The Song and the Silence

by Yvette Johnson

  Frank filmed them as they hummed and sang the blues. Their sound, like prayers offered up in a godless temple, touched upon a dark sorrow. In their music was their struggle, wrapped up and translated into a melodious cipher.

  All of it—the people, their sound, their sorrow, and the suffocating heat—held Frank in a sobering embrace, confronting him with emotions he hadn’t experienced in close to a decade. At some point on that trip, he turned to his producing partner, Fred Ramsey Jr., and, referring to the hopelessness surrounding them, he asked, “Why is this happening?”

  Fred thought for a moment, and then tried to offer an answer. “Well, Frank, you can’t change the world—believe me, the world is always gonna be this way; you gotta understand it.”

  To which Frank replied, “Well, maybe if we do something, we can change it.”

  When he returned to New York, that brief and seemingly insignificant exchange stayed with Frank, and he continued to have a desire to, as he put it, “Do something.” A few more years would pass, but eventually a plan began to unfurl itself in Frank’s mind—a plan that led him straight to Booker Wright. He decided to make a documentary about the civil rights movement. Always the maverick, Frank did the opposite of what most of his contemporaries were doing at the time. He decided to stay away from the Black story, choosing instead to examine the mind of the White Southerner.

  Frank started conducting research and quickly found that the place he wanted to go to was the one he was continually being told to avoid, because that place had been transformed into a veritable war zone.

  In 1962, President John F. Kennedy nationalized the Mississippi Guard and sent them, along with US Army military police, US Border Patrol agents, and five hundred US Marshals, to Oxford to squelch the violence that was stirred up when one Black man named James Meredith tried to go to school at the University of Mississippi. At one point, there were so many troops in the small town that it felt as though they outnumbered the residents. Charges were later dropped against him, but the governor of Mississippi, Ross Barnett, was fined and sentenced to jail time for his involvement in trying to stop the integration of the historic school.

  In spite of all that was happening throughout the state, the situation in a small town called Greenwood, eighty miles south of Oxford, was markedly more intense. By the mid-1960s, almost daily the KKK and other local Whites were shooting into the homes of Black residents and firebombing stores as a way to punish, warn, and frighten those accused of registering to vote or attending movement meetings.

  In March 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. expressed his concern for the town in a telegram to President Kennedy. King warned of the possibility of an event similar to the one that had taken place at the University of Mississippi at Oxford the previous year:

  DEAR MR. KENNEDY, THE SITUATION IN GREENWOOD MISSISSIPPI HAS DEGENERATED SO THAT I HAVE NO ALTERNATIVE BUT TO APPEAL TO YOU AS HEAD OF OUR NATION TO PERSONALLY INTERVENE ON BEHALF OF THE SAFETY AND PROTECTION OF CITIZENS AND WORKERS INVOLVED IN VOTER REGISTRATION. TODAY THE REV. D L TUCKER WAS MERCILESSLY BRUTALIZED BY POLICE DOGS. HARRASSMENT [sic] CONTINUES BY POLICE AND THE HOODLUM ELEMENT DURING VOTER RALLIES AT THE LOCAL CHURCH. IN SPITE OF OUR PERSISTENT COUNCIL FOR THE PEOPLE TO REMAIN NONVIOLENT I FEAR THAT IF SOMETHING IS NOT DONE IMMEDIATELY TO RELIEVE THIS HEINOUS SITUATION, A NIGHT WILL SOON COME DARKER THAN THAT NIGHT IN OXFORD. NOTHING COULD BE MORE DETRIMENTAL AND EMBARRASSING TO THE IMAGE OF AMERICA IN THE WORLD COURT OF NATIONS.

  A few months later, on the evening of June 11, President Kennedy gave what would come to be known as his famous address to the nation on civil rights. He called upon every American to examine their conscience in regard to the opportunities afforded to Blacks. He cited several statistics to shed light on the low quality of life that most Black Americans were unable to escape because of widespread discrimination. Legislation “cannot solve this problem alone,” he said. “It must be solved in the homes of every American in every community across our country.”

  Hours after Kennedy’s address, Medgar Evers was getting out of his car and preparing to walk into his Jackson, Mississippi, home. His wife and children were heading toward the front door to greet him when Byron De La Beckwith, a prominent member of the Greenwood community, shot Evers in the back in his driveway while his children were on their way out to greet him.

  The following year, De La Beckwith was tried twice for the murder of Medgar Evers, with both efforts ending in hung juries. Mississippi’s White community gathered around to support him. His bond and legal defense were funded by the White Citizens’ Council, the group that was determined to stop integration, and the former governor of Mississippi interrupted one of the trials to shake De La Beckwith’s hand.

  These were the types of things Frank heard during his initial months of research. However, the stories didn’t serve as a warning; instead they increased Frank’s fascination with Mississippi and with Greenwood in particular. Frank’s interest in Greenwood morphed into a kind of hope. To Frank, Greenwood burned like a far-off torch in a desperately dark and endless night. Frank believed that if he could examine Greenwood, look closely at the thoughts and attitudes of its White citizens, that he might find and expose the roots of hate.

  “All the people—camera, sound people—came out of NBC News. That was a kind of must,” Frank recalled. “So it was difficult, when I wanted to make the Mississippi story, to find a crew that was willing to go. I offered a couple of cameramen an opportunity and they turned me down. I finally got Joe Vadala, who’s a marvelous cameraman who was”—Frank paused as if searching for the right phrase—“interested in risking his life in Mississippi.”

  In time, Frank was able to pull together a crew, and in 1965 they traveled the almost 1,200 miles from New York City to Greenwood, Mississippi. At first, Frank had trouble getting Delta Whites to go on camera with him. Many felt they’d been misrepresented by the national media, who, in their minds, had disregarded the sincere affection that flowed between Whites and Blacks. Most local Whites either believed that the violence and unrest that had settled into their town was being exaggerated by the media or that, if it was true, it was being caused by agitators who’d infiltrated Greenwood.

  Slowly, with gentle persuasion in intimate, one-on-one conversations, Frank tried to convince Greenwood Whites that his film project was different, that his intent was to simply record and then present their thoughts to the nation. He explained that his only goal was to offer them a chance to go on camera and present their arguments for segregation. It worked. Within a few weeks, Frank was becoming a known factor in the small town, and people were beginning to open up to him.

  The filming of the documentary occurred without incident. As their work was ramping up and they were getting more and more interviews scheduled, Fred Ramsey—the co-producer and consultant—suggested that he and Frank go out to dinner at one of the town’s most popular restaurants, Lusco’s. Fred had eaten there before and encouraged Frank to go so that he could hear the restaurant’s famous Black waiter, Booker Wright, recite the menu. Frank refused, reminding Fred that he wasn’t in Greenwood to film Black people, because the whole premise of his movie was to examine the attitudes of White Mississippians. But Fred wouldn’t relent. He insisted Frank set aside at least a little time to visit the historic restaurant and meet its most endearing waiter.

  Frank finally acquiesced, so one night the two men did what countless others had done before them: They walked down Carrollton Avenue toward a redbrick building with the name “Lusco’s” painted next to a set of double glass doors. They passed through the entrance and stood in the restaurant’s large foyer with the hope of being waited on by Booker Wright.

  Inside, well-to-do Whites were standing around waiting to be seated. Black waiters dressed in white moved quickly and efficiently about, carrying plates and calling out orders. Even from where he stood by the front door, Frank could smell Lusco’s succulent steaks sizzling on the grill.

  After a few minutes, the two men were
led to a table covered with a white linen cloth, matching napkins, plates, and silverware. A heavy Black man approached the table and greeted them. The waiter had a wide, bright smile, wore black pants, a matching bow tie, and a white chef’s coat, and he had a crisp white towel slung over his arm.

  “How ya’ doin’ tonight?” he asked, bowing with a slight bend at the waist. “My name is Booker.”

  “I’ve heard that you have a special way of reciting the menu for White people. I’m a White person, and I was wondering if you would do it for me.” Booker smiled, ignored the awkward clunkiness of Frank’s request, tilted his head back, and in a warm, raspy voice started his one-man show.

  “We don’t have a written menu. I’ll be glad to tell you what we’re going to serve tonight. Everything we serve is à la carte,” as he spoke, his words strung together into a song, and he swayed from side to side, barely stopping to take in a breath.

  We have fresh shrimp cocktail, Lusco’s shrimp,

  Fresh oysters on a half shell, baked oysters, oysters Rockefeller, oysters almandine, stewed oysters, fried oysters,

  Spanish mackerel, western sirloin steak, club steak, T-bone steak, porterhouse steak, rib eye steak, Lusco’s special steak,

  Broiled mushrooms with the flavor of garlic,

  Tight spaghetti and meatballs,

  Soft shell crab,

  French fried onions, golden brown donut style.

  The best food in the world is served at Lusco’s.

  Booker finished with the flash of a smile, and Frank realized that not only was he clapping, he was laughing in spite of himself. The waiter reminded Frank of something from long ago, a Black minstrel show. In Booker, Frank saw the embodiment of the Negro on the stage. He didn’t know how he’d use it, but Frank knew he wanted to film the waiter performing the menu for his documentary. To his delight, Booker was quick to agree to go on camera.

  As the two men continued to talk, a short, dark-haired Italian woman approached the table. “If you’re planning on doing anything with your movie with him, forget it,” she said, indicating that Frank’s reputation had preceded him. “I don’t allow any cameras to come into this place. This place is off limits to you. You come here to eat and that’s it.”

  Frank put on his most charismatic smile and tried to win her over, but she wasn’t having it. When she walked away, Booker leaned over to the filmmaker and whispered, “Listen, you want to get my picture? I got a place. We can do it there.”

  Frank agreed, so the following day he made his way to the Black side of town to a street called McLaurin that was littered with worn-out clubs and eateries. He pulled up in front of Booker’s Place and went inside. Once the crew had finished setting up their gear, Frank asked Booker to recite the menu. The waiter did it almost the same way he’d done it the night before, bringing a powerful and joyful energy into the small space. This time however, when his song came to an end, Booker didn’t stop.

  While the camera was still rolling, the waiter made a profound shift. Without missing a beat, he abruptly came out of character—at once revealing that his persona had been false and that beneath his song and smile ran a current of tortured emotions. As if deftly stepping from behind a carefully constructed veil, Booker turned to his side and said, “That’s how I talk because that’s what my customers, I say ‘my customers,’ be expecting of me. When I come in, this is the way they want me to dress,” he said.

  Then he changed his voice and said with angry authority, “Booker, tell my people what you got.”

  He returned to his own voice and said, “Some people nice, some is not. Some call me Booker, some call me Jim, some call me John, some call me nigga! All of that hurts, but you have to smile. If you don’t”—he raised his voice again—“ ‘What’s wrong with you, why you not smilin’? Get over there and get me so and so and so and so!’ ”

  He went on, “There are some nice people. ‘Don’t talk to Booker like that. Now, his name is Booker.’ Then I got some more people come in real nice, ‘How you do, waiter, what’s your name?’ Then I take care of some so good and I keep that smile. I always learned to smile. The meaner the man be, the more you smile, although you’re crying on the inside or you’re wondering, ‘What else can I do?’

  “Sometimes he’ll tip you, sometimes he’ll say, ‘I’m not gonna tip that nigga, you don’t look for no tip.’

  “Yes, sir, thank you.” Booker was using his own voice, but it was softer, placating. “ ‘What did you say?!?’ ” Then, while bowing as if to pacify an aggressor and in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, “Come back, be glad to take care of you.”

  Continuing to replay the scene, he went on, “ ‘Don’t talk to him like that, that’s a good nigga, that’s my nigga.’ Yessir, boss, I’m your nigga.” He nodded, smiling idiotically.

  Then he returned to himself. “I’m trying to make a living. Why? I got three children. I want them to get an education. I wasn’t fortunate enough to get an education, but I want them to get it, and they’re doing good. Night after night, I lay down and I dream about what I had to go through with. I don’t want my children to have to go through with that. I want them to be able to get the job that they feel qualified for. That’s what I’m struggling for. I don’t want this and I don’t want that, but I just don’t want my children to have to go through what I go through with.” His smile was gone. He changed back to the angry voice again and said, “ ‘Hey, tell that nigga to hurry up with that coffee!’ ”

  His voice softened, barely louder than a whisper, and he said, “I’m on my way.” Later, when the camera was still rolling, Booker slumped over in a chair, and as if he was singing a commercial jingle he said, “Just remember, you got to keep that smile.”

  Mississippi: A Self-Portrait aired nationwide on the evening of Tuesday, April 5, 1966, on NBC during a time when TV watchers had fewer than a handful of channels to choose from. Newspapers throughout the country carried stories about the documentary, and almost all of them mentioned Booker’s touching yet disturbing monologue. In two minutes of television, the duplicitous heart of racism was laid bare, and while the nation was watching, the Negro on the stage sang a very different song.

  A Moralist

  The night Mississippi: A Self-Portrait aired marked the culmination of one of Frank De Felitta’s most ambitious projects. Almost an entire year had passed between the evening when Frank filmed Booker Wright and the night when the waiter’s image was splashed across televisions screens in homes throughout the nation.

  During that year Frank experienced a lingering disquiet about Booker’s scene. As a filmmaker he knew the raw vulnerability Booker exhibited made for wonderful television. As a concerned citizen Frank understood that Booker’s scene offered up a snapshot of the inhumanity of segregation, an image not diluted by screaming crowds or conversations about critical legislative change. And as a human being, Frank had seen enough of Greenwood, Mississippi to know that those two and a half minutes of footage had the potential to upend Booker’s world and to put the waiter’s life in grave danger.

  After recording Booker’s scene, Frank had provided the waiter with his phone number and told Booker that he could delete his interview from the film if Booker changed his mind. Months later when it was getting close to their airdate and Frank hadn’t heard from Booker, he reached out to him directly. Frank wanted to give Booker one last chance to have the scene removed and maybe even to quiet the worry in his soul, but the waiter refused.

  In the days before Mississippi: A Self-Portrait aired, newspapers across the country were publishing stories about it. Like the film itself, many of the writers of these stories were clearly attempting to examine and understand the race issue in the Southern states. Several articles included excerpts from the film. When considered in its entirety, most reported that the documentary was balanced; however, some of the printed excerpts from the film may have sounded less so. Taken from Frank McGhee’s voice-over, a few of the excerpts sounded like the
musings of an inquisitive scientist describing White Mississippians as if they were a strange, difficult-to-understand species. Johnstown, Pennsylvania’s Tribune-Democrat included the following from McGhee’s voice-over in the film:

  Put race aside, and most Mississippians are humble, gentle, charming, courteous, hospitable, and humorous people . . . Add race, and many of the Mississippians become fearful and sense doom in the future. They feel they are surrounded by Negroes used as unwitting instruments by outsiders—Negroes who do not realize they are being used in a larger plot to weaken the white race and destroy America. They see themselves as the last defenders of Western Civilization.

  The personal concern of nearly all Mississippians for individual Negroes is genuine. It is warm and deep. They feel a responsibility for the welfare of the Negroes they know; care for them in illness and distress; often intercede for them in minor brushes with the law. It’s a paternalism, tinged with guilt; an outgrowth of the slave-master relationship requiring subservience of the Negro.

  Some of the reports made Frank and Fred Ramsey sound like heroes who’d returned home from a harrowing journey. In the New Jersey Trentonian, Fred Ramsey Jr. described Greenwood as “the scene of the Emmett Till murder and . . . the home of the man accused and acquitted of slaying Medgar Evers. Greenwood,” says Ramsey, “is a tough town.”