5
Harlem
March 19, 1938
As I look back, it was a perfectly logical step in my development to join the American Communist Party. Being Black and beginning to look for some solutions to the problem of survival, there seemed to be nothing else to do. American society had excluded us.
It was the last years of the Great Depression. Millions of hungry, unemployed, and desperate Americans had made American capitalism’s claim to be the greatest society on Earth somewhat suspect. However, the dehumanizing effects of the Depression were not a new thing to the Black community. Where we lived, starting in 1930 there had been a long familiarity with being on relief, or what is now known as welfare. The Depression served only to throw a little more light on the whole Black condition.
While my employment at the Cotton Club had given me nine months’ financial security, the fear and insecurity that struck me when we got notice there’d be no boys in the following show were a strong stimulus to radical thinking on my part. I wasn’t fully aware of all the printed reports and statistics on Black unemployment, but I could see how bad the situation had become. There were days when we walked through our communities and it looked as though everybody was out of work, and most were. Later, I learned some of the statistics that described Harlem life. During the Depression the proportion of Black unemployed ranged from 30 to 60 percent higher than it was among whites.
This disproportionate unemployment, of course, led to the higher Black percentage on relief—in 1933 almost three times as high as the numbers of whites on relief. Those Blacks fortunate enough to be working, especially in skilled labor, lived in constant fear of being laid off to make room for jobless whites. Employed Blacks and the companies they worked for became the targets of fierce intimidation by unemployed white vigilante mobs. The threat of lynching for the Black employee and the destruction of the property of his white employer was real. Numerous reports of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People indicated a sharp rise in the lynching of Black Americans during the Depression.
The usual response to any Black plea or demand for better conditions was, “What do you expect? White people are looking for jobs, too.” This was precisely the point. We knew who would get the jobs—in good times or bad. The familiar Black cry of “last to be hired, first to be fired” was a grim reality that would become a nationwide protest slogan.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt had emerged as a legendary, charismatic personality. Many thought he was going to save America. But the Black community had no such father figure. The Horatio Alger myth fed to impoverished whites was meaningless to Black people. Most of us listening to Roosevelt’s “fireside chats” just weren’t sure he was including us. “How the hell can he help us and keep them rednecks happy?” At the same time we tried hard to trust Roosevelt. Who else was there? A Black national political leader, commanding respect and influence outside the Black community, was not visible. And most congressmen and senators, whether from the North or the South, were tenacious supporters of white supremacy, viewing our Black lawmakers as idiots.
There was protest then, and often it brought violence and bloodshed. One such protest was the Bonus Marchers of 1932. Twenty-five-thousand jobless veterans of World War I, with many Blacks among them, decided to march on Washington to demand immediate payment of the cash bonus promised them by 1945. They were met by the Army of General Douglas MacArthur and Colonel Dwight D. Eisenhower. Quickly and ruthlessly the small rebellion was put down. The reaction of the Black community to the stories of this bloodshed reflected a long-held awareness.
“If they do that to their own kind, Lord knows what’ll happen if we holler.”
We knew well what would happen. In Alabama in 1931, seventy Black citizens were killed in one month by rampaging lynch mobs.
Black frustration and anger kept spilling over anyway. In our communities, almost daily, there were small spontaneous outbreaks—often no more than a brick heaved through a white merchant’s window and the shop looted. The conditions forced hundreds of Black youths to learn to become good shoplifters. It was the reaction of the police to many of these incidents that sometimes triggered larger and more violent protests. The Harlem riot of 1935 was typical. A Black youth, Lino Rivera, had been arrested for stealing in Woolworth’s on 125th Street. The rumor spread like wildfire that the boy had been beaten by the police and was probably dead. Hundreds of people converged on the store and the precinct station, demanding to see the boy. The police refused this demand. Angry crowds gathered throughout Harlem, and the police began to disperse them in the manner too familiar in every Black community. And the riot was on. The anger that had swelled up over so many years exploded in all directions. Special attention was given to those establishments that discriminated. Stores that refused to employ Blacks, restaurants that refused service or employment to Blacks, public transportation that had no Black operators—these shops became the focal point of the full fury of the crowds and were destroyed by the angry protesters. It began to appear that the idea was to try, at once, to physically batter the wall of racism—to destroy the city itself. “You can bet on it, man. When we through here we goin’ downtown!” That didn’t happen. The main areas of disruption were surrounded by armies of police. And the exhortations of local Black spokesmen for calm prevented wholesale bloodshed.
“Are we crazy?… yuh can’t fight guns with sticks! They just itchin’ to kill us all!” It is interesting that the Cotton Club, which had never admitted Black patrons, was spared—possibly because it was some blocks uptown from the center of violence, and also because of its fortress-like exterior and the fact that it was above street level.
Despite the protests and violence, the suspicion and cynicism, the prevailing Black mood was that, one day, we would have equal opportunity and be able to put an end to racism under American democracy, as long as we made the right changes within this system. In the meantime we went about the business of struggling to survive. The old institution of the “rent party” gained a new vigor and kept many Black families from being evicted from their kitchenette “apartments.” A typical invitation to a rent party would read:
“COME ONE, COME ALL … CHARLIE AND HATTIE ARE HAVING A BALL …
Saturday June, Time: 9 until?…
At 2430 Seventh Avenue.… Bring your
bottle . . We have the fine food and
music … Adm. $0.75 per person.”…
or
“There’ll be brownskin mamas
High Yallers, too
And if you ain’t got nothin’ to do
Come on up to ROY and SADIE’S
228 West 126th Street.”
After sending out these written or printed invitations, the host or hostess was required to provide no more than indicated plus a reasonable amount of space for slow dancing. The announcements were never mailed. They were handed out, to friends and strangers alike, wherever the folks congregated—barber shops, beauty parlors, poolrooms, street corners, and churches. The admission charge varied, usually fifty cents to a dollar. Thus, with thirty or forty guests, the month’s rent could be paid, often with something left over for the next week’s food.
Volumes have been written by sociologists, psychologists, anthropologists, and political scientists in America. Not as much was written when we were young, but nobody had to tell us we were unique or how complex our lives were. We knew we were different from the accepted American “norm,” but we had a certain pride in our difference (often reflected in a contempt for standards we considered white). There was a zest for living in our communities that few outsiders understood. We were young and enthusiastic participants in a lifestyle that was distinctly our very own. The fact that this lifestyle was a direct outgrowth of white supremacist rule wasn’t the point. Our lifestyle was an adjustment to the impact of that rule. We were really inhabitants of a city within a city. Our communities weren’t called ghettoes then, except by a few sociologists. The name Harlem was as well known nationwide as that of any major American city. The only reason we had to leave our areas was to travel to school or to work. We shopped, ate, drank, played, had our hair done, went to church or to the movies, visited friends—all this we did “among our own kind.” In Harlem and other ghetto communities we even elected our own “mayors.” Such elections were really no more than popularity contests, but they were participated in with no less enthusiasm than any presidential contest. We knew that the only place we could find any truths about Blacks was in Black newspapers.
We began to read and talk more and more about our life, our style, our culture—“Negro culture.” There was little belief that such a culture, born of slavery and oppression, could make any positive contribution to white American society. I was not especially militant. I had, however, acquired an awareness that sometimes confused my parents and startled our friends. I knew of Adolf Hitler and the German Nazi oppression of the Jews. The anti-Semitic street shouts we heard in our communities against bigoted Jewish merchants about bringing Hitler here made me uneasy. We already had Congressman John Rankin and Senator Theodore Bilbo from Mississippi, along with the vigilante Ku Klux Klan. Who the hell needed Hitler? I had read about the German leader’s refusing to shake the hand of the Black Olympic champion Jesse Owens, and I felt that there had to be some link between German and American racial policies. I didn’t express it, but I was beginning to take on a worldview. This thinking, along with my feeling for art and music, began to give me a better understanding of my heritage. Many of us undoubtedly overestimated our own creative talents then, but our ambitions gave us a determination to know more about Black culture and its contributions to the struggle for true democracy. And perhaps we would find our place in the struggle. With this in mind, it was the constant white American put-down of Black culture that particularly embittered us.
Black cultural interpretations were seldom taken seriously in our country and were usually dismissed as “primitive.” Black people had long recognized the genius of Duke Ellington when most white observers were still calling his music “jungle rhythm.” Our music, generally, and our dancing, was looked upon merely as sensual entertainment. Our language was seen as further indication of our inability to absorb American life. (No one dreamed that thirty years later, an American president, Lyndon Johnson, would use one of the staples of Black talk, “Cool it,” in a major speech.) Those years were the last stages of the Harlem Renaissance, a period that saw many Black writers and intellectuals gain some international recognition. But, in the United States, the vibrant color and strength of the work of Langston Hughes, Jacob Lawrence, Margaret Goss, Charles White, Richard Wright, and others were largely categorized as “race” exceptions to all of this strong stereotyping. However, artists such as Roland Hayes, Paul Robeson, Josephine Baker, and Henry O. Tanner had to go abroad to receive their early acclaim. Such exceptions, judged by white American standards, were invariably viewed as freaks of some kind.
The United States had lived a long time with its teachings of Black inferiority, and the Black community wasn’t totally immune to this continual brainwashing. So, the struggle to overcome, then, sometimes meant embracing white morality. This, of course, meant accepting the idea of white supremacy. Almost every Black can think of at least one light-skinned friend who “passed,” crossed the line, and disappeared into the white world. To paraphrase the words of James Baldwin, some of us tried hard not to “act like niggers.” Whenever we took this approach, though, it quickly became clear that, even given some chance of equal opportunity, we couldn’t be just like whites—we had to be better. Whatever our endeavors we always had to jump the extra yard. This was most obvious in sports. Our country was always super–jock happy, and achievement in sports was the solid indication of manhood. The Black athlete, however, had to perform superhuman feats in order to be recognized. If Jesse Owens had received only one gold medal in the 1936 Olympics, instead of four, it would have been a drag—the white press would have given him little mention. We couldn’t be ordinary.
In those days we had one universal Black hero, Joe Louis. From a Detroit slum to heavyweight boxing champion of the whole world. Unbelievable. A true miracle. Joe Louis was discussed in Black barber shops and preached about from Black pulpits as if he was the second coming of Jesus. Joe Louis was our manhood. And this heroic figure was continually depicted as a humble, illiterate “credit to his race.”1
The strongest political influence in our communities then was the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Since its formation in the early 1900s, it was viewed as the leader in the struggle for Black liberation and human dignity. The association had never been able to achieve active participation of a majority of Blacks, but, aside from the church, it was the most staunchly supported organization in our communities. By the time we came “of age” there began to be some disenchantment, particularly among younger Blacks. The NAACP, with its scholarly and college-trained leadership, along with its white board membership, seemed to be removing itself from what we thought were the real problems of average Blacks. It was not unusual in our young circles to hear the association referred to as “The National Association for the Advancement of CERTAIN Colored People.” Despite the many historic struggles it had led for civil rights, I could not shake my growing feeling that the NAACP was a bourgeois-oriented organization.
We began to hear serious discussions about the Communist Party mainly because of the party’s participation in the Scottsboro case. The case itself became a symbol of the whole Black liberation effort during the ’30s. In 1931, nine Black youths were arrested in Scottsboro, Alabama, and charged with the rape of two white girls. Such a charge meant certain death. In those days, regardless of age, a Black male’s attempting even the most casual and innocent conversation with a white female was dangerous. “Ahm tellin’ you straight, Jim … if you walkin’ down the street and there ain’t nobody else on that street and you see a white chick comin’ toward you, you better cross over, man … ’cause that chick could holler … for no reason … and you a dead nigger!” In one day, eight of the nine Scottsboro boys were tried, convicted and sentenced to die in the electric chair. “Legal problems” developed in the case of the ninth boy. Because he was only fourteen years old, the jury couldn’t decide whether to recommend death or life imprisonment. It was during the long years of struggle to save the Scottsboro boys that the Communist Party gained its early notice in our communities. The first exposure of the Scottsboro case as a frame-up appeared in the Communist Party newspaper the Daily Worker. The party began to be written about in Black newspapers almost as much as Black organizations. There were articles and editorials, sometimes warning the Black community against the Reds, but also praising the party for having the only whites who seemed to really believe in brotherhood and democracy.
We didn’t know much about communism and there were some among us, usually our elders, who accepted the grotesque caricatures of communists as bomb-throwing maniacs. Although we had read some party literature, we certainly had no ideas about revolution or doing away with capitalism. Even so, some of the philosophy of the party, at least as we interpreted it, was being discussed and argued. And we became a part of much of that dialogue. “Listen, Jim … them Reds catchin’ so much hell from Mr. Charley … got to be somethin’ to what they sayin’.” “Ahm hip … they talk about takin’ from the rich and givin’ to the poor … what the hell we got to lose?” “That’s just what the Reds say, man … see, they don’t look at us as a race, but as part of the workin’ class and we all have to pull together.” “Solid … now if they can just get them white boys to believe that.” “I read where in Russia any kind of discrimination is against the law … damn if I can believe that!” “Shee-it … they just ain’t got no niggers there.”
Before I thought of joining the party, I didn’t know many Black communists. Those few were seldom a part of our block-level discussions about politics, and they appeared aloof. In all fairness, they probably regarded us as no more than young nightlifers, not yet ready for any kind of serious struggle or commitment. And, admittedly, despite our bitter awareness of the nature of white society, we were dedicated to enjoying life—not just surviving. Also, influenced by the majority Black outlook, we had as our main concern about politics the struggle to get local white politicians to remember us as a force in our communities.
I can recall one Black communist, Angelo Herndon, whose name became well known in our communities and in much of the nation. Angelo Herndon was indicted in 1932, in Fulton County, Georgia, for attempting to incite insurrection. Older Black folks would talk about him with a mixture of wonderment, pride, and disbelief. Arresting a Black for anything so sophisticated was a little beyond comprehension. We were used to the usual charges of rape and robbery. The stories of Herndon held a kind of fascination for many Black youth. Angelo Herndon might very well have been the first modern Black militant. He was defended during his trial by a young Black law graduate, Benjamin J. Davis, who was later to become a member of the National Committee of the Communist Party and a New York city councilman. Davis, many years later, would put it that, “… I just had to meet this young Negro who was supposed to be trying to overthrow the government of Georgia … unbelievable.” Hearing about Herndon’s attitude during his trial exposed us to a different kind of defiance. At one point in the trial he rose and shouted, “… you can kill me, but you can’t kill the working class!” Well, we knew about “the working class and white workers”—and often about them fighting each other. To hear a young Black talking about working people as a united group was a whole new thing, especially considering that many white workers probably thought of Herndon as just another “crazy nigger.” Surely Angelo Herndon must have helped to broaden the outlook of many young Blacks. And more than a few of these young people came to the realization that there was something more to American racism than appeared on the surface. “Hate the niggers … lynch ’em.” “Kill the kike Christ-killers.” “Hate the spics, hate the wops, hate the greasers.” Was it really “human nature” to have all that hate? A lot of people believed so, but we weren’t sure. As bitter as we were, we couldn’t buy the wholesale bigotry being peddled. As one friend would put it to me many years later, “I don’t know one thing about this communism you talkin’ about … but I DO know this fuckin’ system is a bitch … it has got to go!”