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  —That’s not a difficult question. I wear these clothes because I can.

  Then he started walking away from the counter and motioned for me to follow him to the door. I stood still because I knew they weren’t letting us out of there that easily and I was furious at my father. If I’d been there with one of my uncles, he would have told these bastards about jungles. My uncle Leon would have pulled out his pistol and shot that tub of lard right in his bulging gut. He’s talking about shit, there’d have been more shit all over this place than anybody could use. My uncle Leon once beat a man to a pulp just for calling him black. And even Aunt Hazel, dear Jesus, Aunt Hazel carried a stiletto in her garter. I wear these clothes because I can. But that Gatlin had seen something in my father’s eyes that I didn’t—he’d seen he was being dismissed.

  He gave a wounded howl—No, you can’t wear those clothes. Hear me? You can’t—and knocked the straw hat off of Papa’s head. As Papa bent over to retrieve it, the fat Gatlin grabbed him by the back of the belt, pulled out a Bowie, and slit his trousers straight down the rear seam before shoving him over on his knees. The blade also ripped through his boxer shorts and at the sight of one of his testicles hanging beneath the torn cloth, I felt something heavy and sick lodge in my throat. The next wounded howl came from me—I sprang onto the back of the fat Gatlin. The huge man shook me off as if I were a fly. But that’s all the others were waiting for, and the fun was on.

  I don’t remember everything that happened before they locked us in the storeroom, but I can remember the speed of their knives and the absolute joy in their voices as they pinned us down and ripped off every stitch of our clothing. What they couldn’t tear apart, they stomped—My God, look, it ain’t got a tail after all—what they couldn’t crush under their feet, they spat on—And it ain’t got a big wanger neither. After being flung naked into the storeroom, I fell on my elbow and the pain made my eyes sting. I sat on the dirt floor rocking and holding the bruised arm. I won’t cry, I kept thinking over and over; I’ll kill myself before I cry.

  —Did they hurt you, son?

  Papa reached out to me in the darkness and I jerked my shoulder away from his hands. Don’t you touch me. My teeth were clenched. Just don’t touch me. My eyes were adjusting to the dark and I could make out the shadowy silhouettes of packing crates and of his bare feet as he stood beside me. The air was close and stale; a trickle of sweat ran down the side of my nose and pooled in the crevice on my upper lip.

  —Don’t worry, Stanley, I’m pressing charges for this outrage. They’ve gone much too far this time.

  The throbbing in my elbow kept time with the throbbing in my temples. Pressing charges? So he was going to press charges? If it hadn’t hurt just to breathe, I would have laughed.

  But we could hear the Gatlins laughing on the other side of the door. The thuds of their heavy shoes. Peters’s high-pitched voice. All right, boys, let ’em out, the joke’s over. The joke’s over, I got a business to run. The heavy footsteps moved toward the storeroom and a fist banged on the plywood door. I could see the tips of his shoes in the wide space between the bottom rail and the threshold. Hey, you in there. It was the bald Gatlin. Hey, we figured you might be hungry. He kicked a banana peel under the door. It lay there twisted and rank. A fist pounded on the door again. And we was thinking, ya know?—it was the cross-eyed Gatlin. We was thinking of a way to make some money out of all of this, times being so hard. We was thinking of turning this place into a zoo and selling tickets. Think you worth a dime a look? They were having a great time, and I could hear my father’s breath deepening beside me. Naw, they ain’t worth a dime. It was the fat Gatlin. Folks’ll want their money back after seeing them little wangers. And I could hear the greasy Gatlin through their laughter. Just shut up, Peters, you … But surely they couldn’t go on forever with nothing feeding them but their hate, because we were silent in that close and stale room, so very very silent. Peters won’t let me use the phone—it was the greasy Gatlin. What you mean, Peters won’t let you use the phone? The fist banged on the door again to be sure we were catching the act. See, I was gonna put me in a collect call to Louie B. Mayer—up in Hollywood. And tell him he could buy a coupla apes real cheap for his new Tarzan movie. Aw, don’t worry, it wouldna happened; I don’t know any Jew who’ll take a collect call. Surely it couldn’t go on forever. But our silence seemed to goad them on and on …

  I wouldn’t be able to breathe in that room much longer. The air was pressing in on me. My chest was tightening, my head was throbbing, and I knew I was going to explode. There would be pieces of me all over the packing crates, smeared on the sides of these old boxes, flung into the corners among the dried mouse droppings.

  —As God is my judge, Stanley, I’ll make them pay for this.

  And to my horror it began to happen: There is no God, Papa. I was on my feet, the words hissing through my teeth as my lungs did explode, and my head started spinning, spinning toward the cobwebs on the ceiling. There is no God, or He would have struck you dead a long time ago. You’re worthless. You’ll make them pay? How can you make them pay? You don’t even amount to the ape they called you—you’re nothing. And you’ve always been nothing. Nothing … nothing … noth … My whole body started vibrating, my teeth chattering, my hands and leg muscles moving with a will of their own. He caught me in his arms before I fell to the floor. And then he placed me down gently to hold me as I cried like the child I was.

  My flesh against his flesh: his chest was lean and hard, the arms around me strong and firm. His hand rested on the back of my head as I buried my weeping face deep into his shoulders. All of these years, he said, I kept hoping you’d understand. I should have just come out and explained why I’ve lived the way I have. It hasn’t been easy, Stanley, but I did it for you. From the day you were born I’ve been speaking to you in a language that I wanted you to master, knowing that once you did, there was nothing that could be done to make you feel less than what you are, and I knew that they would stop at nothing to break you—because you are mine. And I wanted their words to be babble, whatever they printed, whatever they sent over the radio. Babble—as you learned your own language, set your own standards, began to identify yourself as a man. You see, to accept even a single image in their language as your truth is to be led into accepting them all. Do you think that I’m afraid of the Gatlins? Do you think that what they say means anything to me? I don’t hear them, Stanley. Most of the time, I don’t even see them. But in my self-absorption, I’d forgotten that it wasn’t the same with you. I lost sight of how much you still have to learn. Forgive me for pressing you so hard and so quickly to become a man; I shudder to think of how close I’ve almost come to losing you as my child.

  Then he told me to get up and clear the snot from my nose. He was fed up with this whole mess and it was time we got out of there. The Gatlins hadn’t tired of coming back and forth to taunt us as they banged and kicked on the door. If anything, the attacks were getting uglier, their voices close to snarls. Whatever reaction they’d been hoping for, they hadn’t gotten. Begging might have satisfied them before, but soon they would need blood. And there we were without even a pair of shoes between us. The door wouldn’t be a problem, Papa said; it’s nothing but plywood and this frame is so dry-rotted that the latch won’t hold. But we’d have to confront them again, and I’d prefer for us to slip out quietly. There was a small casement window near the ceiling, and he thought that if we stacked up enough crates we’d be able to pull it off its hinges and squeeze through there. This man was amazing; he was standing there talking as if we weren’t as naked as jaybirds.

  —I think it best if we could leave without someone getting hurt. God forbid it be us, because you know what your uncles would do then. My way is to take care of them in court.

  Talking as if those animals deserved anything but what I, indeed, knew my uncles would do. He was making no sense and I told him so.

  —They aren’t animals, Stanley. They’re pathetic, but th
ey aren’t animals.

  They were animals. Still, my father’s plan seemed to be working; we had almost stacked up enough wooden crates to reach the window when we heard Peters cry out. It was muted, and cut off as suddenly as it began, but for some reason it was chilling. Heavy footsteps approached the door. It might have been one or all of them; they didn’t say a word this time. A thud as something was kicked under the door. We smelled it before we saw it. They had gotten to the books. The silk cover was gouged with holes, the spine busted and bent over double. They’d torn out handfuls of pages, crushed what was left between their fists, and then urinated on the whole thing. The stench of The Tempest was quickly filling that close room.

  I can’t really say that my father was angry. Anger had to be a part of what he was feeling, and revulsion as well. But when he finally spoke it was only with a deep sadness.

  —I see they are determined to leave me no choice. Now I’ll have to go back out there and speak to them.

  I didn’t want to go anywhere but out that window, as quickly as we could. And anyone who’d seen the message they sent in through that book would wholeheartedly agree with me.

  —They don’t speak your language, Papa.

  —I’m aware of that, he said.

  There were cardboard boxes among the nailed crates. Things that had been shipped and never claimed. Most of it was useless to us as we sought something to cover ourselves: reams of yellowing typing paper, notation pads, inkwells. Candles, doilies, knitting yarn. Porcelain dolls, stuffed bears, wooden soldiers. We finally unearthed a steamer trunk marked, Lulu and the Little Ladies. The little ladies turned out to be dancing poodles; there were rhinestone collars, silver leashes, and tiny voile tutus. But Lulu’s costume was in there as well, and it seemed she was hardly little. My father took the dress and forced me to take the corset: Don’t be foolish; things might turn ugly out there, and you can see that they’re the type who go straight for the balls.

  He was right about the door. We used our shoulders, and with two good whacks the frame gave way. And yes, the Gatlins had heard the splintering wood. They were coming toward the back when we appeared in the office doorway. My father’s dress was red taffeta with spaghetti straps and a huge circular skirt puffed out with yards of lace crinoline. And I’d had to tie knitting yarn around my waist to keep Lulu’s corset up. Of course, they laughed. They laughed so hard their knees got weak. But Papa waited until the noise had died down some, making sure he would have their undivided attention.

  He headed straight for the big one and spoke to him first. Grabbing him by the collar, he slammed his face down on the counter and dragged his unconscious body along the whole length of it, the fat Gatlin picking up splinters in his broken nose and leaving behind a trail of blood and chipped teeth:

  My friends, I’ll try to be brief: I am a man. And the founding fathers of this democracy passed on to you who call yourselves real Americans a monumental lie. All of us are not created equal. Some of us are more intelligent and physically fit than others. Some of us have the iron will to hold on to a dream. My parents were such people. Some of us are more shrewd and ruthless than others. Some of us wealthier by being more determined to step on whoever gets in their way. My brothers are such people. So for better and for worse, you are not my equal. I want that to be perfectly clear, and to avoid any further misunderstanding on your part, I’m now going to proceed to kick your ass.

  Papa’s skirt whirled as he aimed the fat Gatlin’s body like a rocket into the chest of the bald Gatlin at the other end of the counter. The bald Gatlin was knocked to the floor and as he tried to push off the fat man, he looked up into nothing but a sea of lace crinoline. Papa smashed his bare heel down on his Adam’s apple:

  I am a man of peace. I am a sensitive man. I can spend hours with Proust and have been known to weep at a sunset. Those are the qualities I wanted to pass on to my son. I believe he has the capacity to be a great leader. And I’ve tried to teach him that a man rules best when he rules with compassion.

  The other two Gatlins had recovered their senses by now. I swung at the greasy one with the crowbar while the cross-eyed one lunged at Papa’s back with his Bowie. I yelled out to warn him. It was an old Yuma war tactic: if he’s started the upswing to stab you in the back, there’s no time to look around. Drop like lightning to your stomach and the enemy’s knife will cut through empty air. It also helped that this Gatlin was cross-eyed. He missed Papa by a mile and wasn’t given a second chance. Papa rolled over on the floor, the Gatlin’s feet tangling all up in his taffeta ruffles. As the Gatlin started slipping, Papa raised up and slammed an uppercut right into his kidneys before finishing him off with a broken rib:

  There is no greater strength than what is found within. There is no greater love than reaching beyond boundaries to other men. There is no greater wealth than possessing true peace of mind. When my son left me to go out on his own, I wanted to give him the vision of such a brave new world. You pissed on that gift.

  The greasy Gatlin kept dodging my swinging crowbar—and he did try to kick me in the balls. But his toe only kept making contact with the whalebone in front of my corset. By then my father was ready for him. Papa made me drop the crowbar. The greasy Gatlin stood alone against the two of us—or more like, one and a half of us—but it was enough for him to lose his nerve. He tried to make it out the front door and Papa blocked the entrance. One of Papa’s spaghetti straps had slipped off his shoulder, and he pushed it back up and stood there with his hands on his hips. He was breathing heavily, perspiration soaking through the bodice of his dress. Well, it’s come down to you and me, Papa said; man to man. The greasy Gatlin begged Peters to call the sheriff. Peters, who had eavesdropped on the entire conversation while hiding behind his desk, was silent. The Gatlin at the door was close to tears and started whining, Them others made me do it—I ain’t wanted to. And I got a bad heart. Peters can tell you I got a heart condition. Will you tell ’em, Peters? Peters. Yes, it was pathetic. Papa had already made his point; he could have let him go. While my father was exceptional, he wasn’t a saint. He dropped him as hard as the others.

  A sizable crowd had gathered outside, drawn by all the noise inside the locked freighting office. And when we came through the door and walked out to our truck, they parted before us like the Red Sea. I don’t know what was in their faces; I didn’t see them. My father filled my world at that moment. He said we were going straight to the sheriff’s—just as we were—and I would have followed him, dressed like anything, bound for anywhere.

  Stanford wasn’t easy. And I ended up taking a major in something as difficult as mathematics because it was becoming increasingly clear to me that unless I could sit for exams where my use of a given language wasn’t open to question, I wouldn’t get decent grades. In statistics, while F(x) = P(X ≤ x), − ∞ < x < + ∞ may look like Greek and, in fact, is Greek, the F is defined, and so if you’re told to find the value of x at the pth quantile and you find it, they have to give you the grade you deserve. But my English-literature and philosophy papers were always open as to interpretation, execution of style, compelling ideas; and my professors never seemed to find the same degree of depth, the same innate understanding, in my treatments of Beowulf as they did in my peers’. They’d look me straight in the face and say there was something they just couldn’t put their finger on—something crude, something lacking in my essays. With those cultured voices, the pained and gentle air with which they returned the D’s and C’s, I was tempted to think the fault lay within me, that I couldn’t make the snuff. But there were forty other undergraduates of the dark persuasion on campus and when over thirty of us got together and formed the Ethiope League, it was awfully strange how none of them were making the snuff either. Single paranoia? Mass paranoia? Perhaps.

  We decided on a little experiment and I volunteered as the test subject. I had a paper due in my theory class, and a group of us sat up all weekend reworking Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason into contemporary Engl
ish. We literally stole every one of his concepts and put my name on top of the page. I knew I was risking expulsion, but I took the gamble. I shouldn’t have worried; it was the same D. The professor even took me aside after class to suggest that I attempt another major; please, don’t misunderstand; he had agonized greatly over this inevitable conversation, but I just didn’t have the necessary equipment for tackling erudite thought. I thanked him for his concern. Against all advice I switched to mathematics; would have come out with an A average, but those freshmen-year courses had pulled it down to an A –. It was still enough to earn me a scholarship for the graduate program, but hardly enough to keep me out of the draft.

  Father Flanagan wouldn’t have avoided the draft if he’d been colored. By 1942 the armed services found themselves so in love with Negro soldiers that all of those mentally deficient volunteers who had been turned away by the thousands when the war first broke out were now considered more than able to figure out one end of a rifle from another. Love is blind, isn’t it? And if I sound bitter, it’s because I am. There was a massive blood drive going on at school and, like the rest, I went down to the Red Cross to contribute. I found out that they weren’t taking Negro blood at the banks. And there I was with a draft notice in my wallet.

  The hypocrisy of it sickened me, and I thought the three hundred thousand colored men who finally went into the armed forces were fools. The handful of white Stanford students—and it was only a handful—who went into the service were commissioned as officers. They needed those brains to direct the war effort. They told me I was fit only to die. Most of my friends in the Ethiope League had already been drafted—into the infantry, of course, some of them actually believing that they were making the world safe for democracy. I was all for the world embracing democracy; I just didn’t see any way for the Americans to bring it to them.