Historical Fiction

Leaving Blues

The dahoon berry weeps in blood,

I Know,

Watched by the crow -

I've seen both grow

In those weird wastes of Dixie!

From "Exodus" by Effie Lee Newsome

Harlem (1987)


          Abigail Bold had a meeting scheduled with the chair of the Black studies department at City College, Dr. Frederick Sengbe Storms. She stopped by his office where he greeted her warmly and asked her to take a seat. The awards and diplomas hanging on the wall behind him were telling of his accomplishments. A poster with a silhouette of the African continent with the words, "End Apartheid - Divest Now!" sharply contrasted the neutral decor.
          Their first encounter had been at a fundraiser she helped organize for the Harlem Hospital Pediatric Clinic. She'd retired as head nurse of the clinic and wanted to ensure that much-needed improvements, such as expanding patient capacity and hiring more medical staff, would be completed. Frederick had introduced himself to Abigail during the event and asked her if she would be willing to participate in an African American history project he was developing. She told him it sounded interesting and that she'd like to hear more about it. He gave her his business card and asked her to call him at her convenience.
          She contacted him a week later. After a long phone conversation, in which he explained the purpose of the project, she agreed to participate. She was to write about her experiences as a lifelong Harlem resident. The collection of first-person accounts would attest to the unprecedented event that was being referred to as the Great Migration, although, the African Americans who left the South by the millions were generally unaware of the historical significance of their relocation to the North.
          Abigail handed Frederick a folder.
          "I went over it several times, but I'm sure it'll need to be edited more thoroughly," she informed him.
          "No worries. I've got some graduate students helping me. Once I've read through all the drafts, we'll make any necessary corrections."
          "You won't change the wording, will you?"
          "Not without consulting the authors. Ideally, we want to capture the true essence of the narratives."
          Abigail was pleased with his response. She glanced at a framed photo of Frederick and a man who she assumed was his father. It took a minute for her to recognize the older gentleman.
          "Is your father Sergeant Ulysses Storms?"
          "Yes Ma'am. He was a City College graduate, like me. I have a strong attachment to this school because of him. I'm doing this project to honor his memory."
          "A war hero and renowned author; it's fitting. His books on the Jazz age are outstanding. He'd be proud of what you're trying to do."
          Frederick was touched by her supportive words and her admiration of his father's work.
          They conversed for a few more minutes, then Abigail left. He took out the papers from the folder and began reading:

"What We Brought"

          For years, after we moved up North, I had recurring nightmares. They involved my parents, when they were young, and me as a child trying to run from a group of men covered in white hoods and robes, on horseback. I could hear myself desperately pleading in my sleep for the horror not to be real. I'd shake myself awake on those nights when it seemed like my father or mother didn't survive, crying, shivering, and soaked in sweat. I'd never seen Klansmen, but I'd heard their outfits described occasionally. Once I was convinced that we were up here to stay, the night terrors subsided. Thereafter my sleep has been mostly peaceful.
          A month ago, though, my dear friend, Mildred, was robbed and badly beaten after she'd cashed her social security check. Now I keep dreaming I'm being chased by muggers and their faces are concealed. I'll wake up looking for my ma and pa. It isn't right to think it, but I'm glad they're not around to see what's become of our old neighborhood.
          Harlem has changed for the worse. The vibrancy that engulfed us when we first arrived is long gone. In those days, the majority of folks we encountered felt hopeful. Then again, we had escaped environments of unrelenting persecution. Our community persevered through numerous hardships, but this crack epidemic might just be our undoing. The rates of addiction and violent crimes are wreaking more havoc than heroin did in the sixties and seventies. Families are being torn apart. My neighbor, Virgil, says that the CIA has been involved in the narcotics trade for decades, funneling drugs directly into minority neighborhoods as a means of funding anti-communist mercenary groups. I don't know what to believe. Lord knows, the Reagan administration isn't concerned about our tribulations.
          It doesn't help that the youth today are so detached and disrespectful. This current generation is too far removed from the struggles that shaped our consciousness. I don't think they need to suffer blatant segregation to appreciate the sacrifices made by millions of Jim Crow refugees or civil rights activists, but they need to be constantly reminded about the privileges they've inherited. How else are they going deal with inequities in their lifetime?
          I was fortunate to have grown up in a community where I was exposed to first person accounts of elders who were born into slavery, who'd lived through the Civil War and Reconstruction. Many of them were brought up North by their children and their experiences became our people's history when all we were being taught in schools was about Christopher Columbus and the "Founding" Fathers.
          There used to be bookstores on Lenox Avenue devoted to the history of colonized peoples from all over the world. The National Memorial African Bookstore on 7th Avenue, which was frequented by many prominent scholars, specialized in texts that encompassed much of the African Diaspora. My parents would take me to those havens of cultural upliftment so that I'd become accustomed to Afro-Americans' autodidactic traditions; both of them taught themselves to read and write, my father also learned to play the violin on his own. Only a couple of those literary oases remain. Rising rents and ruinous urban decay have made preservation efforts extremely difficult. You can still find younger knowledge-seekers spending time there. I'll recommend titles for them to read and analyze, taking care to encourage them to attend college. It is one of the opportunities we sacrificed immeasurable flesh and blood for.
          Jobs are scarce these days, but there is still a large number of resourceful individuals who are subsisting north of 110th Street. The street vendors on 125th Street sell sociology, history, and political science books as well as handmade, jewelry, clothing, and musical instruments. When we fled South Carolina in 1927, New York was replete with job opportunities. Granted, the pay for colored people was far less than that of Euro-Americans. Having escaped the neo-slavery of the former Confederacy, the menial occupations available in the North and their concomitant wages provided unprecedented incomes for Black families. When my dad sent a letter to his oldest brother, informing him about the amount of money he was making up here, Uncle Miles wrote back asking him if his math was off. My dad didn't mention rent prices. One thing that hasn't changed in this teeming metropolis is the continuous inflation. Yet, when there's community it's remarkable what can be achieved. We'd pool our resources together for festive events, such as block parties and Harlem Week, check in on seniors and the infirm, supervise the neighborhood children, and volunteer for social programs such as soup kitchens or afterschool tutoring.
          I don't want to become cynical like Virgil, but the waning spirit of resistance and dearth of socio-political consciousness could signify the end of an era. I can't imagine where the next renaissance or grassroots movement will arise or whether there'll be another. When hordes of Klansmen and their supporters obliterated the "Black Wall Street" in Tulsa, dropping firebombs from airplanes and slaughtering hundreds of civilians, the thousands of refugees who'd been held in detention centers left to start over again elsewhere as had been done on the many occasions when prosperous Afro-American towns were laid to waste by White supremacists. When state governments refused to acknowledge our basic human and civil rights or put an end to the impunity afforded to Euro-Americans, like the psychopaths who murdered Emmett Till, we organized sit-ins, boycotts, and televised marches. We took up the causes of our predecessors. Who will be our successors? In the face of drug violence and rampant materialism, where sneakers and beepers matter more than erudition or entrepreneurship, the fate of our spiritual endurance is tenuous. What awaits the descendants of West African matrilineal kinships in the 21st century?

          Frederick put down the draft and looked out his office window. The housing projects in the distance stood in stark contrast to the Collegiate Gothic buildings and manicured lawns of the college campus. He thought about his own mother and father, the injustices they faced and the obstacles they overcame to make it possible for him to have a better life. His father fought in the Great War and had returned to a society that demanded that he accept his position as a second-class citizen. Frederick wanted to ensure that the stories of families like his as well as the Bolds', who defied their oppressors, be recorded for posterity without being compromised. The slave narratives of the 1930s had been distorted and manipulated by racist organizations such as the Daughters of The Confederacy. Former slaves felt intimidated and were tacitly guided to paint a humorous and lighthearted picture of their experiences under the brutal system of chattel slavery. It was his goal to prevent any misrepresentations of the Great Migration.






* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *





          When Frederick returned to his office after his lunch break, he was too distracted to attend to his work. He found Abigail's observations on the present state of the African American community in Harlem evocative and wanted to learn more about her past. He set the documents he'd been trying to review aside then picked up Abigail's draft and continued reading where he'd left off:
          My parents loaded two large gasoline containers, a five-gallon glass water jug, our suitcases, blankets, some small pieces of furniture, and a portable toilet in the back of the pickup. My mom prepared and packed enough food for an entire congregation. She complained that the gas station bathrooms tended to be disgusting and that we'd be better off bringing our own receptacle. I had learned from some of my classmates that the separate bathrooms and water fountains rules existed far beyond South Carolina, but I didn't mention it to my mom. Though I was only nine years old, I understood the strain segregation laws put on my parents.
          My mom was a midwife and she taught reading and writing in the evenings and on Sundays to many of the farmers' children who couldn't go to school as they provided income for their families. I was able to attend the only Negro school in the county. We were sitting in the pick-up in front of our small house, which would soon be occupied by a family whose cabin had been burned to the ground by Klansmen. Our departure was timely as they'd been living under tarps on their plot. "The lord works in mysterious ways," Mama reasoned.
          She fussed over my dress and hat. Dad studied the Gulf Oil Company road map. It was marked in strategic spots where we could stop along the way, since there were almost no rest or service areas for Afro-American travelers. I noticed there were X's next to the enlarged names of specific locations: Richmond, Baltimore, and New York City. This was almost a decade before the Green Book was published, which opened up the continent for Black motorists, making their journeys far less life threatening.
          I was wedged in between them because the vehicle was a two-seater. Papa kissed me on the forehead and reached over and kissed my mother on the cheek then started the vehicle. Uncle Miles had worked on the engine the previous day. It made some popping sounds at first then stabilized. Mama raised her hand and looked up at the sky appealing to the almighty, "Lord guide us." She was teary eyed, which made me weep. My heart felt heavy. I thought about friends and cousins that I might not see again for who knows how long. Dad held Mama's hand and assured us that better days awaited us. We'd been encircled by violence, finding comfort in games, dancing, singing, and family gatherings. Our mythology was of demons, whispers, and dangling bodies.
          It was still dark when we left Florence, South Carolina on a cool morning in October of 1927. We drove in silence for the first hour. For Blacks, driving around in a decent looking automobile could be dangerous. Being an "uppity nigger" was an accusation that often led to physical assaults or murder. We took our chances with the rusty old black Model T. It had gotten my father around during his time as a union organizer for field workers. The plantation owners tried to intimidate him constantly, but after the last round of negotiations over the cotton harvest, between local tenant farmers, sharecroppers, and landowners, the threats had intensified. The boll weevil infestation had severely damaged the cotton crop and the bosses were exploiting the dire situation by offering excessively low prices per bale.
          Roland Scott, a White tenant farmer my dad, who was also a lawyer, had counseled in the past, showed up to our home. He looked rattled, "Castus, I got word from a reliable source. They're planning on coming for you. You need to leave right away. There's no telling when they'll start rounding up volunteers." My father always knew the plantation families and their henchmen would eventually set their sights on him. The mutilated body of Nigel Moore, one of his closest friends and a fellow organizer, had been found floating in Jeffries Creek the year before, right around "settling up" time when the cotton crop was weighed. Disputes over payments usually resulted in lynchings. One of the most infamous incidents having taken place in Elaine, Arkansas where hundreds of Black farm workers and sharecroppers were massacred for daring to unionize.
          It was barely dawn, but I could clearly see laborers walking up and down the unpaved bumpy roads to commence their daily toil. The large oak trees and vast fields of cotton and tobacco watched us leave. Their consistent presence had shaped our identities. They were the only world I'd ever known.
          As we drove deeper into North Carolina on the Atlantic Highway, Mama suggested that Papa stop to take a break, but he was sticking to his itinerary. "I wanna get us past Raleigh. There's a rest stop for Coloreds just outside the city."
          My dad was accustomed to driving long distances as a lot of the regional union meetings were held in Georgia and North Carolina. He kept pushing the old Ford on that first leg of our drive. Ma had filled a thermos with coffee and they'd already drunk most of it. My parents had asked me to control my need to pee. Black motorists were advised against veering off into sideroads. There had been cases of people disappearing, never to be seen again.
          I held out for as long as I could, but I was on the verge of peeing on myself. We stopped in front of an old church. My dad looked around; there were no cars approaching so he snuck onto the property. It appeared to be desolate. With the utmost efficiency, my mom carried the portable porcelain toilet by its wooden handle, while I held on tightly to a roll of toilet paper and we ran over to a nearby tree.
          I was nervous but had no problem emptying my bladder. My mom decided to take advantage of the opportunity too. After she was done, she waved over to my dad, encouraging him to do the same.
          She flung our urine under some bushes and my dad took his turn. He was scurrying back to the truck when an older White man came out from a side door of the church. The second he saw us, he scowled and yelled at us, "Whatya dirty niggers doin' here!" The Model T's loud engine muted his acerbity. It took at least thirty minutes before my parents agreed that we were no longer in danger of being attacked. The Klan controlled untold counties and there was no way of knowing if the man would attempt to pursue us with a group of armed men in tow. My heart had been beating fiercely the entire time.
          "Are they comin' after us?" I asked anxiously.
          "No honey, we're gonna be alright. It was just an angry old man," Mama reassured me.
          Papa was mad at himself. "That was a bad idea. We won't be doing nothin' like that again."
          I noticed that he had a small wet spot on his pants. I didn't point it out to him. Even though he and my mother were my protectors, seeing that stain on his pants made me realize that he was also vulnerable, and it made me want to protect him. There wasn't much I could do except be less of a nuisance. I chose not to drink water until we made it to our destination.
          The rest stop on the outskirts of Raleigh consisted of a handful of parking spaces. There were no tables or anywhere to sit. We got out to stretch our legs. Mama brought out sandwiches. I was hungry, and they smelled enticing. The first bite was delectable, a medley of mustard, spices, and succulent honey glazed ham. We ate in the truck. There were a few trees in the distance. The leaves were beginning to change colors with tinges of orange and red on the edges. The odor of condiments and pork mixed with the warm autumn air. One of the trees looked wider and older than the others. It reminded me of a tree my older cousin, Ruth, had pointed out to me once. She told me that men in white hoods had hung a young Black man, who'd been accused of kissing a White woman, from it. I wondered if there were those type of hanging trees where we moving to.
          There was a ramshackle outhouse at the edge of the parking area that none of us wanted to use, but after the incident at the church we chose to endure its unsanitary state. My dad refilled the car with gas from one of the containers. Ma brought out a bar of soap and Pa filled a small metal bucket with water from the five-gallon jug as there was no pump for washing up at the site.
          He shook his head as we took off. "The things we put up with. Don't know what's waiting beyond the Mason-Dixon, sure can't be worse than this."
          Later on, they mentioned sundown towns and the need for us to get to our destination by sunset. I wasn't familiar with the term, but the tense tone in their voices made me feel uneasy. The drone of the motor eventually lulled me into a deep sleep.

          We entered Richmond at dusk. It was the biggest urban area my mom and I had ever been to. I was amazed at the abundance of streetlights. The city was brighter than anything we'd seen, other than the Carolina moon. Department stores and office buildings abounded. Mama had been to a carnival in Columbia, South Carolina when she was a child, but it couldn't compare to Richmond during the roaring twenties. The wide streets were bustling with pedestrians.
          I remember asking, "Where do they fit all these people?"
          "There's a lot of different neighborhoods with two and three-story houses, and people come into the city from surrounding areas," Papa explained.
          Having grown up in a small town, amidst rural settlements, I'd never witnessed such crowds. The unique blend of exhaust from the automobiles and the droppings left behind by horse-drawn carriages was rough on our noses.
          It was the first time I'd seen trolleys or cobblestones. The trolleys came and went from every direction. My eyes were transfixed on the trolley wires attached to the cables above them that extended beyond my field of vision. Loads of passengers were getting on and off. Mama explained that it was an affordable and fast mode of transportation to get around the city. There was nothing in Florence that compared to the cacophony of honking cars, trolley bells, and countless voices. Our church and school bells were inaudible in comparison.
          It was odd to see all the Black passengers seated in the back of the streetcars and the White passengers up front. She didn't comment on it, though I knew it was comparable to the segregated facilities in Florence. I was fascinated by the contrast between the poorly clad inhabitants of my hometown and these urban dwellers with their stylish attire. The men wore sleek hats, shiny leather shoes and tailored suits. Mama was admiring the dresses and overcoats of the women. She looked down at her clothes and pressed down on her weathered jacket. To this day, I consider my mother's humbleness the embodiment of beauty. I wanted to reach up and caress her glowing skin, but for some reason I thought I might embarrass her or intrude on her personal space.
          We drove slowly down 2nd Street in the Jackson Ward district, which was referred to as the Harlem of the South. We were in awe of the prominent progress that surrounded us. I'd never seen Black people walking so confidently. I imagined that they didn't have to step down from the sidewalks onto the street whenever a White person was approaching like we had to do in Florence.
          En route to find a hotel, Dad enthusiastically described the achievements of the Black community in Jackson Ward. "They got Negro owned theatres, grocery stores, restaurants, medical practices, law offices, you name it. They even got banks and insurance companies."
          Ma was truly impressed. "Their own banks? Well I'll be."
          "Can't have businesses without loans or insurance coverage. White owned banks rarely lend to Coloreds. If they do, they gonna make sure you in debt for good. No different than how they do sharecroppers," he stated emphatically.
          "Why not try settlin' here?" She inquired.
          "I didn't leave everything behind to continue livin' under the Dixie flag. We need to be as far away from it as possible. Matter of fact, this was the capital of the Confederacy. They got a whole bunch a statues of Confederate generals over on Monument Avenue. Still bitter cuz the Yanks whupped they butts. Now they honor slaveholders."
          Dad refueled the truck at a local gas station. Before leaving, Ma and he discussed where to stay for the night. He suggested Miller's Hotel. It was one of the names in the small notebook he used to jot down any recommendations, by fellow union activists, for lodgings. And it was one of the few hotels in Richmond where Afro-Americans could stay. None of us had ever been in one. Whenever Pa had to cover a lot of ground and it would get too late for him to return home, he would be put up by colleagues or families who lived in small shacks but went out of their way to accommodate him. We were self-conscious about this new experience.
          Miller's was an efficiently run operation with a welcoming atmosphere. When we got to the front desk my father asked about their most affordable rooms. At four dollars, it was more than Ma felt comfortable spending. She subtly thanked the clerk and motioned for my father to step away from the counter.
          "I'm sure there are cheaper places to stay," she argued.
          "If they're charging lower rates, they might not have any vacancies. We could end up having to sleep in the pickup if they fill up over here."
          Ma wasn't ready to give up. "I'll ask the clerk if there are other places he could recommend."
          She went over to inquire and returned with a renewed expression.
          "It's probably best if we just settle here for the night."
          I could tell my dad was fighting the urge to smirk. "What did he say?"
          Mama hesitated to tell him. She stepped closer to him and spoke in a low voice. "There's some low-grade places down the road that cater to ladies of the night."
          She glanced over at me to see if I'd heard what she said, but I acted as if I was distracted by the decorations on the ceiling. My father didn't respond. He rubbed her arm gently and went to get us a room.
          Ma felt uncomfortable having someone else lug our bags around. She gave my dad a disapproving look when he tipped the bellhop. He informed her that it was customary. Though our room was small, it was impeccably clean and complete with amenities, including indoor heating. There was also a bathroom, which we weren't used to. It's as if we'd entered an amusement park. Mama went inside the bathroom and pulled down the toilet handle. Her and I gyrated our heads as we watched the water flush down the toilet bowl. She turned the water faucets and was taken aback by the hot water that immediately poured out. I almost got drenched when I turned the handles in the narrow shower stall. Papa called us over to the window. We were on the top floor, three flights up. I looked out onto a side street. It was the highest I'd been indoors, and the sensation didn't agree with me. While my parents freshened up, I bounced on the bed. I couldn't believe how soft it was, having only slept on old worn mattresses.
          Pa wanted to take us out to eat, but Ma refused.
          "We can't be wasting money like that, Castus. What's gotten into you. Thinkin' we the Turnbo Malones."
          "This is a special occasion, honey."
          "Ain't nothin'out there that I can't cook. We'll eat the food I made and stay humble before God. This room is luxury enough."
          "We got a little money to spare. Sides, I got a job waiting in New York."
          "There's still a ways to go. Anything can happen between here and there."
          He was about to give up. After all, it was her frugalness that made it possible for us to make the journey. Being uprooted could have left us destitute. Mama never raised the issue, but she anticipated the dire consequences of Papa's occupation. She'd been saving and stashing money in case we found ourselves in a predicament like the one we were in.
          He gave it one last try. "I saw a diner a few blocks from here with a sign for hamburger specials. It'll be quick and within our budget."
          She sighed. "Alright, but we're stickin' to the specials."
          My dad and I were pleased and surprised that she conceded.
         The rustic diner was busy. I wanted to sit on a stool at the counter, but my parents preferred a booth. There was blues music projecting from a wood radio behind the counter. Papa tapped his feet on the floor. I moved my shoulders to the beat and Mama discreetly tapped the table with her fingers. The customers, waiters, and cooks were all Afro-American. Their banter was rhythmic with a humorous tone. In a moment of unspoken appreciation, the three of us sat quietly, taking in the lively scene. When a waitress came over to our table, my mother ordered three hamburger specials before my father or I could utter a word. The waitress asked if we wanted cheese and Ma replied no. Papa could tell that I was disappointed and rubbed by back sympathetically. When the grilled patty with fries, or French-fried potatoes as they were called back then, along with a glass of Coca-Cola arrived, I couldn't have cared less about the cheese. It's one of the most memorable meals I've ever had.
          I didn't want to get up the next morning. For my parents 5 A.M. was when the day began. My mother was thrown by the interruption of her morning routine of heating up water and the iron on the wood stove and making breakfast. I got myself ready while Ma prepared smoked trout on wheat bread with mustard. The food invigorated me, and we were back on the road as Richmond steadily swelled with commuters. Our plan was to make it to Baltimore where we would settle in for the evening before the final stretch.

          Entering Baltimore was an extension of our previous sojourn. However, it was apparent that it was much larger than Richmond; it didn't possess the quaint ambience of the Virginia capital. There were also more restaurants and retail shops and the streets were far more crowded. Like Richmond, lodgings for Black travelers were limited to a couple of spots, which were located in Old West Baltimore. Pennsylvania Avenue cut through the center of the district. The trolleys were longer than the ones in Richmond. Our eyes were fixed on a packed streetcar that didn't have separated areas for Afro- and Euro-Americans. Ma and Pa looked at each other with the same baffled expression. I wanted to know why there was a different arrangement in these trolleys than the ones in Richmond but decided to focus on the sights and sounds of the thriving district. There were big lustrous cars, with dark-skinned men at the wheel, cruising along the boulevard. The signs of the Jazz clubs were mesmerizing. There were names of musicians and comic duos advertised in flashing lights. I didn't recognize any of them. My parents were impressed by the number of venues in the Black section of the city.
         "They've made further progress up here than in Virginia. A lot more schools, pharmacies, real estate offices, and law firms. You wouldn't believe it, but they got a Negro hospital up here."
         "Sure you fibbin,'" Mama challenged.
         "Horace Lemont visited when he came up to study at Morgan State University. He told me, 'the Provident Hospital would make you proud'. I trust his word."
          Ma stared up at the Royal Theatre marquee. "Ethel Waters is performing soon. "Dinah" is one of my favorite songs."
          "I'm sure she's up in Harlem often. Maybe we can catch a show. 'Is there anyone finer
in the state of Carolina? If there is and you know her, show her'," he sang melodically.
          I giggled. "Daddy, your voice is too low for that song."
          Mama blushed. The smile on her face was sublime. In that instant, I was numb to the uncertainty of our fate, protected by my parents' devotion to each other. We stopped to get gasoline and Papa pulled out his little notebook.
          "I got the Penn Hotel written down here. If I recall correctly, it was recommended by Horace."
          Mama wasn't pleased with the limited options, "Something tells me it's going to be as swanky as the last one. And it ain't worth searching for an inexpensive place cuz they're probably caterin' to all sorts."
          "I'm willing to drive around a bit, but I'm guessing you're right."
          I chimed in, "I liked that room. It was warm in the morning."
          My parents laughed at my unsolicited comment.
          We proceeded to the Penn Hotel. It was even newer and more palatial than Miller's. The room was also bigger, and the curtains and furniture were fancier. Ma changed into her nightgown and sat up on the bed to read from her bible. My father was going down to the lobby where he'd noticed there was a radio tuned into a Negro Leagues baseball game. I begged my mother to let me go with him and she allowed it, though she insisted that we not be gone too long.
          There was an older gentleman sitting on a lounge chair in the lobby. He greeted us and asked if we wanted to join him to listen to the game.
          "Don't mind if we do," my father replied.
          I got comfortable and began reading Gulliver's Travels, while keeping an ear on the sports announcer. It was one of the books my mother had been using for her writing lessons. I was intrigued by the coverage of the game, curious as to how the voices were being transmitted from one location to another. It seemed much different than music, which I assumed was originating from a small gramophone, as record players were referred to back then, inside the radio.
         "Who's playing tonight?" Dad inquired.
         "Baltimore Black Sox 'gainst the Cuban Stars."
         "You rootin' for Baltimore?"
         "I'm a Potomacs fan. I grew up in DC. They're not doing too well this year. Where you from young man?"
         "We're comin' from South Carolina. There ain't no professional teams down there. This is the closest I've come to catching a Major League game."
         "I believe Octavius Catto was from Charleston. He was one of the founders of the league. Not long after the Civil War. A great man."
          "You don't say. I knew he championed equal rights. You won't find his name in the history books," Papa contended.
         "No, you won't." The significance of my father's statement struck a chord.
          Around an hour later, we bid farewell to the older gentleman and went upstairs. My mom had fallen asleep and barely woke up when we entered the room. I had started dozing off in the lobby and was looking forward to another night on a soft bed.
          In the morning we repeated the same pattern as the day before. The city lights were being overtaken by the emerging sun when we hit the road. Our departure coincided with the flow of pedestrians walking in every direction. I pondered the differences between the two racially stratified cities we'd visited as we traversed across the northernmost periphery of Jim Crow country.

          We crossed the Maryland border and saw a road sign indicating we were fifty-two miles from Philadelphia. My parents were inspirited. They spoke in a jovial manner that I hadn't heard since before Mr. Moore was killed. His tragic death had cast a gloom over our household. Mama told me about the anxiety she experienced after his murder, when I was much older. For many months she had a recurring nightmare of my father's rotting corpse being carried off in a turbulent river and her futile attempts to retrieve his remains. She would wake up distraught, in the middle of the night, and reach over to touch him. The veil of anxiety that obscured our future lifted once we left the failed states of Dixie.

          Ma and Pa held hands. We'd finally reached the North, which Black folks had equated with freedom since the time of our great grandparents. Yet, I was skeptical about this next phase of our lives. I know my parents were concerned as well. Regardless of our doubts, we savored the crisp northeastern air and the deep breaths of relief it invoked.
          Mama excited my imagination with descriptions of a society that had been portrayed as an idyll through word of mouth.
          "They've got modern schools, enormous libraries, ice cream shops that serve all children, accessible swimming pools and playgrounds."
          Of course, we would soon discover that a different form of segregation awaited us. Although, it wasn't nearly as vicious as the southern version, and our range of opportunities did improve significantly. My mom and dad's perseverance would be vital in the face of discriminatory policies designed to stifle Afro-Americans' aspirations for homeownership and economic mobility.
         I barely remember our drive through Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Our final destination was within reach and it felt like my dad had picked up a mighty current that swept us toward the edge of the Empire City. The dignified Hudson River was the only thing that stood between us and "The Big Apple."
          There were two lines of cars waiting to board the Jersey City ferry. Papa studied the map of New York City he'd bought at the terminal and Ma served up the last portion of fish on slices of bread. Forty-five minutes later we were on the deck of the ferry staring out at the Statue of Liberty. Nothing could prepare us for the towering colossus and the skyline ahead. Being that most southern Black migrants arrived into the city by train, ours was a unique introduction to this metropolis.
         Pa was nervous when we disembarked. The gridlock was new to him as was the aggressiveness of the drivers. Making our way up the West Side of Manhattan was elating. The sheer scale of the topography made Richmond and Baltimore resemble hamlets. Our necks were oscillating as we gawked at skyscrapers, balanced on concealed foundations, hovering blimps, and soaring biplanes. He took a right at one point, then a left that put us underneath elevated train tracks. They shaded swaths of street markets directly below and miles of storefronts.
          "My goodness. Can you believe all this?" Mama said aloud.
          "And we still ain't entered Harlem!" Papa exclaimed over the rumbling of a train above.
          He had been given the names of people to contact for work in New York by one of his colleagues who'd gone to national labor conferences in the Northeast. My father had called Devon Percy when we were in Richmond to arrange accommodations for us. Mr. Percy was a doctor and a coordinator of the NAACP's anti-lynching campaign. He made his home available to transplants like my father who were involved in the early human and civil rights movement.
          We arrived at the Percy's just in time for dinner. It's a meal I remember vividly. I'd never eaten anything like it. They made jerk chicken, pigeon peas and rice, roti and fried plantains. It rivaled the best southern cuisine. Their two daughters, one younger, the other older than me, treated me kindly. They could tell I was worried and did their best to distract me with games and books. I kept glancing at the black and white photos hanging on the walls of the living room. There was one of an older couple next to a fishing boat with a background of palm trees and another of a group of dark-skinned men and women dressed in course cotton fabric, holding machetes in front of sugar cane. That night my mother explained to me that the Percy's had travelled across the sea from Jamaica. Their two-bedroom apartment was a restorative haven. We stayed with them for a few days then moved into a narrow one bedroom off 131st Street and Eight Avenue. The area was a bit rundown, but we acclimated to the neighborhood in no time. My mother enhanced the drab apartment with the minimal furniture we'd hauled with us.
          Parting with the Ford pickup was a tough decision. It had taken a beating and we needed the money to hold us over until my parents could secure steady employment and replenish their savings. Luckily, in 1927, the economy was stable. Dad started off as a janitor and landed a job with the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. His legal experience made him an asset to the union. Ma joined the army of Afro-American domestic servants working throughout the city. Whereas my father managed to work for the Black community, my mother labored under the watchful eye of Euro-American housewives. She was determined to return to teaching no matter the cost.
          I had no problems adapting to the new environment of integrated classrooms, playgrounds, and libraries, as my parents had described, that included the children of Eastern and Southern European immigrants as well as Caribbean kids from Puerto Rico and Barbados. However, as subsequent waves of southern Blacks settled in New York, the descendants of European immigrants fought to create geographical and socio-economic buffers between themselves and darker skinned ethnicities. When I attended junior high school there were no White students, which coincided with classrooms of at least fifty pupils, no indoor bathrooms, and underfunded facilities.
          Harlem was in closer proximity, than most of the world, to the epicenter of the biggest economic collapse in U.S. history. The crash of the Stock Exchange in Wall Street occurred two years after we put down roots in New York. Despite it belonging to one of the most prosperous cities in the world, Harlem, along with other predominantly Afro-American districts of the city, bore the brunt of the financial crisis. Though the decade of economic depression that followed caused great suffering and privation, impoverished citizens cooperated on a daily basis. We took in a border, a stevedore who worked nights, so we didn't interact with him regularly. The ubiquitous sight of hundreds of homeless and desperate people waiting outside soup kitchens made me say grace with greater emphasis before eating dinner in our humble abode.
          My mom's work hours were reduced, though not as drastically as those of individuals in the service sector who didn't belong to the affluent strata's network of hired hands. Gambling and entertainment venues proved immune to the deficits experienced in other industries, therefore, my dad was able to keep a full-time schedule as a janitor at the Renaissance Ballroom and Casino while putting in long hours at the Porters Union. They both participated in the bartering system that emerged during the 1930s. Goods and materials were traded, such as homemade food for hair treatments or childcare. Scraping by and making do had always been a part of Black communities' existence in the face of institutional discrimination and racial persecution. For a large number of Blacks, the Great depression wasn't much of a deviation from the severe poverty that had been their reality throughout their entire lives.
          After WWII, we moved to a rent-controlled apartment in Morningside Heights. Ma began teaching at an elementary school and Pa left his janitorial position and went to work with the NAACP where he joined the effort to put an end to restrictive covenants, employment discrimination, and the unhampered murder of Afro-Americans by Euro-American policemen. High rents and overcrowding prompted a lot of our neighbors to relocate to the Bronx and Brooklyn, especially Bedford-Stuyvesant and Brownsville. After I graduated high school, I wanted to become a writer, but my parents were concerned that I would struggle to make ends meet. Acutely cognizant of their adversities, I decided to allay their anxiety and attain a nursing degree. I continued honing my storytelling skills on my own time, which, true to their pragmatism, never amounted to much. There weren't many training programs for colored women. I applied to the Harlem Hospital School of Nursing, working as an office clerk at a Black law firm until I was accepted to the program several years later. After I graduated, in the early 1950s, I began my career as a health care professional.
          The exodus of Black Southerners to the North subsided by the late 1960s. In that decade it was as if all the pent-up frustrations just exploded. And not just for us. Many realized that the same forces that had kept dark-skinned people down, were sending poorer kids, many of them White, to fight in Southeast Asia. Protestors from diverse backgrounds, including university students, hit the streets en masse. My parents, like so many other grassroots activists, were doing their part to encourage economic sustainability by participating in community forums and pushing for changes at a local level.
          There'd been at least one or two riots every decade, from the 1930s to the 1970s. Redlining and blockbusting practiced by realtors, government housing agencies, and real estate developers resulted in countless foreclosures, abandoned properties, and urban blight; combined with police brutality the disillusionment of minorities was to be expected. We are now dealing with the repercussions of iniquitous schemes. Passing on tangible assets to one's progeny is among Black citizens' inalienable rights that have been sabotaged for centuries by proponents of white skin privilege.


          My patients have some of the worst standards of living in the Northeast. There's a dearth of medical facilities. Healthy food options, such as fresh produce, are sparse, whereas, there's no shortage of bars, liquor stores, and fast food take out joints. If colonization accomplished nothing else, it transformed great portions of the world into plantations and reservations.
          Both my parents have passed away. I miss them in ways I can't even describe. Papa went first and Mama joined him the following year. There wasn't a dry eye at their funerals. Mourners came from every corner of the city. If ever there were two loved and cherished individuals, it was them. I don't think I'll ever recover from the heartache of not being able to hold them in my arms.
          My husband, Milton, has been retired for a while now. His folks hail from Arkansas. We met at the Abyssinian Baptist Church, got married in that same church and moved to a rent stabilized apartment in East Harlem where we've lived ever since. Our daughter is in San Francisco. She wants us to move over there. My family in South Carolina keeps trying to get us to move back down. We visit every now and then. It's a slower pace of living and I do miss them. But Harlem's an old spirit. I can't abandon it in its time of need. It took us in and gave us hope. A hope we need to instill in the vulnerable youth who feign aloofness and bravado, though fear as we feared the loss of inspiration and compassion.


          Frederick nodded approvingly and wrote down some notes. He was impressed with the detailed imagery of the piece. Abigail's insights were exactly what he'd envisioned when he set out to collect stories by older Black Harlemites who'd witnessed both small and sweeping socio-political changes during the twentieth century. It was imperative to preserve their memories as they started to fade, and elders passed on. The Bold's journey resonated with him. Both his parents had moved up to New York from North Carolina and had met in Harlem. Like Abigail, he shared the legacy of resolute reformers who refused to submit to the unjust laws that had created the "new" world.
          He picked up the phone and called her. The answering machine came on and he left a message. "Hello, Abigail. This is Fred from City College. I'm calling to thank you for sharing this wonderful memoir. This piece will be an indispensable addition to the compilation. Your parents would be pleased with your writing prowess. I'm looking forward to our next meeting. Take care."
          He put Abigail's manuscript in his desk drawer and left to meet with the dean of interdisciplinary studies. As he walked across the main lawn of the campus, there was a spring in his step. Her account strengthened his resolve. He'd worried about the feasibility of collaborating with members of the community who had never written professionally or might not want to share their family history with the public. The amount of drafts he had received, and the genuine voices of the participants inspired him to forge ahead. An outline of the dedication to his father he planned to include in the book began to take shape in his mind.




* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


          Virgil met Abigail and her husband in their building lobby, and they went to pick up Mildred on the way to the gathering point for the neighborhood watch patrol. Residents from all over Harlem had marched against crime and police corruption the previous month. Out of that rally numerous strategies to make streets safer and reclaim the scant city parks uptown had emerged.
          Abigail was concerned about her recuperation. "You sure you're okay to walk around?"
          Mildred's feistiness was in full swing. "It's gawn to take a lot more than a couple a hoodlums to keep me down."
          Bundled up and alert, the four of them walked down Malcolm X Boulevard. The autumn evening sky emitted a reddish-orange hue. A drug addict standing in front of a bodega begged them for money, but they politely told him they had none to give and kept going. Run-DMC's "King of Rock" blared from a passing car. Every other storefront was condemned. A soul food eatery was open and some of the employees waved at them and they waved back amiably.
          As they approached the corner of 116th Street they paused to take in the large crowd. There were dozens of residents. Some spoke to each other in Wolof, some in Spanish and others in Arabic and French. The scene was imbued with optimism. This was the Harlem Abigail had known when she'd first set foot on its vibrant sidewalks sixty years before. Laughter and engaging conversations bespoke the courage of an actual community.

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