He took a ruler from his drawer and slammed it on the desk. He then placed it above the portion of the drawing he'd crossed out. I'd never seen him so focused, so engineer-like.
Running his pencil along the ruler, he began changing the measurements of his future office. With his nose damn near touching the drawing and his focus squarely on the ruler, he began speaking slowly, as if doing so would help him concentrate.
“All through the previous century,” he said, “coloreds from America made attempts to return to Africa. Paul Cuffe sailed into Sierra Leone with several Negro families in 1816. But what I'm proposing is moving every family. And I don't believe President Harding will be opposed to such an exodus. He seems to be a decent white man, and I think it's important that the UNIA begin to project a pro-U.S. government image.”
“Why now?”
“Let's just say I believe President Harding, if given the choice, would choose me to represent colored America over Du Bois. And the more I denounce communism in favor of capitalism, the more I denounce Du Bois's integration platform in favor of separation, the more likely it is that our movement can gain the support of the new president.”
I adjusted in the chair and crossed my legs as he continued with the pencil and ruler.
“Also, Sidney, perhaps the government will call off the dogs . . . the authorities that seem dead set on forcing me out of the country. And, of course I actually believe in capitalism and separatism.”
I couldn't believe it. He was actually admitting that he was willing to kowtow to the government to save his hide. Didn't he understand that forcing them to accept integration was the brave thing to doâthat it was, in effect, standing up for Negroes, not selling them out?
I found it laughable and naïve that after all the negative things he'd said about white America and the government, he now believed that cozying up to the president was going to keep officials from getting rid of him. I wanted to tell him he was a marked man and that there was no getting around it. I also wanted to know more about his newly professed respect for the president.
“What about Harding strikes you as decent?”
“Well, as you know, Harding said, âRace amalgamation there can never be.' This is certainly in conflict with Du Bois's views and directly in line with mine. So I believe Mr. Harding and I see this race issue in the same light. And, like me, he is not afraid to say what he thinks publicly.”
“But didn't the president also say that both races should stand against social equality?”
“Yes. And he is right. We cannot be socially equal to the white man in his country. In his American society, he makes the societal rules. He sets the agenda. We must establish our own society.”
“We're well on our way.”
“In the meantime,” he said, still drawing the proper measurements for his office, “I must stay out of trouble, both here and abroad. I got myself in a bit of a pickle with British authorities while in Jamaica. They were upset over what I said at Liberty Hall before heading to the Caribbean. Do you remember what I said about the British Colonial Secretary?”
“You mean your comments about Winston Churchill?”
“Yes. I am testing whether or not you pay attention to my speeches.”
“You said something along the lines of him being the greatest Negro hater in the British Empire.”
“Good! Very good! I went on to say that he was appointed because of his willingness to carry out that savagery and brutality among the darker and weaker races of the world through a system of exploitation that will bring bankrupt Britain the solvency she so much desires.”
“Right. I remember.”
“When the British authorities confronted me with the quote, I denied having said it. Unfortunately, my words had been printed in a very peculiar placeâin my own paper, the
Negro World
.”
I immediately let out a bit of a laugh. Garvey abruptly stopped drawing, as if making sure he'd actually heard me. But he didn't look up. He simply stared at his pencil for a second, then continued drawing. Somehow I think he intended to tell the story in a funny way and didn't mind my reaction. Nevertheless, I quickly regained my composure.
“And, Sidney, what doubled the matter is Churchill himself had supposedly read my words. So I was told. Not a pleasant encounter with those authorities to say the least.”
“I'll bet.”
“This Churchill oversees these various coloniesâthese slave plantations if you will. He sickens me. Great Britain may think they own my native Jamaica. They may believe they own beautiful Sierra Leone, but they are wrong on both counts.”
“Sierra Leone borders Liberia, correct?”
“Yes. Why else do you think British authorities fear me gaining a stronghold there? They want to keep me as far away from Sierra Leone as possible. They know my presence will embolden the natives. They remember 1898, when the natives rose up and fought the British for their independence.”
“The Hut Tax War. I've read of it.”
“You please me very much, Sidney. So well informed. Hundreds of British soldiers and hundreds of natives were killed in that war. But, of course, the natives were ultimately crushed, their leader, Bai Bureh, captured, and almost a hundred of his close confidants hanged by the cowardly Brits.”
“Maybe the British authorities think you're the new Bai Bureh.”
“All I know is they fear me. I'm sure they pay close attention to everything I say. I've made it crystal clear to them how much I intend to fight against British colonialism. It's evil. It must be eradicated. And I'll continue to say so publicly.”
“Amen,” I said.
And I meant it. Garvey did occasionally say things I agreed with wholeheartedly. But Du Bois felt the same way about British colonialism. What colored man with a pulse didn't?
“Counter to that,” he continued, “here in America I must take a different course. When it comes to speaking out against the U.S. government, those men in Washington will be pleased to know I'm turning over a new leaf. No more agitating the powers that be, especially if such actions threaten our goal of heading home to Africa with me at the helm. Time to play nice.”
But how long could he play nice once he was arrested and thrown in jail? I saw that day coming very soon.
24
W
ITH
L
ORETTA NOW SEVERAL MONTHS ALONG
, I
TRIED TO THINK OF
ways to lighten her load a bit. I decided to take her to a Broadway play.
Shuffle Along
was premiering. I'd gotten the tickets from Phil Daley, who'd intended to use them, but another event required his attendance. Loretta was very much looking forward to getting out of the house and seeing the much-talked-about musical.
As we entered the 63rd Street Music Hall, I marveled at the well-dressed patrons funneling through the foyer and into the theater, all of them white. Loretta was so lively, so happy, and walking with great anticipation. It was as if she were made for showy events like this. And I certainly felt handsome in my black tuxedo.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Stunning. I love you in black. But you're beautiful in all your dresses.”
We had presented ourselves at the box office, and now, with stubs in hand, we started toward the entryway of the orchestra. Approaching the usher, I couldn't help but notice the quizzical look on his face. He stopped us.
“May I see your stubs, sir?”
I handed them over and he eyed them, obviously trying to confirm that we were heading in the right direction. He handed them back and, with a bit of a frown, pointed us toward our seats.
“You're in the second row,” he muttered. “Right orchestra. The two seats on the end.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Taking Loretta's hand, I led the way to our seats. The theater was just about full, and loud with chatter. I was overcome with pride to see so many pouring in to see a Negro musical. Presenting all black faces on stage performing a play written by people of color was a first for Broadway.
“This is a splendid scene,” Loretta said, taking her seat.
“The play is getting rave reviews,” I said, easing into my chair. “How are you feeling?”
“Wonderful.”
“I mean, how are both of you feeling?” I reached over and discreetly touched her stomach, which was now showing a bit of a bump.
“We're fantastic.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Just hold my hand,” she said, giving me a big smile, as I took her hand in mine.
“It should be starting in about ten minutes. Oh, I forgot to mention something. Claude sent word that the
Liberator
hasn't forgotten about you. Max Eastman still intends to do a write-up of your work whenever you do a showing.”
“How thoughtful. I wonder how much Ginger has to do with that?”
“Is she still seeing him?” I asked.
“We tend to avoid the subject. His divorce isn't finalized.”
“What? He's married?”
“Yes,” she said. “So to speak.”
“So to speak?”
“Max never wanted to get married. He doesn't even believe in marriage, according to Ginger.”
“Then what does he believe in?”
“Bolshevism and Russia,” she whispered. “He intends to go very soon.”
“So does Claude. Hmm. Both he and Claude in Russia. Interesting.”
The woman seated next to Loretta began looking at her as if she wanted to strike up a conversation. And she did.
“Pardon me.”
“Yes,” said Loretta.
“Do you happen to know how long the play has been running?”
“I read that it's been up for about four months.”
“Oh. My husband and I love Eubie Blake,” said the middle-aged woman.
“So do we. My husband raves about him.”
“Well, you two make a lovely young couple.”
“How kind of you. Thank you very much. I hope you enjoy the play.”
I noticed the usher approaching us, still with that same frown. An older gentleman accompanied him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “This is the theater manager, Mr. Loving.”
“Yes,” I responded. “How can I help you?”
“Well,” said the stuffy manager, “you must understand, sir, we don't allow coloreds to sit in this section of the orchestra. I must ask that you and your wife sit in the special section at the left rear of the orchestra.”
I turned and saw a tiny designated area where about twenty coloreds were seated. Granted, they were orchestra seats, but they were very far back.
“Pardon me?” said Loretta. “We have tickets for these seats. Show them, Sidney.”
“Don't bother,” said the manager. “We've seen your tickets. We kindly ask that you follow theater protocol and make your way to the colored section.”
My heart fell into my stomach. I'd tried to avoid ever letting Loretta experience such embarrassment. But I knew she'd eventually come face-to-face with the sting of racism. I always wanted her to see me as her protector, someone who wouldn't allow anyone to talk down to me. But here it was, and the look on her face hurt me more than the manager's request itself.
“These are our seats,” she continued. “I don't understand.”
“Please,” said the manager, as many in the audience looked on and whispered. “The show is about to commence.”
I felt glued to my seat. I felt heavy and a bit dizzy. I felt powerless. And at that very moment I knew like never before why I'd agreed to be a spy. I knew that the cause of my work was to see Du Bois's dream of complete integration come to fruition and never to be treated like a dog again. I was experiencing a seminal moment. I could hear Garvey's voice in my ear. “You shouldn't be in that white theater anyway, Sidney! We must start our own theaters!”
But I wanted to be in
this
theater seeing
this
show. I wanted my wife to continue her conversation with the lovely woman next to her. I wanted to experience
Shuffle Along
up close. But America wasn't willing to let me. I thought about my unborn child and committed right then and there to doing everything in my power to make sure he or she could sit in these seats someday. Fighting back the anger, I squeezed Loretta's hand and led her out.
“Come on, sweetheart.”
She felt very light, as if there was no strength to her. As we entered the foyer, I turned and looked into her empty eyes. Directly behind us walked the manager and usher.
Would turning and hitting one of them square in the face do anything to relieve her pain?
I wondered, but then realized that my being in jail for years would only hurt her and leave my baby without a father.
“Sir,” said the manager, “the entrance to the colored section is straight ahead to the right.”
“We're fine,” I said, still walking, the two of them following. “I think we'll pass on seeing the show from the slave quarters.”
“Now please calm down, sir. At least we've begun allowing you-all to sit in the orchestra. It was only the balcony before, and before that you weren't even allowed in.”
“Well praise God!” I hollered, the two of us stooping just before exiting the building. I stiffened my back. “We surely thanks you, Massa!”
“Why, I beg your pardon, sir!”
I leaned forward and in a fit of rage yelled, “Well then go ahead! Beg!”
“Excuse me?” said the manager, confusion on his face.
“Beg me to pardon you.”
There was silence as he and the usher stood there gawking at us. The foyer was empty save for a few more ushers scuttling about. I waited for him to reply but didn't hear a peep.
“That's what I thought. You can't bring yourself to beg a nigger for anything. You're the worst kind of man. You're not the type to whip us down South, but you're perfectly fine running a so-called âfine establishment' in uppity New York City that treats colored folks like garbage.”
“Sir . . . please,” he calmly said.
“No! I respect a man holding a sign in front of him that says he hates Negroes more than I respect youâa phony who hides behind a nice suit and fancy surroundings. You just don't want anyone to know you're a bigot. We're in New York, not Alabama. There's no law forcing you to follow this protocol. You
choose
to continue enforcing such barbaric rules.”
He stood there, beet red, along with his young sidekick. Somehow it was apropos that we had come to see a play entitled
Shuffle Along
, because that was exactly what we intended to do, rather than see the musical from the cheap seats. We stepped out into the night air and, with our spirits broken but pride still intact, shuffled along.
Driving home, I tried to imagine what Loretta was feeling. I recalled her birthday party and how I'd tried to explain Loretta's upbringing to James. I knew she'd been shielded from discrimination her entire life, living in an upper-class colored community, encountering whites only while attending institutions that supported equality of the races.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded yes. But she wasn't okay. Her father had succeeded in creating a unique reality for her, but in doing so he'd also created a very fragile soul. Of course, I knew she could ultimately survive the ugliness that existed out there, but how much would it change her?
“I love you, Loretta,” I said, thinking of the latest letter I'd sent to Du Bois.
“I love you too,” she quietly said. “Let's just get home. I'll make us some tea.”
I nodded, my mind still on the letter. After what had just happened inside that theater, I wondered if I was actually doing enough to keep Du Bois one step ahead of Garvey. The letter had been brief.
Dear Dr. Du Bois,
Please know that Marcus Garvey has every intention of offering one of your top men, William Pickens, a job offer he can't refuse. He has learned that Pickens is unhappy with his pay there at the NAACP and intends to lure him away from you by offering him a cabinet position and a lot of money. He also intends to begin pulling your top members away one by one and believes this is the way to weaken the NAACP and strengthen the UNIA. Finally, please be aware that Garvey intends to make his Back to Africa plan come true by offering President Charles D. B. King of Liberia a two-million-dollar loan.
Sincerely,
The Loyalist
Glancing again over at Loretta, I thought of her future. I knew there'd be no more private school walls or liberal college fences to protect her. Her interpretation of the world was being challenged. However naïve it was, I loved her rosy optimism. I wanted to protect it. Millions of well-to-do white girls were afforded it. Why not her? I didn't believe that she had to experience man-made ugliness in order to be a true artist. Life itself provided enough natural pain, like the death of her parents.
“I'll drive by Fats' and get us some of that cake you like,” I said, trying anything to lift her spirit just a tiny bit.
“Okay.”
I wondered if she no longer saw me as her knight in shining armor, the one who could do anything, even convince the racist theater manager to buck the rules and allow us to remain in the second row. Her admiring me was, in many ways, all I lived for. In the recesses of my mind I knew that even my becoming an agent was so that I could make possible a pathway to ascend to some impressive position in societyâone that no other Negro had occupied.
“Cake and tea sounds good,” I said. “And I'll read to you.”
She nodded yes as I continued driving, observing the many colored men walking the night streets, most of them very poor-looking, lumbering along as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders, wondering where to turn for some relief from the mighty grip of oppression. They were me and I was them.
But I was in denial in a sense, trying at times to pretend that I didn't have colored skin. I had no desire to be a king as Garvey did. I just wanted to be free to rise as high as my ability and ambition would take me, and for Loretta to have no limitations placed upon her. I never wanted to pause and take the time to realize my true position in American society, that of a second-class citizen. Death would be better than accepting such a role.