barber replied, âWhat you complaining about? It grew back.â
Outside a beauty parlor on 129th, a street preacher evangelized. Nearly seven feet tall, his huge hair and beard were wild explosions of solid white, flying in every direction. He preached barefoot and rattled a tambourine for emphasis. âMy children, God never saddles a man with a burden larger than he is capable of bearing. So accept your burden humbly and bow down before The Lamb who bore a cross and a crown of thorns so that you might be redeemed and one day walk with Him in the kingdom of heaven.â The ladies in the parlor got their hair straightened and marceled and paid the barefoot sermonizer no mind.
At 130th, a painter displayed canvasses smoldering with Negro life. One depicted a pastoral scene of weary cotton pickers, the sun seething down on them. In another, musicians jammed in a dark speakeasy. Magnificent African women clothed in a sunset of colors emblazoned a third.
Ben reached 131st Street and Seventh Avenue. A crowd assembled near the corner. Some musiciansâtrombonist, a couple of trumpeters, sax player, a violinistâwere blowing up an improv session. These cats didnât know each other. They just showed up and played, driving off of one another, coaxing chords and melodies out of each other, each musician challenging himself and the others to scale that next plain, and creating an impromptu jazz symphony right there on the street.
He listened a while, but when the notes roiling out of the trumpets recalled Baby Back, Ben fled, pushed up the avenue, and turned east onto 135th Street. Before he could think about it, he had marched through the doors of the Harlem branch of the New York Public Library. A sign inside read POETRY READING TONIGHT. DOWNSTAIRS . Ben walked down to the basement, and seated himself amidst a small audience.
âGood evening, ladies and gentlemen,â a lovely colored woman said from the podium. âIâm Regina Anderson, assistant librarian here at the Harlem Library. Thank you so much for being here. At this time Iâd like to introduce our featured poet. He recently published work in the March edition of Survey Graphic and in the anthology The New Negro . His poems have also appeared in Opportunity and he was a recipient of that magazineâs 1925 literary awards. Heâll read tonight from his first poetry collection, Heart of Pearl, which will be published this fall by Alfred A. Knopf. Please join me in welcoming Mr. Marcellus S. Gibson.â
He was a pretty young man with beige skin and a small frame. He held his manuscript in delicate hands. He wore a cravat instead of a tie. As he read his first selection, Ben became alarmed at his girlish voice.
âBy light of the sumptuous moon,
Our two fair souls unite.
Oh love, please blossom soon,
Give day to oppressive night.
Â
Anon comes morning, fleet and fair,
To spread fresh dew on grass.
I dry my tears upon your hair
As we depart, sweet lass.â
Ben despised it. It was nothing but entanglements of silly rhymes and embarrassing clichés. But a group of men in the front row applauded stupidly at the conclusion of each piece. Apparently Mr. Gibsonâs friends, they were as mincing and effeminate as he. Squealing laughter. Limp wrists. Ben envisioned them jostling around in bed together, touching one another, squealing the whole time. Fairies, not men. They were the essence of everything he struggled so hard against with this thing, but he wasnât like them. Heâ
He wasnât like them.
He leapt out of the room in the middle of the poetâs next piece as people scowled at his rude exit. The crisis had ended. He swaggered up Seventh Avenue, feeling strong enough to test himself. Because he wasnât like them .
Â
Teddyâs couldnât sizzle on a Tuesday like it did on a Saturday. No brusque conversations shouted from opposite ends of the room. Only a light smell of reefer in
Outside a beauty parlor on 129th, a street preacher evangelized. Nearly seven feet tall, his huge hair and beard were wild explosions of solid white, flying in every direction. He preached barefoot and rattled a tambourine for emphasis. âMy children, God never saddles a man with a burden larger than he is capable of bearing. So accept your burden humbly and bow down before The Lamb who bore a cross and a crown of thorns so that you might be redeemed and one day walk with Him in the kingdom of heaven.â The ladies in the parlor got their hair straightened and marceled and paid the barefoot sermonizer no mind.
At 130th, a painter displayed canvasses smoldering with Negro life. One depicted a pastoral scene of weary cotton pickers, the sun seething down on them. In another, musicians jammed in a dark speakeasy. Magnificent African women clothed in a sunset of colors emblazoned a third.
Ben reached 131st Street and Seventh Avenue. A crowd assembled near the corner. Some musiciansâtrombonist, a couple of trumpeters, sax player, a violinistâwere blowing up an improv session. These cats didnât know each other. They just showed up and played, driving off of one another, coaxing chords and melodies out of each other, each musician challenging himself and the others to scale that next plain, and creating an impromptu jazz symphony right there on the street.
He listened a while, but when the notes roiling out of the trumpets recalled Baby Back, Ben fled, pushed up the avenue, and turned east onto 135th Street. Before he could think about it, he had marched through the doors of the Harlem branch of the New York Public Library. A sign inside read POETRY READING TONIGHT. DOWNSTAIRS . Ben walked down to the basement, and seated himself amidst a small audience.
âGood evening, ladies and gentlemen,â a lovely colored woman said from the podium. âIâm Regina Anderson, assistant librarian here at the Harlem Library. Thank you so much for being here. At this time Iâd like to introduce our featured poet. He recently published work in the March edition of Survey Graphic and in the anthology The New Negro . His poems have also appeared in Opportunity and he was a recipient of that magazineâs 1925 literary awards. Heâll read tonight from his first poetry collection, Heart of Pearl, which will be published this fall by Alfred A. Knopf. Please join me in welcoming Mr. Marcellus S. Gibson.â
He was a pretty young man with beige skin and a small frame. He held his manuscript in delicate hands. He wore a cravat instead of a tie. As he read his first selection, Ben became alarmed at his girlish voice.
âBy light of the sumptuous moon,
Our two fair souls unite.
Oh love, please blossom soon,
Give day to oppressive night.
Â
Anon comes morning, fleet and fair,
To spread fresh dew on grass.
I dry my tears upon your hair
As we depart, sweet lass.â
Ben despised it. It was nothing but entanglements of silly rhymes and embarrassing clichés. But a group of men in the front row applauded stupidly at the conclusion of each piece. Apparently Mr. Gibsonâs friends, they were as mincing and effeminate as he. Squealing laughter. Limp wrists. Ben envisioned them jostling around in bed together, touching one another, squealing the whole time. Fairies, not men. They were the essence of everything he struggled so hard against with this thing, but he wasnât like them. Heâ
He wasnât like them.
He leapt out of the room in the middle of the poetâs next piece as people scowled at his rude exit. The crisis had ended. He swaggered up Seventh Avenue, feeling strong enough to test himself. Because he wasnât like them .
Â
Teddyâs couldnât sizzle on a Tuesday like it did on a Saturday. No brusque conversations shouted from opposite ends of the room. Only a light smell of reefer in
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