was riding on the hood of a car, leaning back against the wraparound windshield. Everything was moving so slowly the child wasn’t likely to fall off, and even if he had he probably wouldn’t have been seriously hurt. One of the lead trucks had a loudspeaker mounted on top of the cab. It amplified a man’s gravelly, nasal voice that chanted, over and over—a harping drumbeat of rampant hatred, disguised fear, and ignorance.
“Nigga! Don’t you never fergit yore place.”
“Don’t you never fergit yore place.”
“Nigga, never fergit yore place.”
“Never fergit yore place.”
“Never fergit . . . . ”
If there was more to the chant than that, I don’t remember what it was. It eventually died out altogether. Diminuendo.
Everybody settled back into the card game. I was headed back to my room and stopped in the kitchen to browse in the refrigerator for something more to eat when I heard the front screen door slapping frantically against its latch. I heard someone crying, wailing, and trying desperately to get in.
It was Verneta. But before Mother could unlatch the screen door, Verneta pulled it apart from its hook and eye and burst into the brightly lit living room, blind with fear, and sobbing a litany of terror:
“Oh, sweet Jesus, Billie, what’m I gonna do? What’m I gonna do? What’m I gonna do? What’m I gonna do?” Mother took her in her arms.
Verneta’s sable skin was ashen, drawn, and streaked with tears.
Mother held Verneta tight and soothed her with gentle whispers and consoling pats and caresses on her back and shoulders.
“They’re not after you V’nita,” Mother whispered. “They’re not after you. You’re all right. It’s gonna be OK . Gonna be OK .”
Floyd laughed condescendingly. Never looking up from his hand of cards, he said, “Billie’s right, V’nita, they ain’t after you. Them ol’ boys there ain’t got no problem with good niggers like you and your mammy. Now, that brother of yours, Leonard . . . he gets a mite uppity sometimes. You might wanna talk to that boy.”
Everybody at the table grunted and nodded in agreement.
Then Floyd told Verneta to “go on back home, now. . . . You heard me. Go on.”
She did as Floyd told her to do, and Mother went with her, across the street and up that long, steep hill in the dark.
Everybody else played canasta.
I WENT BACK TO MY ROOM and lay down on the bed and stared at the model airplanes that hung from the ceiling. Whatever I had been looking for in the refrigerator was still in the refrigerator. I couldn’t eat anything. Verneta’s face, distorted by terror and ashened by fear, was burned forever into my memory. I can see her face to this day, fifty-eight years later. Can see her mouth drawn down and terror struck, and I can’t understand how she could have been as articulate as she was with her mouth so contorted. Can see her face nuzzled into Mother’s neck as Mother tried to comfort her—and I imagine it looked much like it did when she was that little girl who stuck her head in the flour barrel so she could be white and go to a picture show with her little friend Billie, who was now holding her and comforting her again.
It may very well have been that night, it may have been that very event—the slapping of the screen door, the wails of terror, the gaunt pallor of despair—that began a series of awakenings inside me that initiated my ongoing recovery from racism. Had Tommy been home I don’t know how he would have reacted. Would he, like Floyd, have laughed at Verneta and belittled her fear? Would he have shooed her out of the house so the card game could proceed without the unwanted distraction? Or would it have been an epiphany for him as it was for me?
PART TWO
ABOVE THE RIVER
How strange are the tricks of memory, which, often hazy as a dream about the most important events of a man’s life, religiously preserve the merest trifles.
—
SIR RICHARD BURTON
Sindh Revisited
BAYLOR
THE BAYLOR
“Nigga! Don’t you never fergit yore place.”
“Don’t you never fergit yore place.”
“Nigga, never fergit yore place.”
“Never fergit yore place.”
“Never fergit . . . . ”
If there was more to the chant than that, I don’t remember what it was. It eventually died out altogether. Diminuendo.
Everybody settled back into the card game. I was headed back to my room and stopped in the kitchen to browse in the refrigerator for something more to eat when I heard the front screen door slapping frantically against its latch. I heard someone crying, wailing, and trying desperately to get in.
It was Verneta. But before Mother could unlatch the screen door, Verneta pulled it apart from its hook and eye and burst into the brightly lit living room, blind with fear, and sobbing a litany of terror:
“Oh, sweet Jesus, Billie, what’m I gonna do? What’m I gonna do? What’m I gonna do? What’m I gonna do?” Mother took her in her arms.
Verneta’s sable skin was ashen, drawn, and streaked with tears.
Mother held Verneta tight and soothed her with gentle whispers and consoling pats and caresses on her back and shoulders.
“They’re not after you V’nita,” Mother whispered. “They’re not after you. You’re all right. It’s gonna be OK . Gonna be OK .”
Floyd laughed condescendingly. Never looking up from his hand of cards, he said, “Billie’s right, V’nita, they ain’t after you. Them ol’ boys there ain’t got no problem with good niggers like you and your mammy. Now, that brother of yours, Leonard . . . he gets a mite uppity sometimes. You might wanna talk to that boy.”
Everybody at the table grunted and nodded in agreement.
Then Floyd told Verneta to “go on back home, now. . . . You heard me. Go on.”
She did as Floyd told her to do, and Mother went with her, across the street and up that long, steep hill in the dark.
Everybody else played canasta.
I WENT BACK TO MY ROOM and lay down on the bed and stared at the model airplanes that hung from the ceiling. Whatever I had been looking for in the refrigerator was still in the refrigerator. I couldn’t eat anything. Verneta’s face, distorted by terror and ashened by fear, was burned forever into my memory. I can see her face to this day, fifty-eight years later. Can see her mouth drawn down and terror struck, and I can’t understand how she could have been as articulate as she was with her mouth so contorted. Can see her face nuzzled into Mother’s neck as Mother tried to comfort her—and I imagine it looked much like it did when she was that little girl who stuck her head in the flour barrel so she could be white and go to a picture show with her little friend Billie, who was now holding her and comforting her again.
It may very well have been that night, it may have been that very event—the slapping of the screen door, the wails of terror, the gaunt pallor of despair—that began a series of awakenings inside me that initiated my ongoing recovery from racism. Had Tommy been home I don’t know how he would have reacted. Would he, like Floyd, have laughed at Verneta and belittled her fear? Would he have shooed her out of the house so the card game could proceed without the unwanted distraction? Or would it have been an epiphany for him as it was for me?
PART TWO
ABOVE THE RIVER
How strange are the tricks of memory, which, often hazy as a dream about the most important events of a man’s life, religiously preserve the merest trifles.
—
SIR RICHARD BURTON
Sindh Revisited
BAYLOR
THE BAYLOR
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