder is saying black people need to know about their history and that we should read books about us.
“Let’s go,” Pop says. “We need to pick up your grandmother.”
I stand still. I want to listen to this man.
“
Come on, Calvin,” Pop says. “He’s just trying to sell something. He owns that bookstore.”
The bookman says, “If you don’t have money, come into the store anyway. There’s a back room. Read for nothing. School’s not the only place to educate.”
He looks down at me from the ladder. “If you want to get books, you can come and buy them on time.”
I nod. Pop takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd.
* * *
At supper, I tell Gran about the man on the ladder.
“Might be worth stopping in there,” Gran says.
I glance at Pop.
“Now, Calvin.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I know you like reading and all, but money doesn’t just fall out of the sky.”
“You could buy on layaway,” Gran says.
“Yes, but . . .” Pop says.
“The man even said we could just go in the store and read if we want,” I say.
“Calvin’s still just a boy,” Gran says, “but he keeps talking about going to college and . . .”
Pop holds his hand up in the stop position. He takes a bite of mashed potatoes. This conversation is over.
BETTIE LOGAN
I’d heard about the National Memorial African Bookstore but never had the opportunity to visit until Celia and I were staying at the Hotel Theresa. It was right across the way, so we decided to stop by.
I was impressed. The minute I walked in, I could feel the importance of the place to our people. The store is remarkable—full of the kind of literature that is rarely available elsewhere. But the owner, Mr. Lewis Michaux— oh, my. What a charming man. Straightforward. No-nonsense. After thirty-two years on this earth, I’ve had enough of men who play the usual games. Lewis Michaux treated me with respect. And he made me laugh.
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