folks in moccasins at picnics was hip. I didn’t even really understand the ‘war’ between my brown grandmother and the cold white boney Miss Banks of the flower committee till years later.
‘I wanted to leave Newark to develop my writing skills. I went to the Lower East Side and then to the Village. I performed with Ginsberg and Burroughs and Kerouac. But when Malcolm was murdered I couldn’t stay living in a white world anymore. I realized I had to choose. That art had to be politics. But I was married to a white woman, I had two daughters. When Malcolm got murdered I wanted to wage war. Losing my family wasn’t easy.’
You arrived, in a brownstone in Harlem. All the Misfits. Wdbe what? Killers? Agents? Revolutionaries? Black Black Black to the fore.
Black Black Black at the top.
Black Black Black.
You set up housekeeping.
‘We had four trucks and every night we drove around the neighborhood giving performances, putting art on the street. Drama here, poetry over here, music somewhere else. We would go to playgrounds, vacant lots, bars; we’d block off streets, and everywhere we went, people crowded to see us. We even got a government subsidy through the anti-poverty program. When they found out what we were doing, they cut it off.
‘What is black? Black is a color. Back then they’d shoot each other up over that. Black was Communist, or Muslim, or nationalist, or vegetarian, or reformist. Black was no longer a color. Black was an ideology. That’s why I came back to Newark.
‘I remember The Last Poets coming to the Spirit House. It was Gylan Kain, Felipe Luciano, and David Nelson; Abiodun Oyewole might have been there too. They asked me what I thought of their work. They were looking for affirmation. They were real young. I gave them a lot of encouragement. I was impressed. These sensitive artists were expressing the most advanced ideas of the political struggle. And at the same time, in their performance they returned to music’s oldest form: they used only their voices and the drum.’
-
AKRON, OHIO, 1968
The Love of Strangers
‘Look what that bastard’s doing, will you! It just made those motherfuckers’ day that all hell’s broke loose. Look at that, Reggie. Those crackers were just waiting for this.’
The television was on. Omar opened a can of Budweiser and slid it over to his friend. They were in Reggie’s basement. It was nine in the morning.
‘I’m gonna go crash,’ Reggie said. He was slouched on the enormous white sofa that took up the whole wall of the basement. He took a swig of beer, whipped off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.
‘Just watch,’ Omar said. The only light in the low-ceilinged space came from the flickering blue and silver images on the TV screen. Reggie had shut his eyes. Omar kicked him in the shin. ‘LA’s burning and you’re asleep.’ On the TV a black policeman used a billy club to beat a black youth lying on the street. Sirens howled in the background. People ran from paramilitaries in dark helmets. The helmets made them unrecognizable and invincible, as though they weren’t real people but remote-controlled robots.
Reggie looked up. ‘Weird, when the sun’s always shining. Makes it look less bad, you know?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ve got palm trees in Los Angeles.’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘I dunno. Even though the whole city’s on fire, they’ve still got the ocean and the beach. I’d dig going to California—you?’
‘You’re crazy.’
Reggie laughed. He tucked up his legs and stretched out on the sofa. ‘We gonna do something tonight?’
‘Yeah, right.’ Omar got up and switched off the TV. He turned on a lamp, and suddenly the basement looked a whole lot bigger. On the coffee table was a silver candlestick on a floral-patterned cloth. Reggie had put mirrors on the wall above the sofa, and a dark-blue velvet curtain hung in front of the room’s only window. There was white wool carpeting and Reggie always made you take off your shoes before you came in. He even had a fancy new brass faucet installed on the hallway sink. The bathroom smelled like soap and flowers. It was like the basement was waiting for a woman to show up. Omar looked over at his friend, who was pretending to sleep. The violent images of the LA riots were etched in his memory. He knew he should go home and rest, that he’d be crazy to do two night shifts in a row without sleep, but he was too wound up. He heard Reggie’s breathing become deeper and more regular. There was something endearing about seeing him lie there in the middle of all his fancy stuff. Reggie had refinement. For him, that stuff was like the California palm trees. They protected him. They erased ugliness.
Omar shielded his eyes with his arm. He would always squint as soon as the small steel door slammed behind him, no matter if it was raining or dusky, or if smokestack emissions were the source of the haze. He felt like a mole, cautiously sticking his head above ground, sniffing the cool air, and then ducking back, only to try again later. He couldn’t see a thing until his eyes were accustomed to the morning light that cast a surreal glow over the industrial park. The massive gray buildings, the ingenious steel machinery that gurgled and hummed and vibrated and spat out steam. The sky above, light blue from the dust. The heat of the furnace, still burning on his skin. The dust tickled his nose. He heard Papa Snow’s languid, wavering voice: ‘Come on, Huling, don’t go falling asleep again. They’ll fire you yet. Show a little respect. You should be grateful.’ Grateful. Once outside the gate, when he’d inhaled the thin morning air that smelled like dew and burning rubber, it was like waking up from a bad dream. His life in the factory felt unreal. Firestone was a chimera, something he’d read about in a magazine. Like he’d just arrived in Akron and didn’t know his way yet. He shambled down the dusty road, his head becoming clearer with every step. He felt buoyant and high. Everything seemed possible. Maybe it was the night shift that made him feel this way. It didn’t matter. These morning walks and the strange blitheness that went with them were the only good things about working at Firestone Tire and Rubber. He never mentioned it to anyone; the optimism he felt at those moments would evaporate the minute he talked about it.
It started to rain. Fine, vertical rain. The street was deserted. In the morning hush he could just hear the raindrops hit the asphalt. A thin, whispering sound. He continued on to Wooster Ave. Caught the fresh scent of wet leaves and grass. The city was asleep. He saw the glistening asphalt. Felt the cool raindrops on his skin. The rain washed away the dust and the fatigue. He tried to retrieve the chaotic images of Los Angeles, the burning cars, the black and white students fleeing the rubber bullets and tear gas, but for one reason or another they eluded him. As though he’d left them back at Reggie’s, in the basement where it always felt like night. It irritated him; it felt like something had been taken from him. He walked on. He should have turned left, but he kept on going, without a destination in mind. He just followed the rhythm of his footsteps. The monotony soothed him. As long as he kept moving he didn’t feel his restlessness.
‘Do you play anything?’
‘No.’
‘But your father does, right?’
‘How’d you know that?’
He stood in Chetta Davis’s bedroom. It was about 2 a.m. on Sunday. He had shimmied up a drainpipe, broke open her window with a stone, and climbed inside.
Wearing a lilac-colored
