light bulb hung above a barren, highly polished wooden table. The floor had been swept. His few dishes were washed and stacked neatly on the old discolored sink. The small single bed was against the wall. A worn dark blue wool blanket was firmly tucked in tight to meet military regulations.
He directed me to a tattered, over-stuffed chair placed at one side of the table. The walls were covered with thumb tacked old French and American flags and newspapers from 1914-1918: “We Are At War,” “Germans Attack France,” “American Enters the War,” “Doughboys at the Front,” “US Air Ace Rickenbacker Gets 26th Kill.” And more from 1939 to 1945: “War with Nazis,” ”Germans Capture Paris,” “Allies Invade Europe,” “War in Europe Ends,” “De Gaulle Marches in Paris.”
Models of World War One warplanes, held by strings, were dangling and swaying from the ceiling. There were French, German and American miniatures - exact in every detail. The largest model was a blue Spad, decorated with an insignia of a large red heart with a dagger running through it. Eugene Jacques Bullard, an authentic hero, sat facing me on a plain wooden chair. His arthritic trembling fingers, ever-so gently, brought that particular biplane to the table. “This was mine. Bang, bang, and bang,” he smiled, making sounds of a machine gun as he lifted the plane and pretended to have it dive, loop and then softly cradled it to a landing on the table. You could see he was reliving those days. His actions were hypnotic.
E: It was just like that. You flew high in the clouds; you were free until you realized you were only free to kill the enemy. When I lived and fought in the trenches and later flew over them, I saw more than war; I saw hate, murder, a savagery not thought possible. The world has still not changed. Curious why I had rouge-coeur, a red-heart, on my plane? It was to show that all blood runs red. Would you like some wine before we begin?
H: Yes, thank you.
I felt myself being inexplicitly drawn into the life of Eugene Jacques Bullard.
CHAPTER 2: THE BEGINNING
H: Tell me, who is Eugene Jacques Bullard?
E: My life and my Bullard name began with the real Bullard family. Without doubt I had grandparents who were slaves. Don’t know who they were or my real name; it doesn’t matter. I am Eugene Jacques Bullard.
It began in l865 at the end the Civil War. Struggling lines of surviving tattered, battered and wounded Southern troops were dragging themselves home to Columbus, Georgia. People lined the dirt roads seeking brothers and fathers. A young white girl, in a dainty pink dress, was standing in front of a large house. She waved and cheered. Not far away, a bedraggled Confederate soldier stopped. Puzzled, he glanced around, searching for the strange wailing he heard. Looking to the ditch on the side of the road, he saw movement. He picked up an abandoned rag bag and cautiously examined it. Startled, he saw a three-month-old, fussing black baby boy, covered with an old blanket, deserted and left to die by the wayside. “Holy General Lee,” he shouted, “it’s a baby. A black baby boy!”
Not knowing what to do, he asked the girl, “Please hold the baby.” As she cuddled the infant in her arms, the crying stopped. And the legend of my family began there. The white girl, daughter of the old-line, well-to-do Bullard family, brought the baby home, as she said, “For luck.” That three- month-old male child was my father. They named him, baptized and raised William Octavo Bullard.
H: Incredible, a fairy tale with the good princess.
E: As he grew, the Bullards educated him, and put him to work in their fields. By the time he was 18 he was tall, big, over six and a half foot. My father told us that the Bullard family was originally from France. As part of his education, they impressed him about France’s liberty and fraternity, a place of unmatched freedoms and equality. My father believed that, taught us, and we believed.
H: What about your family life?
E: My father was an enormous man, strong yet gentle. So tall, I could hide in his long shadow. The old guard Columbians resented him, his ability to read and write, and that the Bullards favored him. He delighted telling us about our mother. “One day, while working in the fields, I saw a dream. A beautiful princess with flashing eyes, smooth glistening mahogany skin, long sleek hair, and high cheekbones. Her smile warmed me to the depth of my heart, I wanted that Creek Indian.”
When he was twenty, he married my mother. Her Indian name was Joyakee. I remember her dark eyes, the strains of braided hair, the red skin, her laughter, and most of all, mon dieu, how she loved us.
H: You say us?
E: Oui. Us as in many! As a wedding present the Bullards gave Dad enough money to buy a house. It was a very small house but it was ours, with its weather-beaten wood planks for walls and floors, and three rooms: one for eating with a large, open fireplace; one for my parents; and one for all the children, all ten of us. Bless her; my mother was always fat with a child growing inside her. Though we were ten children, she found time for each of us. She dazzled us with stories of her Indian youth and mon dieu, she could cook. I remember, somehow, that there was enough food. Can you imagine the combination cuisine of southern down-home cooking with a dash of typical black or Indian foods? She took okra, grits, rice, corn, flour, potatoes and vegetables and sometimes, on special occasions, small, very small, portions of meat and made dinner a treat. I was always suspicious that she skipped meals to make sure we were fed.
H: There were ten children?
E: Correct, ten, though we lost three very early on. Why? I don’t know, perhaps the fever. I was the seventh, born I believe, October 9, 1894. Ah, the lucky seventh. A growing family meant more responsibility, so Dad needed a better paying job. Because of his size, it was easy for him to obtain work on the docks. The owner, Mr. Bradley, took a liking to the “Big Ox” and enjoyed talking to him because he was educated and because he out-performed the white dockworkers.
The white dock handlers resented being instructed to “Follow the Big Ox, match his work.” It was those conversations and his work ethic that caused the problem. My father cut short my first and only visit to the dock. He ordered me, “Gene, go home NOW!” As I left I heard disgruntled white workers talking about my father as “an uppity nigga who should be put in his place by a rope.” They looked at me and cursed, “There’s another bastard from that black Indian bitch.” I didn’t know what they meant.
H: Were you aware of what was happening?
E: I was just a child. There was anther incident that I can’t forget. Hearing the laughter of children, I crossed the road, heading for the joyous sound, wanting to play with the children…they were white. Up to then, I never knew there was a difference. Their shouts, I still hear them, “Get out of here nigga baby or we’ll stomp you. You are stupid, a black pig. Go and crawl and grunt your way home.” They threw stones and sticks at me. I ran. I cried. What did I do? I only wanted to play.
That night I asked my father to explain. He tried. “Gene, I can’t tell you why people hate because of the color of our skin. Perhaps they are afraid of us. We are different. You don’t ever be afraid. Be proud of who you are. Just pretend you are in France.”
H: Unfortunately, as a child you got a bitter introduction to the real world.
E: Confusion and tears marred my childhood. Confused as to who and what I was. I was just a small boy who never hated anyone or wanted to hurt anyone. But people hated us. Dad set a rule: not one of us was to come in to town for any reason. Blacks had to walk in the street and better not make eye contact with a white. Like a growling, growing virus, I began to feel the hate spreading. I could touch it. Mother tried to make it easier for us by singing Indian songs and telling
