Celia says he’s probably old enough to be my father. He doesn’t look it. And so what if he is?
LEWIS
I about choked on my coffee when she walked in. Beautiful. I hustled over before Ruth could wait on her. Don’t run. Stay cool. I didn’t want to act a fool even though I knew it was love at first sight.
When she said she was looking for a copy of Douglass’s Narrative, I knew we were connected. This was no accident. Miss Bettie Logan came to my store for a reason.
Calvin
Pop and me go back to that bookstore. I’m not sure what changed his mind. Maybe Gran. I don’t care why.
I say, “Thanks, Pop.”
He smiles and says, “What was it that man said last time, ‘If you don’t know...”
“You can’t go.”
* * *
The bookman is Mr. Michaux.
His store doesn’t look very big from the outside, but inside, it goes on forever. It’s skinny but goes way back. It’s jammed with books, posters, pictures, and there’re people all over, so it’s hard to get through the aisles. Picking a book, it could take all day. There are so many, everywhere—along the walls almost up to the ceiling, stacked on tables, and even on the floor. I have to watch so I don’t trip as we make our way toward the back.
High up on the walls I see faces, paintings of black people. They look like they’re watching over us. Pop reminds me who a few of them are, but some we don’t know. Mr. Michaux says they’re our ancestors.
Pop says, “My boy’s been worrying me about coming here. We heard you talking outside the store a couple of weeks ago.” He nods his head toward me. “Look at him. What kind of book do you think this boy should have?”
Mr. Michaux looks real close at my face. He asks to see my hands, tells me to hold them out in front of me.
“Steady,” he says. Then he looks at Pop. “This boy should be a doctor.”
A doctor! I wonder if I really could?
“Do you have any books on medicine?” Pop asks.
Mr. Michaux goes searching on the shelves and finds a book called The Negro in Medicine.
Pop buys it for me. He doesn’t ask if I could read it in the store. He doesn’t even ask to buy it on time.
BETTIE
Lewis finally asked me to dinner. Celia was right. He is old enough to be my father—fifty-seven. But he’s youthful in both mind and body. And the extra years have given him a wisdom that younger men haven’t yet attained.
After hearing someone in the store call him Professor, I asked what university he’d attended. He said comfortably that he hasn’t had much formal education. It was refreshing to get an honest and unapologetic answer. Lewis may not have a degree, but he’s far from unintelligent. In many ways, he has more sense than most of the educated men I know. At first I wondered how much more remarkable Lewis would be if he had gone to a university. But a university would have produced a different man. Lewis Michaux went to school on books and experience, without the guidance or direction of academic snobs. He chose his own path. Conceived his own interpretations. Shaped his own conclusions. This is why I think he’s at home in his own skin. He hasn’t settled for or conformed to anyone else’s views or rules.
We’re seeing each other again tomorrow. This is happening so fast. I hope I’m seeing clearly.
Harlem Teenager
Last week, I’m crossing over 125th street from the Theresa, and I see this little man hollerin’, “No one can live on bread alone. We’ve got too many big fat fools walking around with everything in their stomachs and nothing in their heads.”
I start laughin’ and the man says, “Do you read, brother?”
He’s lookin’ right at me. I’m thinkin’, Who is this clown? I notice somethin’s off with one of his eyes. It’s lookin’ at me and it isn’t. I think about walkin’ away.
But I say, “Yeah, man, I read.” I give him a look I figure will shut him up. It doesn’t.
He just nods and says, “That’s good.” Then he asks me what’s the last book I read.
Course I can’t name one. The last thing I read was the want ads. There’s a kid in my building reads all the time. The brothers call him Einstein. He was in my English class with that sorry-ass teacher who came to my house to talk to Ma about why I quit high school.
When I don’t answer, the man says, “Come on into my store.”
Don’t ask me why, but I do.
Inside, the little man hands me his card. Someday I’m gonna have me a card. His name’s Lewis Michaux. He starts taking books off the shelf and I’m thinkin’ So what? Then I notice all the books are about black people.
Every one.
On every table.
Every shelf.
I’m thinkin’, here’s somethin’ different from that Romeo and Juliet junk we had at school.
But why should I care? I just want me a job. I look at the books. Then I look at the eye I figure is fake. Why don’t he cover it up with a patch or dark glasses or somethin’?
“So?” I say.
“So,” says Mr. Michaux, “There’s knowledge here, son. Is there something more important you have to do today than to start walking down the road to wisdom?”
“Yeah. I need to walk down the road to a job!”
“Ain’t no job more important than filling your head.”
He hands me a book—The Dream Keeper and Other Poems.
“If you need a job, you probably can’t buy books,” he says, “but you can read.” He takes me to a back room and says, “My library.”
I can’t believe it. I say, “You expect me to sit here and read these poems? Right now?”
“I don’t expect nothing in this world. I’m just offering you some hospitality.”
I sit and open the book. What else do I have to do?
Bring me all your dreams,
You dreamers,
Yeah, I had dreams.
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
The too-rough fingers of the world. I sit there for a few minutes, just thinking.
I read another one.
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So, boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
For I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
Sounds like Mama—like the day we’re taking the steps in our building and I say, “Ma, why don’t we take the elevator? I’m tired.” She says, “That elevator’s for weak folks. These steps keep us strong.” But I think the poem is talking about more than that.
I read all afternoon and I finish the book.
“Well?” Mr. Michaux says.
“Well, what? You want a book report or somethin’?”
“How about a brain report?” he says.
The man is something.
“Not bad.” I say. “This Langston Hughes seems to know some things.”
Mr. Michaux asks my name.
“Snooze,” I say.
He smiles and shakes his head. “Well, Snooze.” He goes to the shelf and pulls off another book. “Think you can stay awake long enough to read this one?”
What! What is with this guy? He’s standing there ho
lding out the book, looking at me. That eye again.
I walk out.
LEWIS
SEPTEMBER 6 I knew when Bettie came into the store three years ago, we were meant to be together. I was tickled when she married me, but I never imagined we’d be having a son. I’d given up on the idea of children.
Now there’s Lewis Henri Michaux Jr. Too bad Mother and Poppa aren’t around to spoil him. I guess I’ll have to do that job for all of us.
Snooze
After I read The Dream Keeper at Mr. Michaux’s, I go to the library to read it again. The librarian says I can borrow the book with a library card. I don’t have one. Don’t know if I want one. I read it there.
Man, how does Hughes know this stuff? It’s like he’s inside my head. Like he’s reading my mind.
I, too, sing America. I read it over and over. It carves itself deep in my mind ’til it sticks. I can’t shake it. Don’t want to.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll sit at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.
I don’t mean to go back to Mr. Michaux’s. I just happen to be on Seventh Avenue. I walk by the store. I look in but keep walking. I don’t want Michaux on my case, playin’ teacher with me. But somehow, I find myself turning around and walking in.
“How goes it, Snooze?”
He remembers me. I think about leaving, but he doesn’t come over. He’s helping another customer.
“I’m cool,” I say.
I start looking at books on the shelf. I find the poetry section. Poetry. Man, what’s wrong with me? I should be lookin’ for a job.
“Try Paul Laurence Dunbar,” Mr. Michaux says from behind me. Then he walks away. He’s not gonna play teacher.
I find one on the shelf—The Complete Poems —and start lookin’ through it.
A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,
A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,
A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,
And never a laugh but the moans come double;
And that is life!
A crust and a corner that love makes precious,
With a smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;
And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,
And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter;
And that is life!
I stand reading in the narrow aisle, with books all around. Mr. Michaux catches my eye and nods toward the back room. Another invitation to his “library.” How does he make any money if people can just come in and read? I don’t get it, but I spend another afternoon with poetry.
Seems like every week I’m stopping in. After a while, I go straight to the back. Mr. Michaux has started piling books—his picks for me—on a table by the chair I use.
The other day, I got my library card. I’m still reading at Mr. Michaux’s, but I’m taking books home from the library too. I ask the librarian about jobs. She gives me some of the lowdown. Seems like the only jobs I might get are cleanin’ up after people or workin’ in the hot sun. Is that all there is for me? I don’t want to eat in the kitchen when company comes. I want them to see how beautiful I am because I, too, am America. I’ll eat well and grow strong.
Maybe goin’ back to school wouldn’t be so bad.
New York Resident
My husband and I were driving on Seventh Avenue through Harlem yesterday when we passed that Negro bookstore. Well, displayed right out front was a picture of our Lord Jesus Christ as a Negro. I was appalled! I had Frank stop the car so I could get out. In the window display was a ridiculous poster saying ‘CHRIST WAS BLACK AS A MATTER OF FACT,’ even quoting Scripture to support this horrendous notion. I wanted to scream, but I held my tongue, not wishing to make a scene. Who knows how those people might react?
Still, I had to do something. After returning home, I composed a letter to the Negro proprietor—a Mr. Lewis Michaux—and gave him a piece of my mind.
“Get all that filthy garbage out of your store and put the Lord Jesus Christ and His saving power in it,” I wrote, “for if you don’t, you will surely burn in Hell. For your information, there was nothing black in Him. God and the family of God are white.”
It seems it is the most I can do as there are no laws against believing in a delusion. I can only pray that this man will find the one true God and beg His forgiveness.
Snooze
Today the Professor, that’s what people call him, says to me, “Hey, Snooze. Do you have another name?”
He takes me off guard and I’m wondering where he’s going.
“Why?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “don’t seem like Snooze is the kind of name a mother would pick for her baby.”
I feel my face get hot. “Samuel . . . Samuel Walker. And I don’t like Sammy.”
He nods. Now he’s calling me Samuel. When he says it, it sounds like he’s respecting me.
LEWIS
I thought after we lost Marcus Garvey, there were no black leaders left who weren’t for sale, none who weren’t tainted by politics, none who could still communicate with the regular folks. But Malcolm. He’s got something.
When we first met, back in the forties, he didn’t have it. He’d drop into Harlem now and then, struttin’ around with his hair all conked. He was just a kid—Detroit Red—not yet Malcolm X. He was hustling like everybody else. It’s what sent him up the river.
Prison saved him.
No.
Education saved him. Prison helped him get there, though. Says he read books from the prison library, including the dictionary. And he found direction in the Nation of Islam.
Malcolm is a changed man. When he spoke to the crowd yesterday, it wasn’t like before. I knew, finally, we have someone to pick up where Garvey left off. Malcolm’s not Garvey. And that’s good. Garvey had a program and a commitment, but his message didn’t reach the people. He was a stepping-stone. He conceived of liberation, now Malcolm’s come along to explain it to the people. Take DuBois. I have nothing to say against him; he is a great man. But DuBois won’t speak to a regular man on the street. He’ll speak to a group if you go to see him, but when you meet him on the street, you speak to him. He’s so swelled up with college degrees, so high-toned, the ordinary man can’t appreciate him.
A trained Negro is a tamed Negro—he’s trained to say soft, intellectual things. He’s too tame to tell about the shame.
Malcolm didn’t come from Yale. He came out of jail, and I believe there isn’t a Ph.D. he can’t debate and prevail. He was fortunate not to have enough education to be tamed. He makes it plain. He connects with people. He’s got the gift of delivery. I believe Malcolm is a great orator in the spirit of Frederick Douglass.
LIGHTFOOT
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Lewis’s connection with Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam is of major concern to me. Why must he insist upon aligning himself with radicals and extremists? Director Hoover will take notice. Heaven help us if he gets entangled with the FBI.
NEW YORK REGISTER
SEPTEMBER 21, 1958
MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. STABBED
AT BLUMSTEIN’S AUTOGRAPHING EVENT
BY GUS TRAVERS
The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was stabbed by a woman armed with a letter opener during an autographing event at Blumstein’s Department Store in Harlem yesterday afternoon.
King was rushed by ambulance to the Harlem Hospital where he is recovering from a ‘near-fatal’ wound allegedly inflicted by Izola Curry, a well-dressed, middle-aged
Negro woman. At about 3:30, according to witnesses, Curry pushed her way through the crowd of book buyers waiting in line for Dr.King to sign their copies of his newly released Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story. She approached the desk where Dr. King was autographing and asked, “Is this Martin Luther King?”
“Yes, it is,” King said.
According to police reports, Curry pulled the seven-inch, razor-sharp, Japanese letter opener from inside her raincoat and plunged it into King’s chest. Onlookers overpowered the woman, who was reportedly ranting in a crazed manner, and held her until security officers arrived.
A hospital spokesman called the incident an “extremely close call” because the weapon’s tip rested against the outer wall of King’s aorta. He said any sudden movement prior to its removal by the surgical team could have punctured the vessel, caused internal bleeding, and threatened immediate death. If those who were with King when the attack occurred had attempted to remove the letter opener themselves, the spokesman said, the life of the young minister and civil rights leader may have come to an end.
Curry, who was arrested by police after the incident, wasn’t the only person disrupting the Blumstein’s event. The owner of the National Memorial African Bookstore, Lewis Michaux, and several of his supporters staged a nonviolent protest that King had held his autographing event at a business alleged not to hire Negro employees. Michaux stated he had hoped King would have scheduled a signing at his store, which does hire Negroes and offers an inventory of ethnic books.
LEWIS
What occurred at Blumstein’s was a shame, but something was bound to happen with the situation on 125th. White businesses in our community refusing to hire the blacks who keep them in business? It’s like Garvey said, our people need to own businesses and hire black employees, and blacks need to support those businesses by patronizing them. My bookstore is one of the few stores in Harlem that hires only blacks.
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