OUTLET ON
2,000,000,000
( TWO BILLION )
AFRICANS AND NON-WHITE PEOPLES
Around the perimeter of the sign were hand-painted portraits of colored leaders from around the world, Haile Selassie of Ethiopia, Tubman of Liberia, Jomo Kenyatta of Kenya, Nasser of Egypt, all of whom I had heard of, as well as someone named Garvey, whom I didn't recognize. On the sidewalk, there were other signs, one of which said,
REPATRIATION HEADQUARTERS
BACK TO AFRICA MOVEMENT
REGISTER HERE!
The signs were professionally lettered and the overall effect was similar to what you'd find at the Believe It or Not tent at a traveling circus. And there were tables on the sidewalk piled with books and pamphlets and newspapers, all on racial themes.
"You need to get yourself a
real
education," the old man said, "instead of filling your head with white ideas." He picked up a newspaper from a nearby card table. "Read this," he said, handing the paper to me, "instead of that trash the white man has been feeding you. You need to know your
own
history before you take up all those European subjects they been giving you up there. The Europeans want you to believe civilization begins and ends with them." He made a face like a child who has just been given a dose of castor oil. "Nothing but foolishness," he sputtered. "Utter nonsense. And don't you be stupid enough to fall for it. You must have a good mind or you wouldn't be up there in the first place. You don't need the white man. Stay with your own people. Anytime you want to learn more about yourself you know where to find me I'm here seven days a week," and he handed me his business card. I was fascinated and a little discomfited by what he had to say. His point of view was so different from anything I had been exposed to in the South. I was inclined to linger and find out more about him, but since I didn't have much time, I decided to keep moving. I thanked him for his advice, put his card in my pocket, and said goodbye.
With the newspaper tucked under my arm and my suitcase in my hand, I fell in with the waves of people moving west with the green light across Seventh Avenue. When I reached the sidewalk on the other side, I stopped and looked back, as the crowd swept past me. As I stood against the tide, I looked across the street, searching for his tiny figure, and after a moment I found
him, standing on the sidewalk in front of his bookstore, shielding his eyes with one hand. When he saw me turn around, he waved his hand briefly, like a grandfather watching his grandson cross a busy street, and then he turned and disappeared inside his store.
By then, I had only seen one police car. It was parked on 125th Street, a few doors down from the House of Common Sense, under a no parking sign, with two white policemen in dark blue uniforms seated in the front. They were the first white faces I'd seen since emerging from the subway, and all they seemed to be doing was watching the traffic, which was heavy and at a standstill. The windows of the police car were rolled up tight, and the policemen made no effort to get out and wade into the intersection to get the traffic moving. Perhaps, I thought, they didn't want to risk getting run over.
I decided to follow the crowd that was headed along 125th Street. The broad sidewalks were swollen with colored people moving in both directions, and I felt as though I was being swept along by the dark mass of humanity into which I had entered, as though I was immersed in a river, carried by its current toward some inevitable destination. I was exhilarated to be there, to be surrounded by so many brown faces at one time. And so I wandered down the street with the rest of the crowd, occasionally nodding at the colored men coming my way, when our eyes would meet, acknowledging the unspoken bond between us. But where, I thought, is everyone going? Up ahead, I could
see a theater marquee hanging over the sidewalk with the word apollo in huge letters above it, and below, the
2,000,000,000
( TWO BILLION )
AFRICANS AND NON-WHITE PEOPLES
Around the perimeter of the sign were hand-painted portraits of colored leaders from around the world, Haile Selassie of Ethiopia, Tubman of Liberia, Jomo Kenyatta of Kenya, Nasser of Egypt, all of whom I had heard of, as well as someone named Garvey, whom I didn't recognize. On the sidewalk, there were other signs, one of which said,
REPATRIATION HEADQUARTERS
BACK TO AFRICA MOVEMENT
REGISTER HERE!
The signs were professionally lettered and the overall effect was similar to what you'd find at the Believe It or Not tent at a traveling circus. And there were tables on the sidewalk piled with books and pamphlets and newspapers, all on racial themes.
"You need to get yourself a
real
education," the old man said, "instead of filling your head with white ideas." He picked up a newspaper from a nearby card table. "Read this," he said, handing the paper to me, "instead of that trash the white man has been feeding you. You need to know your
own
history before you take up all those European subjects they been giving you up there. The Europeans want you to believe civilization begins and ends with them." He made a face like a child who has just been given a dose of castor oil. "Nothing but foolishness," he sputtered. "Utter nonsense. And don't you be stupid enough to fall for it. You must have a good mind or you wouldn't be up there in the first place. You don't need the white man. Stay with your own people. Anytime you want to learn more about yourself you know where to find me I'm here seven days a week," and he handed me his business card. I was fascinated and a little discomfited by what he had to say. His point of view was so different from anything I had been exposed to in the South. I was inclined to linger and find out more about him, but since I didn't have much time, I decided to keep moving. I thanked him for his advice, put his card in my pocket, and said goodbye.
With the newspaper tucked under my arm and my suitcase in my hand, I fell in with the waves of people moving west with the green light across Seventh Avenue. When I reached the sidewalk on the other side, I stopped and looked back, as the crowd swept past me. As I stood against the tide, I looked across the street, searching for his tiny figure, and after a moment I found
him, standing on the sidewalk in front of his bookstore, shielding his eyes with one hand. When he saw me turn around, he waved his hand briefly, like a grandfather watching his grandson cross a busy street, and then he turned and disappeared inside his store.
By then, I had only seen one police car. It was parked on 125th Street, a few doors down from the House of Common Sense, under a no parking sign, with two white policemen in dark blue uniforms seated in the front. They were the first white faces I'd seen since emerging from the subway, and all they seemed to be doing was watching the traffic, which was heavy and at a standstill. The windows of the police car were rolled up tight, and the policemen made no effort to get out and wade into the intersection to get the traffic moving. Perhaps, I thought, they didn't want to risk getting run over.
I decided to follow the crowd that was headed along 125th Street. The broad sidewalks were swollen with colored people moving in both directions, and I felt as though I was being swept along by the dark mass of humanity into which I had entered, as though I was immersed in a river, carried by its current toward some inevitable destination. I was exhilarated to be there, to be surrounded by so many brown faces at one time. And so I wandered down the street with the rest of the crowd, occasionally nodding at the colored men coming my way, when our eyes would meet, acknowledging the unspoken bond between us. But where, I thought, is everyone going? Up ahead, I could
see a theater marquee hanging over the sidewalk with the word apollo in huge letters above it, and below, the
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