But there was no answer in the loud cry of the peddler. . . . Again the emaciated man looked at the dangling monkey. He noted its gaudy, man-like costume; he watched its poor pantomime of human dancing; and he looked again at the man who held the string. The latter’s eyes were bright with a far-seeing luster.
“Ah!” thought the consumptive. “This peddler is a dreamer and a cynic. Perhaps he finds a peculiar significance in this profitless business of selling monkeys. He sees in his painted monkey the likeness of its higher analogue, man. To the peddler, perhaps, the monkey daubed with its thin coating of paint is man, smeared with the thin veneer of civilization. This mettlesome hopping and jumping, spinning and dancing of the monkey represents man, the puppet, fuming turbulently under the strings held by king and war-lord, exploiter and slave-driver. Just as here and there on the monkey a gleam of brightness reveals the metal, untouched by the paint; so too with man, whose soul-devouring passions and prejudices, whose avarice and blood-thirst reveal his baser self, untouched by the dissembling veneer of civilization.”
Suddenly the string snapped. The crazy gewgaw tottered defiantly a second, and then fell ungracefully to the snow-covered pavement.
“Aha! Aha! The monkey won’t dance! He’s broken his string! That’s what we’ve done—Elsie and I. We’ve broken the fettering strings of society and are resolved to dance no longer!”
The consumptive moved on. He had promised Elsie that he would return to her early. Near the end of the market block there were booths where cedar trees and holly were sold. The wholesome Christmas aroma came to him, and he stopped, searched through several pockets, and having collected all of his change, bought the largest holly wreath he saw. The purchase of the wreath was an unreasoned action; it simply completed a reflex caused by the stimulation of the man’s olfactory nerve centers by the cedars and holly.
Where the market ended, the street was narrow and dim-lit. Ugly, old brick houses, the cellars of which quartered a heterogeneous array of tradesmen’s mean shops, lined the street. In many of the windows above the shops were lighted candles. Some windows, uncurtained, revealed women and children decking Christmas trees. After a time the man with the wreath turned into a street yet darker and meaner and flanked with tall houses which made it seem more narrow than it was. Here there were no shops, nor were there windows from which candles shone. The consumptive crept over the crisp snow, and then he entered a house, passed through the black hallway, and groped his way up a flight of resounding, bare stairs. He paused at the first landing to recover his panting breath. He listened to his labored breathing as it rattled ominously in the frosty air; and there in the darkness, he smiled. Then, after climbing wearily the remaining three flights, he opened a door and entered a long room, which offered a sudden antithesis to anything the dismal appearance of the street would have presaged.
The room was well carpeted and was warmed by an open hearth. A reading lamp on a sturdy oaken table cast its glow over books and magazines lying there. In one corner, where the light but faintly reached, the blackness of a low piano blended with the shadows. The farther end of the room was screened off. The consumptive went behind the screens. There in an ancient, wooden bed beneath snowy covers a woman was sleeping lightly. The brilliancy of her abundant, black hair enhanced the white purity of its background. Her face, half-clouded by a capricious shadow, was composed and untroubled. Suddenly, as if informed by some strange telepathy of the watcher beside her bed, she awoke and gazed up into his haggard face.
“Jim,” she said, “did the druggist let you have it?”
“Yes, Elsie. It was easy. How do you feel?”
“Rested now, Jim. What’s that? Oh, holly! It’s only a few hours before Christmas, isn’t it? Do you know, Jim that I was born just thirty years ago tomorrow, on Christmas Day?”
“No, I didn’t know it, dear. We’ve never talked birthdays, but I could have guessed that you were born on Christmas or Easter or on some Holy Day.”
“Holy Day, Jim? No, Jim. There are no days holy in themselves; they’re all alike unless people hallow them in their hearts and consciences. But most people don’t hallow them inwardly. They use meaningless symbols like that holly wreath.”
He hung the wreath on a post at the foot of the bed, and then took from his pocket two packages and placed them on a small table beside the bed. The woman saw the packages and her somber eyes sparkled.
“What’s the larger package, Jim?”
“The bottle? Oh, that’s champagne from Champagne, or as we had to call it when on furloughs from Hell, ‘Du vin blanc.’” And he smiled weakly, and began feverishly to unbutton his overcoat.
But the eyes of woman are all-seeing; moreover, her intuition is mercurial and unerring.
“What’s the trouble, Jim?”
“Nothing, dear. What makes you ask?”
“You’re not as confident as when you went out. You seem excited.”
“It’s nothing. But, Elsie, I’ve been thinking about things, and about you. I’ve been wondering whether you have ever really cared that we weren’t legally married.”
“Oh, Jim! Why do you ask me that? No, I’ve never cared. I’ve never really thought about marriage. There were too many difficulties. Even if you had been well, our life would have been chiefly with ourselves. Marriage, too, would have been too sensational. The officials would have detected that I’m not white, and if they hadn’t I couldn’t lie about it. I would have told. And then, Jim, just imagine the newspaper stories and the editorials ranting of intermarriage and—”
“Don’t, Elsie, don’t! The fools who write newspapers don’t know that in reality any marriage is an intermarriage. There must be some interchange, some blending, whether it be of dissimilar blood or of other qualities. I love you because you have every spiritual quality that I don’t have, and because you are beautiful, because you are loyal, because your voice is gentle and soft, because your music charms me. You’ve been what any real mate is—a complement. As for the newspapers, had I been a well man, and had you wanted marriage, that would have come first, despite newspapers or anything else. As it was, I had no right to ask you to tie yourself to a weak and gloomy skeleton.”
He stopped. Elsie was gazing steadfastly at him, and he continued:
“But this illness has changed my ideas; indeed—who knows—it may have clarified them, for now I hate the world that would deny me honest happiness after making me a weakling. God! How I detest men’s pharisaic exactions and their smug conceits! I don’t see how I could bring myself now to stoop to even one of their conventions.
“And, Elsie, you’ve been my comforter. You’ve listened to my ravings and quieted them. You’ve saved me from genuine misery and folly. And all this you’ve done for a wreck—a mere broken clod.”
“Don’t brood, Jim. You must not.”
“I don’t mean to, Elsie; but I’ve been thinking that it isn’t fair to persuade you to do this—to go with me if you’re not altogether willing.”
“It’s all settled now, Jim. I’ve been thinking too while you were away, and I now know that I don’t want to do anything else—and I won’t do anything else.”
Reverently, Jim bent down and kissed her smooth forehead. Then, as if not completely assured, he said:
“If you’re not sure, Elsie, I can go alone.”
“Never mind, Jim: we’re going together. I won’t be separated from you. It’s not your fault things haven’t gone well. It’s just been Fate.”
Then, as if motivated by some slow passion welling up from the depths of his spirit, Jim again bent over the bed and kissed the woman, not quickly, or impulsively, but deliberately, first her forehead, then her cheeks and her lips.
He turned away and with head bowed walked beyond the screens. . . .
When he returned, he sat on the edge of the bed. The woman drew close and he enclosed her in his arm.
“Do you know, Jim, this has been a glorious experience—just two of us, living one for the oth
er with nothing else to live for? I sometimes think that neither of us would have been happy if Fate had kept us apart. The sanction of the world for us, and for all like us, is only fair, but I doubt, Jim, if sanction could have made us any happier. . . . I wonder if the newspapers will get our story? Yes, I can see it now, headlines and all!”
“I don’t mind that, Elsie. The thing that I don’t like is that I don’t know what will be done with us, going in this way.”
“What’s found won’t be us, Jim, dear. But let’s not worry these few minutes. Let’s not even talk. Let’s just think and be happy.”
She nestled closer as if she thought that physical touch would foster that spiritual communion that she desired.
He was content. Whatever doubt he had as to the fairness of taking her with him was overcome by her earnest and tender devotion. She would have it no other way. She was his now and eternally. . . .
An hour passed, and bells, not sweet-toned from some rich temple, but harsh and mechanical began tolling the Christmas tide in.
“Are you ready, Jim?” she whispered.
“Yes, dear. Are you?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
He reached to the table beside the bed for the smaller package. As he shook its contents into a glass, he smiled at the grinning death’s-head the red label blazoned. There was a delightful tinkling sound as the champagne bottle in his weak and shaking hand kissed the rim of the glass into which the liquid gurgled.
He handed her the glass, and with his free arm drew her close to him.
She drank.
He took the glass, drank, and dropped it.
The bells rang on. . . .
They were drowsy now, but still conscious. Their embrace tightened.
The bells ceased.
UNCLE U.S. SANTA CLAUS
James Conway Jackson
In the early twentieth century, at the beginning of the Great Migration, in 1913, James Conway Jackson wrote “Uncle U.S. Santa Claus,” a provocative narrative poem that challenges the federal government to address the myriad of issues confronting African Americans who were leaving the South in droves to escape lynching, rank poverty, segregation, discrimination, and political exclusion. Simply put, they were in search of a new freedom! The poem is a powerful plea to the US government to honor the Civil War amendments to the Constitution that granted African Americans freedom and citizenship rights. What better time to raise these questions than the early twentieth century, and what better figure to employ as Santa Claus than good old “Uncle Sam,” a popular symbol of the US government.
Uncle U.S. Santa Claus
While you’re passing Christmas presents
so promiscuously,
Please remember, Uncle U.S., that
all people are not free;
Quite ten million faithful black folks
are being treated quite unjust
It does seem, dear Uncle U.S., that
you have betrayed our trust.
While the Christmas bells are ringing
out so merrily,
Uncle Samuel, let that old bell ring
again sweet liberty;
Let her ring in tones of thunder,
North and South and East and West,
Until Right and Truth and Justice
thrill the heart of every breast.
As your children, Uncle Samuel, we
have rights you see;
Lincoln truly said this “nation cannot
live half free;”
We demand that “Social Justice”
others prate about,
And we humbly ask the reason why
we were left out.
While the Christmas bells are ringing
out so long and loud,
Civil rights and social justice hide
behind a cloud;
Prejudice and Jim Crowism, vultures
from the South,
Seek to ROB the Government’s Black
Folks’ FOOD OUT of their mouth.
While the Christmas chimes are chiming
good will toward men,
We are ignored at the White House,
both by word and pen;
Peace and good will to all people
from the White House seems to mean
That the black folks of this country
are not counted in the scheme.
While the Christmas bells are ringing,
hear us, Lord, we pray!
Let the hearts of those that hate us
soften day by day;
Grant that e’er another Christmas
chimes forth merrily
That all nations and All People shall
be Wholly Free.
THE DEVIL SPENDS CHRISTMAS EVE IN DIXIE
Andrew Dobson
Dr. Andrew Dobson was a well-known radio personality and journalist in Chicago during the 1930s. He appeared on local radio stations and nationally on NBC and CBS Radio. Referring to his abilities as an actor and as a comedian, Chicago newspaper editors called him “a Bert Williams . . . and Will Rogers of the Race all rolled into one.” Dobson played the role of Old Uncle Joe on radio station WJJD, where he delighted his audience with songs and a rhyming philosophy that focused on topics of the time. In 1935, the Chicago Defender invited Dobson to write a weekly column called “Uncle Joe Dobson’s Journal,” a blend of African American folklore and old-fashioned philosophy applied to the issues of the day.
In “The Devil Spends Christmas Eve in Dixie,” a poem published in 1934, Dobson uses the Christmas theme to bring attention to both the practice of lynching and to the Costigan-Wagner anti-lynching bill pending before the US Congress, one of several bills introduced in Congress between 1919 and 1935 as a response to the efforts of the NAACP to secure passage of a federal law outlawing the practice. Dobson was not alone in his commentary on lynching. Numerous writers, politicians, ministers, educators, musicians, and graphic artists used every opportunity to bring attention to the immoral and barbaric act. In 1939, Abel Meeropol, as Lewis Allan, wrote “Strange Fruit,” a protest against lynching and racial violence. The song describes the bodies of lynching victims hanging from trees in the South and was popularized in the 1940s by jazz singer Billie Holiday. Like Dobson and other public figures, Holiday called attention to the brutal practice and demanded that the American government put an end to it. Dobson suggests that Christmas is heralded as a time for peace and good will to all men, however, “The Devil Spends Christmas Eve in Dixie.”
The Devil Spends Christmas Eve in Dixie
Twas de night befo Christmas, where de devil holds sway
He ordered his imps to “knock off” fer de day
Says he: “Boys, bank yo fires. Put yo forks on de rack
We goin to America. We’ll be late gittin back
As dey celebrates Christmas I wants you’ll to see
I wants you to watch how dey decorates trees
You will heah Christmas Carols. You will see candles bright
Cause we goin to de place where dey celebrates right.
So put on yo wings. We’ll fly South through de air
You won’t need no coats cause dey’s plenty hell dere.
Some imps spied de Statue of Liberty below
Dey started to wonder and fly kinda slow.
De devil looked back and sed: “Hey! flap dem wings”
“Nev mine dat statue cause it don’t mean a thing.”
Well dey all kept a flyin til one imp up and spoke.
He yells to de devil sayin: “Pa, what’s dat smoke?”
De devil say: “Where?” Den he say: “Dats a cinch,”
“When dey’s bonfires in Dixie dey’s a black man to lynch.”
Den de imps started pointing, cryin: “Look on dem trees,”
“Dey jus loaded with humans. Will you splain all dat please?”
Den old Satan started talkin and a wavin his hands
Says: “Chillun, its Christmas and you in Dixie land.”
“Hate is so strong heah and love is so slack,
“Stead o lightin a candle dey sets fire to a black.”
“Mos folks hang dey presents den go off to bed,
“Dey use Negroes in Dixie and dey hangs em till dead.”
“Dey sings our kinda carols, songs of hate, greed and lust,
“Dey use mobs fer de choirs. Hear em now. My, what fuss.”
“De bass in de choir is de baying of hounds,
“De blacks scream sopraner as de mobs run em down.
Den de imps tuk de air with a screech and a yell
Sayin: “We headin fer home. Dis America is hell.”
“And dat,” sed de devil as he howled with glee,
“Is de land of de brave and de home of de free.”
ONE CHRISTMAS EVE
Langston Hughes
Langston Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, in 1902. His grandfather had been a radical abolitionist, his mother had a predilection for acting and writing poetry, and his father studied law. Gaining recognition in 1921 for writing “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” his most celebrated poem, Hughes became one of the most acclaimed of the poets, novelists, and dramatists of the twentieth century. He published at least eight volumes of poetry, including The Weary Blues (1926), Fine Clothes to the Jew (1927), The Dream Keeper and Other Poems (1932), Shakespeare in Harlem (1942), Fields of Wonder (1947), One Way Ticket (1949), Montage of a Dream Deferred (1951), Ask Your Mama: 12 Moods for Jazz (1961), and The Panther and the Lash (1967). His fiction was published in six novels—Not Without Laughter (1930), Simple Speaks His Mind (1950), Simple Takes a Wife (1953), Simple Stakes a Claim (1957), Tambourines to Glory (1958), and Simple’s Uncle Sam (1965)—and in three volumes of short stories: The Ways of White Folks (1934), Laughing to Keep from Crying (1952), and Something in Common and Other Stories (1963).
A Treasury of African American Christmas Stories Page 17