“Son,” he said, “do you keep clippings of the articles you’ve written?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like to have them when you don’t need them any more.”
“Sure. You even want the clippings about the judge?”
“Even those.” Ben grinned. “It doesn’t matter whether a broken down old ex-railway porter agrees with them. What matters is that those clippings are family history. I’m putting them in my files. You’re the first Grafton to write for a newspaper.”
After the meal, Mahatma pulled one of Ben’s boxes out from under the sofa, dusted it off and lifted the lid. He found an old binder with his father’s writing on the cover: “Negro History Appreciation.” Inside the binder, he found Ben’s clippings and notes about “Personnages of Import to the Negro People.” Mahatma flipped the binder open to the section G. G for Garvey. Marcus Garvey. Born Jamaica 1887, died London 1940.
Mahatma scanned the details: Advocated back-to-Africa movement. Believed God was black. Promoted racial pride among Negroes. Founded Universal Negro Improvement Association, 1914, sought economic power for blacks. Paved the way for black power and black pride movements to emerge decades later. Convicted of mail fraud and jailed two years in U.S.A. Deported 1927. Presided over the International Convention of Negro Peoples of the World, in Toronto in 1936. Died in obscurity. Mahatma turned back one page. Gandhi, Mohandas Karamchand. Born 1869, Porbandar,assassinated 1948, Delhi. Known as the Mahatma, or Great Soul…
Mahatma paused. As a boy, he had been told countless times about the life of Gandhi. And about famous blacks. Booker T. Washington. Marcus Garvey. Harriet Tubman. Langston Hughes. Ben had talked about them daily. But Louise, Mahatma’s mother, always cut the sermons short.
“Stop filling that boy’s head with nonsense,” she often said.
“It’s not nonsense,” Ben would reply. “It is the story of his people.”
“He can learn about people in school! Don’t go filling his head with mumbo-jumbo.”
Ben would grumble and back down. Increasingly, he would try to educate Mahatma during his wife’s absence.
Mahatma remembered a certain day, when he was eleven or so. He was watching TV. His mother was ironing. Ben came into the room and tried to turn off the TV, but Louise wouldn’t let him. He said there were better things to do than look at the boob tube. Why didn’t they read, study about their people? Did she know that the founder of modern Russian literature was a Negro?
“I bet,” Louise said.
“He was!” Ben brought a thick volume to his wife.
“Alexander who?” his wife said, reading the cover.
“Pushkin. Alexander Pushkin.”
“Doesn’t sound like a Negro to me,” Louise said.
“He wrote poetry. He wrote prose. He wrote The Queen of Spades ! He wrote an unfinished novel about his great-grandfather, called The Negro of Peter the Great .”
“Didn’t finish it, hunh?” Louise said. “Now that sounds like a Negro. So tell me, if he’s Russian, how come he’s black?”
“His great-grandfather was from Abyssinia,” Ben said.
“From where?”
“Ancient Ethiopia.”
“You’re saying he had one ancestor from Africa?”
“That’s right,” Ben said.
“And the rest were Russians? Regular white folk?”
“Yes. But…”
Louise turned back to her ironing. “Then he didn’t have much coloured blood left in him, you ask me.”
Ben lost his temper. Who was she to deny black heritage? One drop of coloured blood made you black, and that was that.
“Don’t pay him any mind,” Louise told Mahatma. “Twisting and yanking the truth out of shape, he’ll fill up your head with confusion. I say, better to have your head empty and see clear.”
“Don’t pay her any mind, son,” Ben countered. “If you keep your head empty, you’ll see clear all right. You’ll look clear at mediocrity all your life!”
Louise had wanted to name her son Paul. Paul James
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like to have them when you don’t need them any more.”
“Sure. You even want the clippings about the judge?”
“Even those.” Ben grinned. “It doesn’t matter whether a broken down old ex-railway porter agrees with them. What matters is that those clippings are family history. I’m putting them in my files. You’re the first Grafton to write for a newspaper.”
After the meal, Mahatma pulled one of Ben’s boxes out from under the sofa, dusted it off and lifted the lid. He found an old binder with his father’s writing on the cover: “Negro History Appreciation.” Inside the binder, he found Ben’s clippings and notes about “Personnages of Import to the Negro People.” Mahatma flipped the binder open to the section G. G for Garvey. Marcus Garvey. Born Jamaica 1887, died London 1940.
Mahatma scanned the details: Advocated back-to-Africa movement. Believed God was black. Promoted racial pride among Negroes. Founded Universal Negro Improvement Association, 1914, sought economic power for blacks. Paved the way for black power and black pride movements to emerge decades later. Convicted of mail fraud and jailed two years in U.S.A. Deported 1927. Presided over the International Convention of Negro Peoples of the World, in Toronto in 1936. Died in obscurity. Mahatma turned back one page. Gandhi, Mohandas Karamchand. Born 1869, Porbandar,assassinated 1948, Delhi. Known as the Mahatma, or Great Soul…
Mahatma paused. As a boy, he had been told countless times about the life of Gandhi. And about famous blacks. Booker T. Washington. Marcus Garvey. Harriet Tubman. Langston Hughes. Ben had talked about them daily. But Louise, Mahatma’s mother, always cut the sermons short.
“Stop filling that boy’s head with nonsense,” she often said.
“It’s not nonsense,” Ben would reply. “It is the story of his people.”
“He can learn about people in school! Don’t go filling his head with mumbo-jumbo.”
Ben would grumble and back down. Increasingly, he would try to educate Mahatma during his wife’s absence.
Mahatma remembered a certain day, when he was eleven or so. He was watching TV. His mother was ironing. Ben came into the room and tried to turn off the TV, but Louise wouldn’t let him. He said there were better things to do than look at the boob tube. Why didn’t they read, study about their people? Did she know that the founder of modern Russian literature was a Negro?
“I bet,” Louise said.
“He was!” Ben brought a thick volume to his wife.
“Alexander who?” his wife said, reading the cover.
“Pushkin. Alexander Pushkin.”
“Doesn’t sound like a Negro to me,” Louise said.
“He wrote poetry. He wrote prose. He wrote The Queen of Spades ! He wrote an unfinished novel about his great-grandfather, called The Negro of Peter the Great .”
“Didn’t finish it, hunh?” Louise said. “Now that sounds like a Negro. So tell me, if he’s Russian, how come he’s black?”
“His great-grandfather was from Abyssinia,” Ben said.
“From where?”
“Ancient Ethiopia.”
“You’re saying he had one ancestor from Africa?”
“That’s right,” Ben said.
“And the rest were Russians? Regular white folk?”
“Yes. But…”
Louise turned back to her ironing. “Then he didn’t have much coloured blood left in him, you ask me.”
Ben lost his temper. Who was she to deny black heritage? One drop of coloured blood made you black, and that was that.
“Don’t pay him any mind,” Louise told Mahatma. “Twisting and yanking the truth out of shape, he’ll fill up your head with confusion. I say, better to have your head empty and see clear.”
“Don’t pay her any mind, son,” Ben countered. “If you keep your head empty, you’ll see clear all right. You’ll look clear at mediocrity all your life!”
Louise had wanted to name her son Paul. Paul James
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