Need help with literature paper

Need help with literature paper
http://www.wicknet.org/english/bfreeman/Anthology/battle_royal.htm Battle Royal Ralph Ellison It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectati ons to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man! And yet I am no freak of nature, nor of history. I wa s in the cards, other things having been equal (or unequal) eighty-five years ago. I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am only ashamed of myself for having at one time been ashamed. About eighty- five years ago they were told they were free, united with others of our country in everything pertaini ng to the common good, and, in everything social, separate like the fingers of the hand. And they believ ed it. They exulted in it. They stayed in their place, worked hard, and brought up my father to do the same. But my grandfather is the one. He was an odd old guy, my grandfather, and I am told I take after him. It was he who caused the trouble. On his deathbed he called my father to hi m and said, “Son, after I’m gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy’s country ever since I gi ve up my gun back in the Reconstruc tion. Live with your head in the lion’s mouth. I want you to overcome ’em with yeses, undermine ’em with grins, agree ’em to death and destruction, let ’em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open.” They thought the old man had gone out of his mind. He had been the meek est of men. The younger children were rushed from the room, the shades drawn and the flame of the lamp turned so low that it sputtered on the wick like the old man’s breathing. “Learn it to the younguns,” he whispered fiercely; then he died. But my folks were more alarmed over his last word s than over his dying. It was as though he had not died at all, his words caused so much anxiety. I was warned emphatically to forget what he had said and, indeed, this is the first time it has been menti oned outside the family circle. It had a tremendous effect upon me, however. I could neve r be sure of what he meant. Grandfather had been a quiet old man who never made any trouble, yet on his deathbed he had called himself a traitor and a spy, and he had spoken of his meekness as a dangerous activity. It b ecame a constant puzzle which lay unanswered in the back of my mind. And whenever things went well fo r me I remembered my grandfather and felt guilty and uncomfortable. It was as though I was carrying out his advice in spite of myself. And to make it worse, everyone loved me for it. I was praised by the most lily-white men in town. I was considered an example of desirable con- duct-just as my grandfather had been. And what puzzled me was that the old man had defined it as treachery. When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks, that if they had understood they would have desired me to act just the opposite, that I should have b een sulky and mean, and that that really would have been what they wanted, even though they were fool ed and thought they wanted me to act as I did. It made me afraid th at some day they would look upon me as a traitor and I would be lost. Still I was more afraid to act any other way because they didn’t like that at all. The old man’s words were like a curse. On my graduation day I delivered an oration in which I showed that humility was the secret, indeed, the very essence of progr ess. (Not that I believed this-how could I, remembering my grandfather?—I only believed that it worked.) It was a great success. Everyone praised me and I was invited to give the speech at a gathering of the to wn’s leading white citizens. It was a triumph for the whole community. It was in the main ballroom of the leading hotel. When I got there I discovered that it was on the occasion of a smoker, and I was told that since I was to be there anyway I might as well take part in the battle royal to be fought by some of my schoolmates as part of the entertainment. The battle royal came first. All of the town’s big shots were there in thei r tuxedoes, wolfing down the buffet foods, drinking beer and whiskey and smoking black cigars. It was a large room with a high ceiling. Chairs were arranged in neat rows around three sides of a portable boxing ring. The fourth side was clear, revealing a gleaming space of polished floor. I had some misgivings over the battle royal, by the way. Not from a distaste for fighting but because I didn’t care too much for the othe r fellows who were to take part. They were tough guys who seemed to have no grandfather’s curse worrying their minds. No one could mistake their toughness. And besides, I suspected that fighting a ba ttle royal might detract from the dignity of my speech. In those pre-invisible days I visualized myself as a potential Booker T. Washington. But the other fellows didn’t care too much for me either, and there we re nine of them. I felt superior to them in my way, and I didn’t like the manner in which we were all crow ded together in the servants’ elevator. Nor did they like my being there. In fact, as th e warmly lighted floors flashed past the elevator we had words over the fact that I, by taking part in the fight, had knoc ked one of their friends out of a night’s work. We were led out of the elevator through a rococo hall into an anteroom and told to get into our fighting togs. Each of us was issued a pair of boxing gloves and ushered out into the big mirrored hall, which we entered looking cautiously about us and whispering, lest we might accidentally be heard above the noise of the room. It was foggy with cigar smoke . And already the whiskey was taking effect. I was shocked to see some of the most important men of the town quite tipsy. They were all there-bankers, lawyers, judges, doctors, fire chiefs, teachers, merchants. Even one of the more fashionable pastors. Something we could not see was going on up front. A cl arinet was vibrating sensuously and the men were standing up and moving eagerly forward. We were a sm all tight group, clustered together, our bare upper bodies touching and shining with anticipatory sweat: while up front the big shots were becoming increasingly excited over something we still could not see. Suddenly I heard the school superintendent, who had told me to come, yell, “Bring up the sh ines, gentlemen! Bring up the little shines!” We were rushed up to the front of the ballroom, where it smelled even more strongly of tobacco and whiskey. Then we were pushed into place. I almo st wet my pants. A sea of faces, some hostile, some amused, ringed around us, and in the center, facing us, stood a magnificent blonde—stark naked. There was dead silence. I felt a blast of cold air chill me . I tried to back away, but they were behind me and around me. Some of the boys stood with lowered heads, trembling. I felt a wave of irrational guilt and fear. My teeth chattered, my skin turned to goos e flesh, my knees knocked. Yet I was strongly attracted and looked in spite of myself. Had the price of looking been blindness, I would have looked. The hair was yellow like that of a circus kewpie doll, the face heavily powdered and rouged, as though to form an abstract mask, the eyes hollow and smeared a cool blue , the color of a baboon’s butt. I felt a desire to spit upon her as my eyes brushed slowly over her body. Her breasts were firm and round as the domes of East Indian temples, and I stood so clos e as to see the fine skin texture and beads of pearly perspiration glistening like dew around the pink a nd erected buds of her nipples. I wanted at one and the same time to run from the room, to sink through the floor, or go to her and cover her from my eyes and the eyes of the others with my body; to feel the soft thighs, to caress her and destroy her, to love her and to murder her, to hide from her, and yet to stroke where below the small American flag tattooed upon her belly her thighs formed a capital V. I had a notion th at of all in the room she saw only me with her impersonal eyes. And then she began to dance, a slow sensuous movement; the smoke of a hundred cigars clinging to her like the thinnest of veils. She seemed like a fa ir bird-girl girdled in veils calling to me from the angry surface of some gray and threatening sea. I was transported. Then I became aware of the clarinet playing and the big shots yelling at us. Some threatened us if we looked and others if we did not. On my right I saw one boy faint. And now a man grabbed a silv er pitcher from a table and stepped close as he dashed ice water upon him and stood him up and forced two of us to support him as his head hung and moans issued from his thick bluish lips. Another boy be gan to plead to go home. He was the largest of the group, wearing dark red fighting trunks much too sma ll to conceal the erection which projected from him as though in answer to the insinuati ng low-registered moaning of the clarinet. He tried to hide himself with his boxing gloves. And all the while the blonde continued dancing, smiling faintly at the big shots who watched her with fascination, and faintly smiling at our fear. I noticed a certain merchant who followed her hungrily, his lips loose and drooling. He was a large man who wore diamond studs in a shirtfront which swelled with the ample paunch underneath, and each time the blonde swayed her undulating hips he ran his hand through the thin hair of his bald head and, with his arms upheld, his posture clumsy like that of an intoxicated panda, wound his belly in a slow and obscen e grind. This creature was completely hypnotized. The music had quickened. As the dancer flung herself about with a detached expression on her face, the men began reaching out to touch her. I could see their beefy fingers sink into her soft flesh. Some of the others tried to stop them and she began to move around th e floor in graceful circles, as they gave chase, slipping and sliding over the polished floor. It was mad. Chairs went crashing, drinks were spilt, as they ran laughing and howling after her. They caught her just as she reached a door, raised her from the floor, and tossed her as college boys are tossed at a hazing, and above her red, fixed-smiling lips I saw the terror and disgust in her eyes, almost like my own terror and that which I saw in some of the other boys. As I watched, they tossed her twice and he r soft breasts seemed to flatten against the air and her legs flung wildly as she spun. Some of the more sober ones helped her to escape. And I started off the floor, heading for the anteroom with the rest of the boys. Some were still crying and in hysteria. But as we tried to leave we were stopped and ordered to get into the ring. There was nothing to do but what we were told. All ten of us climbed under the ropes and allowed ourselves to be blindfolded with broad bands of white cloth. One of the men seemed to feel a bit sympathetic and tried to cheer us up as we stood with our backs against the ropes. Some of us tried to grin. “See that boy over there?” one of the men said. “I want you to run across at the bell and give it to him right in the belly. If you don’t ge t him, I’m going to get you. I don’t like his looks.” Each of us was told the same. The blindfolds were put on. Yet even then I had been goin g over my speech. In my mind each word was as bright as a flame. I felt the cloth pressed into place, and frowned so that it would be loosened when I relaxed. But now I felt a sudden fit of blind terror. I was unused to darkness, it was as though I had suddenly found myself in a dark room filled with poi sonous cottonmouths. I could hear the bleary voices yelling insistently for the battle royal to begin. “Get going in there!” “Let me at that big nigger!” I strained to pick up the school superintendent’s voice, as though to squeeze some security out of that slightly more familiar sound. “Let me at those black sonsabitches!” someone yelled. “No, Jackson, no!” another voice yelled. “Here, somebody, help me hold Jack.” “I want to get at that ginger-colored nigger. Tear him limb from limb,” the first voice yelled. I stood against the ropes trembling. For in those days I was what they called ginger-colored, and he sounded as though he might crunch me betw een his teeth like a crisp ginger cookie. Quite a struggle was going on. Chairs were being kicked about and I could hear voices grunting as with terrific effort. I wanted to see, to see more desperately than ev er before. But the blindfold was as tight as a thick skin, puckering scab and when I raised my gloved hands to push the layers of white aside a voice yelled, “Oh, no you don’t, black bastard! Leave that alone!” “Ring the bell before Jackson kills him a coon!” someone boomed in the sudden silence. And I heard the bell clang and the sound of the feet scuffling forward. A glove smacked against my head. I pivoted, striking out stiffly as someone went past, and felt the jar ripple along the length of my arm to my shoulder. Then it seemed as though all nine of the boys had turned upon me at once. Blows pounded me from all si des while I struck out as best I could. So many blows landed upon me that I wondered if I were not the only blindfolded fighter in the ring, or if the man called Jackson hadn’t succeeded in getting me after all. Blindfolded, I could no longer c ontrol my motions. I had no dignit y. I stumbled about like a baby or a drunken man. The smoke had become thicker and w ith each new blow it seemed to sear and further restrict my lungs. My saliva became like hot bitter glue. A glove connected with my head, filling my mouth with warm blood. It was everywhere. I could not tell if the moisture I felt upon my body was sweat or blood. A blow landed hard against the nape of my neck. I felt myself going over, my head hitting the floor. Streaks of blue light filled the black world be hind the blindfold. I lay prone, pretending that I was knocked out, but felt myself seized by hands and ya nked to my feet. “Get going, black boy! Mix it up!” My arms were like lead, my head smarting from blow s. I managed to feel my way to the ropes and held on, trying to catch my breath. A glov e landed in my midsection and I went over again, feeling as though the smoke had be- come a knife jabbed into my guts. Pushed this way and that by the legs milling around me, I finally pulled erect and discove red that I could see the black, sweat- washed forms weaving in the smoky, blue atmosphere like drunken dancers weavi ng to the rapid drum-like thuds of blows. Everyone fought hysterically. It was complete anarchy. Everybody fought everybody else. No group fought together for long. Two, th ree, four, fought one, then turned to fight each other, were themselves attacked. Blows landed below the belt and in the kidney, with the gloves open as well as closed, and with my eye partly opened now there wa s not so much terror. I moved carefully, avoiding blows, although not too many to attract attention, fighting group to group. The boys groped about like blind, cautious crabs crouching to protect their midsections, their heads pulled in short against their shoulders, their arms stretched nervously before them, with their fists testing the smoke-filled air like the knobbed feelers of hypersensitive sna ils. In one comer I glimpsed a boy violently punching the air and heard him scream in pain as he smashed his hand ag ainst a ring post. For a second I saw him bent over holding his hand, then going down as a blow caught his unprotected head. I play ed one group against the other, slip- ping in and throwing a punch then stepping out of range while pushing the others into the melee to take the blows blindly aimed at me. The smoke was agonizing and there were no rounds, no bells at three minute intervals to relieve our exhaustio n. The room spun round me, a swirl of lights, smoke, sweating bodies surrounded by tense white faces. I bled from both nose and mouth, the blood spattering upon my chest. The men kept yelling, “Slug him, black boy! Knock his guts out!” “Uppercut him! Kill him! Kill that big boy!” Taking a fake fall, I saw a boy going down heavily beside me as though we were felled by a single blow, saw a sneaker-clad foot shoot into his groi n as the two who had knocked him down stumbled upon him. I rolled out of range, feeling a twinge of nausea. The harder we fought the more threatening the men became. And yet, I had begun to worry about my speech again. How would it go? Would they r ecognize my ability? What would they give me? I was fighting automatically when suddenly I noticed that one after another of the boys was leaving the ring. I was surprised, filled with pani c, as though I had been left alone with an unknown danger. Then I understood. The boys had arranged it among themselves. It was the custom for the two men left in the ring to slug it out for the winner’s pri ze. I discovered this too late. When the bell sounded two men in tuxedoes leaped into the ring and removed the blindfold. I found myself facing Tatlock, the biggest of the gang. I felt sick at my stomach. Hard ly had the bell stopped ringing in my ears than it clanged again and I saw him moving sw iftly toward me. Thinking of nothing else to do I hit him smash on the nose. He kept coming, bringing the rank sharp violen ce of stale sweat. His face was a black blank of a face, only his eyes alive-with hate of me and aglow with a feverish terror from what had happened to us all. I became anxious. I wanted to deliver my speech and he came at me as though he meant to beat it out of me. I smashed him again and again, taking his blows as they came. Then on a sudden impulse I struck him lightly and we clinched. I whispered, “Fak e like I knocked you out, you can have the prize.” “I’ll break your behind,” he whispered hoarsely. “For them?” “For me, sonafabitch!” They were yelling for us to break it up and Ta tlock spun me half around with a blow, and as a joggled camera sweeps in a reeling scene, I saw th e howling red faces crouching tense beneath the cloud of blue-gray smoke. For a moment the world wavere d, unraveled, flowed, then my head cleared and Tatlock bounced before me. That fluttering shadow be fore my eyes was his jabbing left hand. Then falling forward, my head against his damp shoulder, I whispered. “I’ll make it five dollars more.” “Go to hell!” But his muscles relaxed a trifle beneath my pressure and I breathed, “Seven?” “Give it to your ma,” he said, ripping me beneath the heart. And while I still held him I butted him and move d away. I felt myself bombarded with punches. I fought back with hopeless desperation. I wanted to de – liver my speech more than anything else in the world, because I felt that only these men could judge truly my ability, and now this stupid clown was ruining my chances. I began fighting carefully now, moving in to punch him and out again with my greater speed. A lucky blow to his chin and I had hi m going too—until I heard a loud voice yell, “I got my money on the big boy.” Hearing this, I almost dropped my guard. I was confused: Should I try to win against the voice out there? Would not this go against my speech, and wa s not this a moment for humility, for nonresistance? A blow to my head as I danced about sent my ri ght eye popping like a jack-in-the-box and settled my dilemma. The room went red as I fell. It was a drea m fall, my body languid and fastidious as to where to land, until the floor became impatient and smashed up to meet me. A moment later I came to. An hypnotic voice said FIVE emphatically. And I lay there, hazily watching a dark red spot of my own blood shaping itself into a butterfly, glistening and soaking into the soiled gray world of the canvas. When the voice drawled TEN I was lifted up and dragged to a chair. I sat dazed. My eye pained and swelled with each throb of my pounding heart and I wondered if now I would be allowed to speak. I was wringing wet, my mouth sti ll bleeding. We were grouped along th e wall now. The other boys ignored me as they congratulated Tatlock and speculated as to how much they would be paid. One boy whimpered over his smashed hand. Looking up front, I saw attendants in white jackets rolling the Portable ring away and placing a small square rug in the vacant space surrounded by chain. Pe rhaps, I thought, I will stand on the mg to deliver my speech. Then the M.C. called to us. “Come on up here boys and get your money.” We ran forward to where the men laughed and talked in their chairs, waiting. Everyone seemed friendly now. “There it is on the rug,” the man said. I saw the mg covered with coins of all dimensions and a few crumpled bills. But what excited me, scatte red here and there, were the gold pieces. “Boys, it’s all yours,” the man said. “You get all you grab.” “That’s right, Sambo,” a blond man said, winking at me confidentially. I trembled with excitement, forgetting my pai n. I would get the gold and the bills. I thought. I would use both hands. I would throw my body against th e boys nearest me to block them from the gold. “Get down around the rug now,” the man commanded, “and don’t anyone touch it until I give the signal.” “This ought to be good,” I heard. As told, we got around the square rug on our knees. Slowly the man raised his freckled hand as we followed it upward with our eyes. I heard, “These niggers look lik e they’re about to pray!” Then, “Ready”, the man said. “Go!” I lunged for a yellow coin lying on the blue de sign of the carpet, touching it and sending a surprised shriek to join those ar ound me. I tried frantically to remove my hand but could not let go. A hot, violent force tore through my body, shaking me like a we t rat. The rug was electrified. The hair bristled up on my head as I shook myself free. My muscles jumped, my nerves jangled, writhed. But I saw that this was not stopping the other boys . Laughing in fear and embarrassment, some were holding back and scooping up the coins knocked off by th e painful contortions of others. The men roared above us as we struggled. “Pick it up, goddamnit, pick it up!” someone calle d like a bass-voiced parrot. “Go on, get it!” I crawled rapidly around the floor, picking up the co ins, trying to avoid the coppers and to get greenbacks and the gold. Ignoring th e shock by laughing, as I brushed the coins off quickly, I discovered that I could contain the electricity—a contradiction but it works. Then the men began to push us onto the rug. Laughing embarrassedly, we struggled out of their ha nds and kept after the coins. We were all wet and slippery and hard to hold. Suddenl y I saw a boy lifted into the air, glistening with sweat like a circus seat, and dropped, his wet back landing flush upon th e charged rug, heard him yell and saw him literally dance upon his back, his elbows beating a frenzied tattoo upon the floor, his muscles twitching like the flesh of a horse stung by many flies. When be finally rolled off, his face was gray and no one stopped him when he ran from the floor amid booming laughter. “Get the money,” the M.C. called. “That’s good hard American cash!” And we snatched and grabbed, snatched and grabbed. I was careful not to come too close to the rug now, and when I felt the hot whiskey breath de scend upon me like a cloud of foul air I reached out and grabbed the leg of a chair. It wa s occupied and I held on desperately. “Leggo, nigger! Leggo!” The huge face wavered down to mine as he tried to push me free. But my body was slippery and he was too drunk. It was Mr. Colcord, who owned a chain of movie houses and “entertainment palaces.” Each time he grabbed me I sli pped out of his hands. It became a real struggle. I feared the rug more than I did th e drunk, so I held on, surprising myself for a mo ment by trying to topple him upon the rug. It was such an enormous idea that I found myself actually carrying it out. I tried not to be obvious, yet when I grabbed his le g, trying to tumble him out of the chair, he raised up roaring with laughter, and, looking at me with soberness dead in the eye, kicked me viciously in the chest. The chair leg flew out of my hand and I felt myself going and rolled. It was as though I had rolled through a bed of hot coals. It seemed a whole century would pass before I would roll free, a century in which I was seared through the deepest levels of my body to the fearful breath within me and the breath seared and heated to the point of explosion. It’ll all be over in a flash, I thought as I rolled clear. It’ll all be over in a flash. But not yet, the men on the other side were wait ing, red faces swollen as though from apoplexy as they bent forward in their chairs. Seeing their finge rs coming toward me I rolled away as a fumbled football rolls off the receiver’s finger, tips, back into the coals. That time I luck ily sent the rug sliding out of place and heard the coins ringing against the floor and the boys scuffling to pick them up and the M.C. calling, “All right, boys, that’s all. Go get dressed and get your money.” I was limp as a dish rag. My back felt as though it had been beaten with wires. When we had dressed the M.C. came in and gave us each five dolla rs, except Tatiock, who got ten for being the last in the ring. Then he told us to leave. I was not to get a chance to deliver my speech, I thought. I was going out into the dim alley in despair wh en I was stopped and told to go back. I returned to the ballroom, where the men were pushing back their chairs and gathering in small groups to talk. The M.C. knocked on a table for quiet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we almost forgot an important part of the program. A most serious part, gentlemen. This boy was brought here to deliver a speech which he made at his graduation yesterday . . .” “Bravo!” “I’m told that he is the smartest boy we’ve got out there in Greenwood. I’m told that he knows more big words than a pocket-sized dictionary.” Much applause and laughter. “So now, gentlemen, I want you to give him your attention.” There was still laughter as I faced them, my mouth dry, my eyes throbbing. I began slowly, but evidently my throat was tense, because they began shouting. “Louder! Louder!” “We of the younger generation extol the wisdom of that great leader and educator,” I shouted, “who first spoke these flaming words of wisdom: ‘A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a si gnal: “Water, water; we die of thirst!” The answer from the fr iendly vessel came back: “Cast down your bucket where you are.” The captain of the distressed vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast dow n his bucket, and it came up full of fresh sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River.’ And like him I say, and in his words, ‘To those of my race who depend upon be ttering their condition in a foreign land, or who underestimate the importance of cultivating friendly rela tions with the Southern white man, who is his next-door neighbor, I would say: “Cast down your bucket where you are’!—cas t it down in making friends in every manly way of the people of all races by wh om we are surrounded . . .”‘ I spoke automatically and with such fervor that I did not realize that the men were still talking and laughing until my dry mouth, filling up with blood from the cut, almost strangled me. I coughed, wanting to stop and go to one of the tall brass, sand-filled spittoons to relieve myself, but a few of the men, especially the superintendent, were listening and I was afraid. So I gulped it down, blood, saliva and all, and continued. (What powers of endurance I had during those days! What enthusiasm! What a belief in the rightness of things!) I spoke even louder in spite of the pain. But still they talked and still they laughed, as though deaf with cotton in dirty ears. So I spoke with greater emotional emphasis. I closed my ears and swallowed blood until I was nauseated. The speech seemed a hundred times as long as before, but I could not leave out a single wo rd. All had to be said, each memorized nuance considered, rendered. Nor was that all. Whenever I uttered a word of three or more syllables a group of voices would yell for me to repeat it. I used the phrase “soc ial responsibility” and they yelled: “What’s the word you say, boy?” “Social responsibility,” I said. “What?” “Social . . .” “Louder.” “. . . responsibility.” “More!” “Respon—” “Repeat!” “—sibility.” The room filled with the uproar of laughter until, no doubt, distracted by having to gulp down my blood, I made a mistake and yelled a phrase I had of ten seen denounced in newspaper editorials, heard debated in private. “Social . . .” “What?” they yelled. “. . . equality—.” The laughter hung smokelike in the sudden stillness. I opened my eyes, puzzled. Sounds of displeasure filled the room. The M. C. rushed forward. They shouted hostile phrases at me. But I did not understand. A small dry mustached man in the front ro w blared out, “Say that slowly, son! “What, sir?” “What you just said!” “Social responsibility, sir,” I said. “You weren’t being smart, were you boy?” he said, not unkindly. “No, Sir!” “You sure that about ‘equality’ was a mistake?” “Oh, yes, Sir,” I said. “I was swallowing blood.” “Well, you had better speak more slowly so we can understand. We mean to do right by you, but you’ve got to know your place at all times. All right, now, go on with your speech.” I was afraid. I wanted to leave but I wanted also to speak and I was afraid they’d snatch me down. “T’hank you, Sir,” I said, beginning where I had left off, and having them ignore me as before. Yet when I finished there was a thunderous appl ause. I was surprised to see the superintendent come forth with a package wrapped in white tissu e paper, and, gesturing for quiet, address the men. “Gentlemen, you see that I did not overpraise th e boy. He makes a good speech and some day he’ll lead his people in the proper paths. And I don’t have to tell you that this is important in these days and times. This is a good, smart boy, and so to encourage him in the right direction, in the name of the Board of Education I wish to present him a prize in the form of this . . .” He paused, removing the tissue paper and revealing a gleaming calfskin briefcase. “. . . in the form of this first-class article from Shad Whitmore’s shop.” “Boy,” he said, addressing me, “take th is prize and keep it well. Consider it a badge of office. Prize it. Keep de veloping as you are and some day it will be filled with important papers that will help shape the destiny of your people.” I was so moved that I could hardly express my thanks. A rope of bloody saliva forming a shape like an undiscovered contin ent drooled upon the leather and I wiped it quickly away. I felt an importance that I had never dreamed. “Open it and see what’s inside,” I was told. My fingers a-tremble, I complied, smelling fresh leather and finding an official-looking document inside. It was a scholarship to the state college for Ne groes. My eyes filled with tears and I ran awkwardly off the floor. I was overjoyed; I did not even mind when I discov ered the gold pieces I had scrambled for were brass pocket tokens advertising a certain make of automobile. When I reached home everyone was excited. Next day the neighbors came to congratulate me. I even felt safe from grandfather, whose deathbed cu rse usually spoiled my triumphs. I stood beneath his photograph with my briefcase in hand and smiled triumpha ntly into his stolid black peasant’s face. It was a face that fascinated me. The eyes seemed to follow everywhere I went. That night I dreamed I was at a circus with him and that he refused to laugh at the clowns no matter what they did. Then later he told me to ope n my briefcase and read what was inside and I did, finding an official envelope stamped with the state seal: and inside the envelope I found another and another, endlessly, and I thought I wo uld fall of weariness. “Them’s years,” he said. “Now open that one.” And I did and in it I found an engraved stamp containi ng a short message in letters of gold. “Read it,” my grandfather said. “Out loud.” “To Whom It May Concern,” I into ned. “Keep This Nigger-Boy Running.” I awoke with the old man’s laughter ringing in my ears.
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“The Gilded Six-Bits” Zora Neale Hurston It was a Negro yard around a Negro house in a Negro settlement that looked to the payroll of the G. and G. Fert ilizer works for its support. But there was something happy about the place. The front yard was parted in the middle by a sidewalk from gate to doorst ep, a sidewalk edged on either side by quart bottles driven neck down into the ground on a slant. A mess of homey flowers planted without a plan but bl ooming cheerily from their helter-skelter places. The fence and house were whitewashed. The porch and steps scrubbed white. The front door stood open to the sunshine so that the floor of the front room could finish drying after its weekly scouring. It was Saturday. Everything clean from the front gate to the privy hous e. Yard raked so that the strokes of the rake would make a pattern. Fresh newspaper cut in fancy edge on the kitchen shelves. Missie May was bathing herself in the ga lvanized washtub in the bedroom. Her dark-brown skin glistened under the soap suds that skittered down from her washrag. Her stiff young breasts thrust fo rward aggressively, like broad-based cones with the tips lacquered in black. She heard men’s voices in the distance and glanced at the dollar clock on the dresser. “Humph! Ah’m way behind time t’day! Joe gointer be heah ‘fore Ah git mah clothes on if Ah don’t make haste.” She grabbed the clean mealsack at hand a nd dried herself hurriedly and began to dress. But before she could tie her sli ppers, there came the ring of singing metal on wood. Nine times. Missie May grinned with delight. She had not seen the big tall man come stealing in the gate and creep up the walk grinning happily at the joyful mischief he was about to commit. But she knew that it was her husband throwing silver dollars in the door for her to pick up and pile besi de her plate at dinner. It was this way every Saturday afternoon. Th e nine dollars hurled into the open door, he scurried to a hiding place behind the Cape jasmine bush and waited. Missie May promptly appeared at the door in mock alarm. “Who dat chunkin’ money in mah do’way?” she demanded. No answer from the yard. She leaped off the porch and began to search the shrubbery. She pe eped under the porch and hung over the gate to look up and down the road. While she did this, the man behind the jasmine darted to the chinaberry tree. She spied him and gave chase. “Nobody ain’t gointer be chunkin’ money at me and Ah not do ’em nothin’,” she shouted in mock anger. He ran around the house with Missie May at his heels. She overtook him at the kitchen door. He ran inside but could not close it after him before she crowded in and locked with him in a rough-and-tumble. For several minutes the two were a furious mass of male and female energy. Shouting, laughing, twisting, turning, tussling, tickling each other in the ribs; Missie May clutching onto Joe and Joe trying, but not too hard, to get away. “Missie May, take yo’ hand out mah pocke t!” Joe shouted out between laughs. “Ah ain’t, Joe, not lessen you gwine gimme whateve’ it is good you got in yo’ pocket. Turn it go, Joe, do Ah’ll tear yo’ clothes.” “Go on tear ’em. You de one dat pushe s de needles round heah. Move yo’ hand, Missie May.” “Lemme git dat paper sak out yo’ pocket. Ah bet it’s candy kisses.” “Tain’t. Move yo’ hand. Woman ain’t got no business in a man’s clothes nohow. Go way.” Missie May gouged way down and gave an upward jerk and triumphed. “Unhhunh! Ah got it! It ’tis so candy kisse s. Ah knowed you had somethin’ for me in yo’ clothes. Now Ah got to se e whut’s in every pocket you got.” Joe smiled indulgently and let his wife go through all of his pockets and take out the things that he had hidden for her to find. She bore off the chewing gum, the cake of sweet soap, the pocket handkerchief as if she had wrested them from him, as if they had not been bought for the sake of this friendly battle. “Whew! dat play-fight done got me a ll warmed up!” Joe exclaimed. “Got me some water in de kittle?” “Yo’ water is on de fire and yo’ clean th ings is cross de bed. Hurry up and wash yo’self and git changed so we kin eat. Ah ‘m hongry.” As Missie said this, she bore the steaming kettle into the bedroom. “You ain’t hongry, sugar,” Joe contradicted her. “Youse jes’ a little empty. Ah’m de one whut’s hongry. Ah could eat up camp meetin’, back off ‘ssociation, and drink Jurdan dry. Have it on de ta ble when Ah git out de tub.” “Don’t you mess wid mah business, man. You git in yo’ clothes. Ah’m a real wife, not no dress and breath. Ah might not l ook lak one, but if you burn me, you won’t git a thing but wife ashes.” Joe splashed in the bedroom and Missie May fanned around in the kitchen. A fresh red-and-white checked cloth on the table. Big pitcher of buttermilk beaded with pale drops of butter from the chur n. Hot fried mullet, crackling bread, ham hock atop a mound of string beans and new potatoes, and perched on the windowsill a pone of spicy potato pudding. Very little talk during the meal but that litt le consisted of banter that pretended to deny affection but in reality flaunted it. Like when Missie May reached for a second helping of the tater pone. Jo e snatched it out of her reach. After Missie May had made two or thr ee unsuccessful grabs at the pan, she begged, “Aw, Joe, gimme some mo’ dat tater pone.” “Nope, sweetenin’ is for us menfolks. Y’all pritty lil frail eels don’t need nothin’ lak dis. You too sweet already.” “Please, Joe.” “Naw, naw. Ah don’t want you to git no sweeter than whut you is already. We goin’ down de road a lil piece t’night so you go put on yo’ Sunday-go-to-meetin’ things.” Missie May looked at her husband to see if he was playing some prank. “Sho nuff, Joe?” “Yeah. We goin’ to de ice cream parlor.” “Where de ice cream parlor at, Joe?” “A new man done come heah from Chica go and he done got a place and took and opened it up for a ice cream parlor, and bein’, as it’s real swell, Ah wants you to be one de first ladies to walk in dere and have some set down.” “Do Jesus, Ah ain’t knowed nothin’ bout it. Who de man done it?” “Mister Otis D. Slemmons, of spots a nd places–Memphis, Chicago, Jacksonville, Philadelphia and so on.” “Dat heavyset man wid his m outh full of gold teeths?” “Yeah. Where did you see ‘im at?” “Ah went down to de sto’ tuh git a box of lye and Ah seen ‘im standin’ on de corner talkin’ to some of de mens, and Ah come on back and went to scrubbin’ de floor, and he passed and tipped his hat whilst Ah was scourin’ de steps. Ah thought Ah never seen him befo’.” Joe smiled pleasantly. “Yeah, he’s up-to-date . He got de finest clothes Ah ever seen on a colored man’s back.” “Aw, he don’t look no better in his cl othes than you do in yourn. He got a puzzlegut on ‘im and he so chuckleheaded he got a pone behind his neck.” Joe looked down at his own abdomen and said wistfully: “Wisht Ah had a build on me lak he got. He ain’t puzzlegutte d, honey. He jes’ got a corperation. Dat make ‘m look lak a rich white man. All ri ch mens is got some belly on ’em.” “Ah seen de pitchers of Henry Ford a nd he’s a spare-built man and Rockefeller look lak he ain’t got but one gut. But Ford and Rockefeller and dis Slemmons and all de rest kin be as many-gutted as de y please, Ah’s satisfied wid you jes’ lak you is, baby. God took pattern after a pine tree and built you noble. Youse a pritty man, and if Ah knowed any way to make you mo’ pritty still Ah’d take and do it.” Joe reached over gently and toyed with Missie May’s ear. “You jes’ say dat cause you love me, but Ah know Ah can’t hold no light to Otis D. Slemmons. Ah ain’t never been nowhere and Ah ain’t got nothin’ but you.” Missie May got on his lap and kissed him and he kissed back in kind. Then he went on. “All de womens is crazy ’bout ‘im everywhere he go.” “How you know dat, Joe?” “He tole us so hisself.” “Dat don’t make it so. His mouf is cut crossw ays, ain’t it? Well, he kin lie jes’ lak anybody else.” “Good Lawd, Missie! You womens sho is hard to sense into things. He’s got a five-dollar gold piece for a stickpin a nd he got a ten-dollar gold piece on his watch chain and his mouf is jes’ cram med full of gold teeths. Sho wisht it wuz mine. And whut make it so cool, he got money ‘cumulated. And womens give it all to ‘im.” “Ah don’t see whut de womens see on ‘im. Ah wouldn’t give ‘im a wink if de sheriff wuz after ‘im.” “Well, he tole us how de white womens in Chicago give ‘im all dat gold money. So he don’t ‘low nobody to touch it at all. Not even put day finger on it. Dey told ‘im not to. You kin make ‘mirati on at it, but don’t tetch it.” “Whyn’t he stay up dere where dey so crazy ’bout ‘im?” “Ah reckon dey done made ‘im vast-rich and he wants to travel some. He says dey wouldn’t leave ‘im hit a lick of work. He got mo’ lady people crazy ’bout him than he kin shake a stick at.” “Joe, Ah hates to see you so dumb. Dat stray nigger jes’ tell y’all anything and y’all b’lieve it.” “Go ‘head on now, honey, and put on yo’ clothes. He talkin’ ’bout his pritty womens–Ah want ‘im to see mine.” Missie May went off to dress and Joe sp ent the time trying to make his stomach punch out like Slemmons’s middle. He trie d the rolling swagger of the stranger, but found that his tall bone-and- muscle stride fitted ill with it. He just had time to drop back into his seat before Missie May came in dressed to go. On the way home that night Joe was exulta nt. “Didn’t Ah say ole Otis was swell? Can’t he talk Chicago talk? Wuzn’t dat f unny whut he said when great big fat ole Ida Armstrong come in? He asted me, ‘Who is dat broad wid de forte shake?’ Dat’s a new word. Us always thought forty was a set of figgers but he showed us where it means a whole heap of things. Sometimes he don’t say forty, he jes’ say thirty- eight and two and dat mean de same thing. Know whut he told me when Ah wuz payin’ for our ice cream? He say, ‘Ah have to hand it to you, Joe. Dat wife of yours is jes’ thirty-eight and two. Yess uh, she’s forte!’ Ain’t he killin’?” “He’ll do in case of a rush. But he sho is got uh heap uh gold on ‘im. Dat’s de first time Ah ever seed gold money. It lookt ed good on him sho nuff, but it’d look a whole heap better on you.” “Who, me? Missie May, youse crazy! Wher e would a po’ man lak me git gold money from?” Missie May was silent for a minute, then she said, “Us might find some goin’ long de road some time. Us could.” “Who would be losin’ gold money round h eah? We ain’t even seen none dese white folks wearin’ no gold money on de y watch chain. You must be figgerin’ Mister Packard or Mister Cadi llac goin’ pass through heah.” “You don’t know whut been lost ’round heah. Maybe somebody way back in memorial times lost they gold money and went on off and it ain’t never been found. And then if we wuz to find it, you could wear some ‘thout havin’ no gang of womens lak dat Slemmons say he got.” Joe laughed and hugged her. “Don’t be so wishful ’bout me. Ah’m satisfied de way Ah is. So long as Ah be yo’ husband. Ah don’t keer ’bout nothin’ else. Ah’d ruther all de other womens in de world to be dead than for you to have de toothache. Less we go to bed and git our night rest.” It was Saturday night once more before Jo e could parade his wife in Slemmons’s ice cream parlor again. He worked the night shift and Saturday was his only night off. Every other evening around six o’clock he left home, and dying dawn saw him hustling home around the lake, wher e the challenging sun flung a flaming sword from east to west acr oss the trembling water. That was the best part of life–going home to Missie May. Their whitewashed house, the mock battle on Saturday, the dinner and ice cream parlor afterwards, church on Sunday nights when Missie outdressed any woman in town–all, everything, was right. One night around eleven the acid ran out at the G. and G. The foreman knocked off the crew and let the steam die down. As Joe rounded the lake on his way home, a lean moon rode the lake in a silver boat. If anybody had asked Joe about the moon on the lake, he would have said he hadn’t paid it any attention. But he saw it with his feelings. It made him y earn painfully for Missie. Creation obsessed him. He thought about children. They had been married more than a year now. They had money put away. They ought to be making little feet for shoes. A little boy child would be about right. He saw a dim light in the bedroom and decided to come in through the kitchen door. He could wash the fertilizer dust off himself before presenting himself to Missie May. It would be nice for her not to know that he was there until he slipped into his place in bed and hugge d her back. She always liked that. He eased the kitchen door open slowly and silently, but when he went to set his dinner bucket on the table he bumped it in to a pile of dishes, and something crashed to the floor. He heard his wife gasp in fright and hurried to reassure her. “Iss me, honey. Don’t git skeered.” There was a quick, large movement in the bedroom. A rustle, a thud, and a stealthy silence. Th e light went out. What? Robbers? Murderers? Some varmin t attacking his helpless wife, perhaps. He struck a match, threw himself on guard and stepped over the doorsill into the bedroom. The great belt on the wheel of Time slipped and eternity stood still. By the match light he could see the man’s legs fighting with his breeches in his frantic desire to get them on. He had both chance and time to kill the intruder in his helpless condition–half in and half out of his pants–but he was too weak to tak e action. The shapeless enemies of humanity that live in the hours of Time had waylaid Joe. He was assaulted in his weakness. Like Samson awakening after his haircut. So he just opened his mouth and laughed. The match went out and he struck anot her and lit the lamp. A howling wind raced across his heart, but underneath its fury he heard his wife sobbing and Slemmons pleading for his life. Offering to buy it with all that he had. “Please, suh, don’t kill me. Sixty-two dollars at de sto’. Gold money.” Joe just stood. Slemmons looked at the window, but it was screened. Joe stood out like a rough-backed mounta in between him and the door. Barring him from escape, from sunrise, from life. He considered a surprise attack upon the big clown that stoo d there laughing like a chessy cat. But before his fist could travel an inch, Joe’s own rushed out to crush him like a battering ram. Then Joe stood over him. “Git into yo’ damn rags, Sl emmons, and dat quick.” Slemmons scrambled to his feet and into hi s vest and coat. As he grabbed his hat, Joe’s fury overrode his intentions and he grabbed at Slemmons with his left hand and struck at him with his right. The right landed. The le ft grazed the front of his vest. Slemmons was knocked a somersault into the kitchen and fled through the open door. Joe found himself alone with Missie May, with the golden watch charm clutched in his left fist. A short bit of broken chain dangled between his fingers. Missie May was sobbing. Wails of weeping without words. Joe stood, and after a while he found out that he had somethi ng in his hand. And then he stood and felt without thinking and without seeing with his natural eyes. Missie May kept on crying and Joe kept on feeling so much, and not knowing what to do with all his feelings, he put Slemmons’s watch ch arm in his pants pocket and took a good laugh and went to bed. “Missie May, whut you cryin’ for?” “Cause Ah love you so hard and Ah know you don’t love me no mo’.” Joe sank his face into the pillow for a spe ll, then he said huskily, “You don’t know de feelings of dat yet, Missie May.” “Oh Joe, honey, he said he wuz gointer give me dat gold money and he jes’ kept on after me–” Joe was very still and silent for a long tim e. Then he said, “Well, don’t cry no mo’, Missie May. Ah got yo’ gold piece for you.” The hours went past on their rusty ankles. Joe still and quiet on one bed rail and Missie May wrung dry of sobs on the other. Finally the sun’s tide crept upon the shore of night and drowned all its hours. Missie May with her face stiff and streaked towards the window saw the da wn come into her yard. It was day. Nothing more. Joe wouldn’t be coming home as usual. No need to fling open the front door and sweep off the porch, making it nice for Joe. Never no more breakfast to cook; no more washing and starching of Joe’s jumper-jackets and pants. No more nothing. So why get up? With this strange man in her bed, she felt embarrassed to get up and dress. She decided to wait till he had dressed and gone. Then she would get up, dress quickly and be gone forever beyond reach of Joe’ s looks and laughs. But he never moved. Red light turned to yellow, then white. From beyond the no-man’s land between them came a voice. A strange voice that yesterday had been Joe’s. “Missie May, ain’t you gonna fix me no breakfus’?” She sprang out of bed. “Yeah, Joe. Ah didn’t reckon you wuz hongry.” No need to die today. Joe needed her for a few more minutes anyhow. Soon there was a roaring fire in th e cookstove. Water bucket full and two chickens killed. Joe loved fried chicken and rice. She didn’t deserve a thing and good Joe was letting her cook him some break fast. She rushed hot biscuits to the table as Joe took his seat. He ate with his eyes in his plate. No laughter, no banter. “Missie May, you ain’t eatin’ yo’ breakfus’.” “Ah don’t choose none, Ah thank yuh.” His coffee cup was empty. She sprang to refi ll it. When she turned from the stove and bent to set the cup beside Joe’s plat e, she saw the yellow coin on the table between them. She slumped into her seat and wept into her arms. Presently Joe said calmly, “Missie May, you cry too much. Don’t look back lak Lot’s wife and turn to salt.” The sun, the hero of every day, the impersonal old man that beams as brightly on death as on birth, came up every morning and raced across the blue dome and dipped into the sea of fire every morning. Water ran downhill and birds nested. Missie knew why she didn’t leave Joe. She couldn’t. She loved him too much, but she could not understand why Joe didn’t leav e her. He was polite, even kind at times, but aloof. There were no more Saturday romps. No ri nging silver dollars to stack beside her plate. No pockets to rifle. In fact, the yellow coin in his trousers was like a monster hiding in the cave of his pockets to destroy her. She often wondered if he still had it, but nothing could have induced her to ask nor yet to explore his pock ets to see for herself. Its shadow was in the house whether or no. One night Joe came home around midnight a nd complained of pains in the back. He asked Missie to rub him down with lin iment. It had been three months since Missie had touched his body and it all seemed strange. But she rubbed him. Grateful for the chance. Before morni ng youth triumphed and Missie exulted. But the next day, as she joyfully made up their bed, beneath her pillow she found the piece of money with the bit of chain attached. Alone to herself, she looked at the th ing with loathing, but look she must. She took it into her hands with trembling and saw first thing that it was no gold piece. It was a gilded half dollar. Then sh e knew why Slemmons had forbidden anyone to touch his gold. He truste d village eyes at a distance not to recognize his stickpin as a gilded quarter, and hi s watch charm as a four-bit piece. She was glad at first that Joe had left it there. Perhaps he was through with her punishment. They were man and wife ag ain. Then another thought came clawing at her. He had come home to buy from her as if she were any woman in the longhouse. Fifty cents for her love. As if to say that he could pay as well as Slemmons. She slid the coin into his S unday pants pocket and dressed herself and left his house. Halfway between her house and the quart ers she met her husband’s mother, and after a short talk she turned and went b ack home. Never would she admit defeat to that woman who prayed for it nightly. If she had not the substance of marriage she had the outside show. Joe must leave her. She let him see she didn’t want his old gold four-bits, too. She saw no more of the coin for some time though she knew that Joe could not help finding it in his pocket. But his health kept poor, and he came home at least every ten days to be rubbed. The sun swept around the horizon, trailing its robes of weeks and days. One morning as Joe came in from work, he found Missie May chopping wood. Without a word he took the ax and ch opped a huge pile before he stopped. “You ain’t got no business choppin’ wood, and you know it.” “How come? Ah been choppin’ it for de last longest.” “Ah ain’t blind. You makin’ feet for shoes.” “Won’t you be glad to have a lil baby chile, Joe?” “You know dat ‘thout astin’ me.” “Iss gointer be a boy chile a nd de very spit of you.” “You reckon, Missie May?” “Who else could it look lak?” Joe said nothing, but he thrust his hand deep into his pocket and fingered something there. It was almost six months later Missie Ma y took to bed and Joe went and got his mother to come wait on the house. Missie May was delivered of a fine boy. He r travail was over when Joe come in from work one morning. His mother a nd the old woman were drinking great bowls of coffee around the fire in the kitchen. The minute Joe came into the room his mother called him aside. “How did Missie May make out?” he asked quickly. “Who, dat gal? She strong as a ox. She goint er have plenty mo’. We done fixed her wid de sugar and lard to sweeten her for de nex’ one.” Joe stood silent awhile. “You ain’t ask ’bout de baby, Joe. You oughter be mighty proud cause he sho is de spittin’ image of yuh, son. Dat’s yourn all ri ght, if you never git another one, dat un is yourn. And you know Ah’m mighty pr oud too, son, cause Ah never thought well of you marryin’ Missie May cause her ma used tuh fan her foot round right smart and Ah been mighty skeered dat Missie May wuz gointer git misput on her road.” Joe said nothing. He fooled around the house t ill late in the day, then, just before he went to work, he went and stood at th e foot of the bed and asked his wife how she felt. He did this every day during the week. On Saturday he went to Orlando to make his market. It had been a long time since he had done that. Meat and lard, meal and flour, soap and st arch. Cans of corn and tomatoes. All the staples. He fooled around town for a while and bought bananas and apples. Way after while he went around to the candy store. “Hello, Joe,” the clerk greeted him. “Ain’t seen you in a long time.” “Nope, Ah ain’t been heah. Been round in spots and places.” “Want some of them mola sses kisses you always buy?” “Yessuh.” He threw the gilded half dollar on the counter. “Will dat spend?” “What is it, Joe? Well, I’ll be doggone! A gold-plated four-bit piece. Where’d you git it, Joe?” “Offen a stray nigger dat come through Ea tonville. He had it on his watch chain for a charm–goin’ round making out iss gold money. Ha ha! He had a quarter on his tiepin and it wuz all golde d up too. Tryin’ to fool people. Makin’ out he so rich and everything. Ha! Ha! Tryin’ to tole off folkses wives from home.” “How did you git it, Joe? Did he fool you, too?” “Who, me? Naw suh! He ain’t fooled me none. Know whut Ah done? He come round me wid his smart talk. Ah hauled off and knocked ‘im down and took his old four-bits away from ‘im. Gointer buy my wife some good ole lasses kisses wid it. Gimme fifty cents worth of dem candy kisses.” “Fifty cents buys a mighty lot of candy kisses, Joe. Why don’t you split it up and take some chocolate bars, too? They eat good, too.” “Yessuh, dey do, but Ah wants all dat in ki sses. Ah got a lil boy chile home now. Tain’t a week old yet, but he kin suck a sugar tit and maybe eat one them kisses hisself.” Joe got his candy and left the store. The clerk turned to the next customer. “Wisht I could be like these darkies. Laughin’ all the time. Nothin’ worries ’em.” Back in Eatonville, Joe reached his own front door. There was the ring of singing metal on wood. Fifteen times. Missie May couldn’t run to the door, but she crept there as quickly as she could. “Joe Banks, Ah hear you chunkin’ mone y in mah do’way. You wait till Ah got mah strength back and Ah’m gointer fix you for dat.” 1933