by H. M. Mann
On the backs of your people, a deep voice says in my head.
I haven’t heard this particular voice in my head before, but it sounds familiar, and it doesn’t scare me like The Voice. Is it one of my teachers?
“Oh, I don’t live down that way anymore. I prefer the sea breezes of Savannah.”
“Um, tell me more about your husband.”
She smiles. “I like talking about him. He was my sweetie from the time I was sixteen. Yes, he was a grand man, a great provider. Oh, he had some tough times during the Depression like anybody else, but he survived.”
By paying blacks as little as possible.
No. None of my teachers would say “blacks.” Maybe one of the old-timers from County?
“Um, Mrs. Walker, who worked for your husband?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, a mill has to be run by a bunch of folks, right? Your husband, as great as he sounds, couldn’t have run it all by himself.”
“Oh, of course. Negroes, mostly, with a few sturdy white managers to keep them in line, and they needed keeping in line. Always up to something, they were, and lazy! My goodness, they were lazy.”
Slavery didn’t end with the Civil War.
Yeah, someone from County who called himself Mustapha or Mubar or something. A Black Muslim. Was that my first visit or my second to jail?
“Oh, but they don’t call themselves Negroes anymore. Where are my manners? What do they call themselves now? African-Americans. It’s so much easier to say ‘Negro’ than that mouthful, don’t you think? What would it be like if I went around saying I was a Dutch-American all the time? People would think I was crazy.”
I make two fists then relax them. “So, Mrs. Walker, when you’re not traveling on the American Queen, how do you spend your time?”
“Oh, I’m not as busy as I used to be, but I still find time for charitable causes.”
Like you, Emmanuel.
Wait. It was my first time in County. He had sat me down and asked me why I was locked up, and then he had given me a kind of sermon. “You have never been anything but a charity case to white people your entire life,” he had told me.
“What kinds of causes?” I ask Mrs. Walker.
“Oh, the usual ones like the Heart Fund and the American Cancer Society. Roger had a bad heart, and he eventually died of cancer. Let’s see … the World Wildlife Fund and the Audubon Society, and, oh, about a half dozen more local Savannah charities.” She squints, and then her eyes pop. “Oh, how could I forget? When Roger died, I set up the Roger Walker Trust Fund. It’s a scholarship program for needy students.”
Her guilt is deep.
“Like who?”
“Why, the Negroes, of course.” She smiles up at me. “But as fast as your people keep populating the land, I’m sure there will be plenty of Puerto Ricans applying from now on.”
Anyone dark is her inferior. As guilty as she feels, she must remain superior at all times, or her entire psyche will crack into a million pieces.
I stand. “I’m not a Puerto Rican, Mrs. Walker. I’m black.”
“Go on!” she laughs. “With a name like Emmanuel?”
I don’t speak.
“But your skin is so light, and your English is excellent.”
When I want it to be. “I’ve got to get back to the galley, Mrs. Walker.”
“Will I see you at dinner, Emmanuel?”
Right now, I don’t want to serve this woman ever again. “Of course, Mrs. Walker. Enjoy your lunch.”
You wear a mask handed to you by your oppressors. When are you going to take yours off and be a man?
I want to tell Rose about Mrs. Walker, but I don’t have a chance during the dinner rush, and when one of the servers, Mittie, throws me a dirty look and tells me “Your twenty is here,” I hustle to take Mrs. Walker’s order.
“It’s good to see you again, Emmanuel,” she says.
I don’t return the compliment. “What can I get you, Mrs. Walker?”
I take her order, stir a few pots until her order is ready, and then take it out to her.
“Thank you, Emmanuel.” She waves another twenty. “For your trouble.”
I can’t hold it in any longer. I lean closer to her. “Keep your money, Mrs. Walker.”
“What?”
“I said, keep your money.”
“But Emmanuel, I don’t understand.”
And she never will. Even if you explained to her for the rest of her life, she’d never understand.
“You tip me much more than I deserve, and it’s the same each time whether the service is slow or fast or the food is good or not.” I could probably dump the whole thing in her lap, and she’d still give me twenty.
“But I’ve always tipped this way.”
Don’t try to explain it. Just walk away with your pride. Keep your dignity.
“Keep your tip, Mrs. Walker. And I won’t be serving you anymore.” I don’t give her any chance to reply, turning and walking back into the galley.
I go to Mittie. “You can have your twenty back.”
“Why?”
I bull my neck. “Because I’m no charity case.”
Mittie smiles. “You’re as crazy as they say.”
Yeah, but crazy works sometimes.
I avoid Rose as much as I can for the rest of dinner and clock out at seven. I stop by the Emporium to buy a notepad this time and go to my room. Then I sit on my bed and try to write it all out of my system. I don’t know how to write poetry or be quotable like Mark Twain, so I just let it flow like the river flowing under my feet:
a teenager drops out of a crumbling public school
to stand on a corner selling on the set and
gets a promotion to County before he even starts shaving
while the rest of society pays athletes top dollars
when a single dunk could lift
a family out of the Bedford Dwellings for a year
as little old rich white ladies from Georgia send money
to save rain forests, whales, and birds
while the kids next door starve
Mrs. Walker doesn’t know any better, I know, and I’m not the one to be schooling her now. But what kind of country is it when the aged and supposedly wise don’t know a thing about the real world?
while rappers who grew up in the suburbs with two parents and a trust fund
and a room of their very own
who grew up thinking a hood was something
you wore on a cold day
get paid to be gangsta rappers cuz they can afford
a gold tooth, a tattoo, voice lessons, and some chains
Making money off their own people who they don’t even represent. What’s up with that? They’re perpetrating a fraud, and those white record companies are falling for it. Getting over, it’s all still about getting over.
as a kid picks up a fully-loaded gun off the floor of the Ellis
takes it to school and
shoots another kid in the face
then dumps the gun in a trashcan off Centre
and takes a day to admit to the police that he did it
saying he was only trying to scare him
and the police take him away until he’s 21
and when he comes out
he kills his own mama over a pair of shoes
Ronnie something, a kid in my fourth grade class, showed a couple of us that gun during recess. He had it tucked in the back of his pants like he saw somebody in a movie do it. One of those red, bouncy balls rolled over, and we all played keep-away, you know, like kids do to other kids to be mean. DJ or TJ or something says to Ronnie, “Gimme that ball, nigger,” and Ronnie pulls that gun and says, “I got your nigger, boy.”
And he shot him.
He just … shot him.
It knocked DJ or TJ back to the ground, and then everybody was running all over the Hill. TJ, yeah, that was that kid’s name. TJ didn’t die, but he wasn’t right after t
hat, drooling in a wheelchair. And we had all completely forgotten about Ronnie until one day he shows up on the set wearing some old black high-top Converse. He was cut like a black diamond, Ronnie was, but he looked ridiculous in those shoes, and we let him know it, even the old-timers, saying stuff like, “What garbage can you find them in, Ronnie?” and “What dead old man did you pull them off of?”
That night, Ronnie shot and killed his mama because she wouldn’t give him money for shoes, and now Ronnie, the black diamond, is doing life over some tennis shoes.
And here I am writing about it like it means something to anyone on a notepad made by Walker Paper. I slide the pad under the mattress and close my eyes, seeing TJ hitting the pavement again and again and again until I can’t count any longer.
“You goin’ on shore leave today?” Rufus asks, waking me a long time later. I must have slept for ten hours.
“Can’t you say ‘good morning’ like normal people?” I ask, rolling out of bed.
“All right. Good morning, Manny. That better?”
“Yeah.” I scratch the sleep from my eyes. “Am I gonna be early or late?”
“You’ll be on time. Now, are you goin’ into Louisville today? We all goin’.”
“To do what?”
“Does it matter? Just to get out, see the sights, maybe get us some barbecue.”
Just to see if Rufus could eat an entire hog would be a sight. “I don’t know, maybe.”
But as the day wears on, I start to feel weary. When we land in Louisville after breakfast and a couple hundred more sandwiches, I go back up to the Calliope Bar as the boat empties. I watch folks working the docks until a little poem takes shape on my notepad:
Sweat, spit, ash, smoke, floured face, calloused palms,
bile, tears, bleach, degreaser, ink stained fingers,
sunburned cheeks, sawdusted hardhats, paint spattered pants,
heavy gloves, steel-toed boots, dirt-encrusted bandanas,
starched aprons, sweep mopping, dig planting, wash ironing,
rope branding, serve clearing, bait gutting,
up before sun, up after moon, brick after box after crate after load,
is work, is worthy,
is dignity
“What are you doin’?”
I’m getting tired of Rose sneaking up on me. I cover the page with my hand. “Just writing some.”
“A letter to your girl?”
More like a letter to the world. I guess I could send my poems to Mary. She’s so much younger than me, though. Would she understand? “Something like that.”
“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” she says. “Are you comin’ out with us tonight?”
“I haven’t made up mind yet. Maybe.”
“I hope you come. Rufus swears there’s a good barbecue place in Louisville, but I doubt it. There ain’t a real good one till we hit Memphis, and I plan to take you somewhere for some wet ribs, just the two of us, when we get there.”
“Okay. It’s a date.”
“You okay? You get enough sleep?”
“Yeah.” Except for this kid’s head hitting the ground all night in my dreams.
“All right. See you at dinner.”
Dinner isn’t nearly as crazy since so many folks have gone into Louisville to eat, so I get off early, shower, and put on some of the clothes Rose washed up for me. I find a blue flannel shirt and some no-name jeans that fit me pretty well and curl up with the notepad again. Nothing comes right off, which frustrates me a little, so I watch a little TV until Rufus comes busting through the door.
“You ready?” he asks.
Rufus ain’t ready. He smells like diesel sweat. “I’m staying on the boat.”
“You gonna miss some good barbecue.”
“I already ate.”
While Rufus is in the shower, I hear a knock on the door. I open it and see Penny. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She looks past me into the room. “You goin’ with us?”
“No. Not tonight.”
“Too tired?”
“Something like that.”
“Let me see your tattoo.” She lifts up some white cloth tape to see the cross. “Has it swelled any?”
“No.”
She presses the tape down. “It looks okay.” She bites her lips together. “Wish you were going.”
I force a smile. “Y’all might need someone to talk about.”
“We wouldn’t do that.”
“Rose would.”
“Well,” Penny says, “I guess I better go. Tell Rufus to hurry up.”
“He’s a big boy, so it could be a while.”
She laughs. “See why we need you to go with us?”
“Some other night.”
After Penny leaves and Rufus starts pouring cologne all over himself, I settle back onto the bed, barely watching some Hollywood entertainment show. None of those people are real, and I bet none of them have ever done an honest day’s work in their lives. This actor’s having trouble getting work since he got out of some rehab clinic. And this actor’s saying how hard it is to make even a crummy movie. Let me try it. I bet it’s a walk in the park compared to real life. The movies are fake anyway, like any of that happens in real life. I once watched this movie, can’t remember the name, where this poor black guy gets off death row because he has a brilliant white lawyer who believes in him. He kept saying that all through the movie. “I believe in you.” None of my lawyers ever believed in me. And this TV show I once saw had this rich white guy going to jail. I laughed all the way through that one. It was supposed to be serious drama, but it was too funny for that. In real life, all a rich guy has to do is pay a fine and go about his illegal business.
“One last time, Manny,” Rufus says, “and I ain’t askin’ no more. You goin’ with us or not?”
“I’ll see y’all when you get back.” Because I think there’s a poem in my head that wants to be written.
“I’ll bring you back somethin’.”
“Thanks.”
After Rufus and his cloud of cologne leave, I pull out my notepad and start writing:
We the people
who don’t live on the sunnier side of the tracks
can afford jail while the rich buy fines
They’re gone.
The Voice is back.
In stereo, yo! And they didn’t really want you to go. See, I could be a poet, too. If they wanted you to go, they would have tried harder than they did. They woulda dragged your ass outta here.
So? I’m busy.
Doing what? Writing shit no one will ever read?
I don’t answer and continue writing:
We the people
fall out in gutters collecting stardust
while movie stars tell us how hard it is to make unreality
They’ll be gone all night, Manny. All night. Bet they’re gonna have a good time without you.
Give it a rest.
I bet someone working at that barbecue place could hook you up. You could be straight before they even served dessert, maybe even before the main course.
I drink a little water to get rid of my cottonmouth and pace around the cabin like a caged animal. As long as I keep my mind busy, the Voice can’t bother me. I pick up the notepad and keep writing as I pace:
We the people
pay the famous for a wealth of overdoses
and a treasure chest of rehab
You want that almost-white girl, don’t you?
I have Mary.
Do you? Really? Someone that young? Manny, you gotta get serious. If she was willing to be with you, she’d be willing to be with just about anyone.
Shut up.
Bet she’s got them lined up at the door and all the way down the street. And they ain’t old like you. They’re young bucks with money, lean, and hard, and—
She wouldn’t do that.
What’s she gonna do with fifty bucks?
I’ll be able to send more in a few days.
> Really? Now that you kicked old Mrs. Walker to the curb? You should have swallowed your pride, Manny. You should have shucked and jived for her. Sixty buck a day for doin’ nothin’? You must be crazy to throw that kind of easy money away.
She was stealing my dignity.
But you was getting paid, yo! Sixty bucks a day! Cash money! Liquid assets for liquid sunshine!
When her knees weren’t bothering her.
You could use that money, too. For Memphis. You can’t let Rose pay for your date, right? That’s beneath your dignity, too, right?
Shut up.
I hear Memphis is a happening town. Beale Street sounds like a good place to find a set, and you know those musicians know where it’s at. Think of Charlie Parker, Manny. You’re no different than he was. You’re both just misunderstood artists, that’s all.
Let me be an artist then.
I start scribbling:
We the people
have absentee landlords
who lose interest in their investments
charging an arm and a leg for
so many square feet
expecting penance from tenants for houses of the holey