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291 The Black Eagle of Harlem SHANE WHITE, STEPHEN GARTON, STEPHEN ROBERTSON, AND GRAHAM WHITE It was all so much more innocent back then. In the spring of 1923 Americans were still enraptured with the sheer romance of flight, the authorities had not yet taken control of the airspace over cities, and, seemingly, pilots were pretty much free to do as they pleased. Thus it was that late in the afternoon, on Sunday, April 30, three planes took off from Curtis Field on Long Island, maneuvered into formation, and headed for Manhattan. Clarence Chamberlin, a pioneer aviator and later transatlantic flier, piloted the lead plane and, bundled in the passenger seat with his newly purchased parachute, was Hubert Julian, a recent émigré, originally from Trinidad. Moments after the planes reached Harlem, flying low at less than 3,500 feet, the pilots exploded several noise bombs, prompting many surprised whites living in Washington Heights to take to the streets in order to discover what was going on.To most Harlem residents, however, the bombs were superfluous ; for weeks, hand-painted signs emblazoned with the simple, if opaque, message “Watch the clouds,” had been plastered all over the Black Metropolis . The black adventurer had rented a vacant lot on the corner of Seventh Avenue and 140th Street and had had nailed to the fence around his target placards entreating locals to “WATCH THE CLOUDS THIS SUNDAY—JULIAN IS ARRIVING FROM THE SKY HERE.” The postscript—“Admission: $1.00”— was in smaller print. On the previous Sunday, Julian had made his first attempt to parachute into Harlem, but everything had gone wrong. The wind had been far too strong and, just seconds after the jump had been called off, the plane containing Julian had developed engine trouble. As a result, Julian’s plane had been forced to skim along only feet above the Harlem River and swoop under the narrow span of Hell Gate Bridge before sputtering its uncertain way back to Curtis Field. Now, however, a week later, everything seemed ready. If nothing else, Harlem loved a spectacle. Julian would later recall in his autobiography (as told to John Bulloch) that, as he and his companions 292 WHITE, GARTON, ROBERTSON, AND WHITE flew low over the city streets, “we could see the people pouring out of every building,” and that thousands of black faces “seemed to be staring up as we cruised around.” The lead plane separated from its escort and almost slowed to a stall, and then, over 141st street and Riverside Drive, Julian clambered out onto the wing, lay down, and rolled off into seeming oblivion as his plane peeled away. Moments later, Julian ripped a hole in the fifteen-pound bag of flour that he was carrying, causing “a dramatic long white trail for the 500 feet or so I fell freely.” That was hardly the end of the drama. Julian was garbed in skin-tight livid scarlet tights and tunic, a “devil costume” he had rented from a theatrical shop, and after his parachute opened, he unfurled a large banner that fluttered behind him announcing that “HOENIG OPTICAL IS OPEN TODAY.” In the event, Julian missed his target, only just avoided serious injury on the Eighth Avenue El, and landed on the roof of the post office on 140th Street. Meanwhile, on the streets below, there was bedlam. According to the Daily Star, as Julian jumped from the plane, motorists commenced “a hideous din of squalling horns.” Furthermore, the crush of tens of thousands of blacks looking skyward and chasing a black Mephisto rapidly descending in a parachute nearly caused several automobile accidents and did result in the smashing of several plate glass windows and the tearing from its stanchions of the iron railing around the post office. Meanwhile, Julian calmly packed up his chute, put on and adjusted a sash urging the use of a St. Louis hair straightener, descended the post office’s fire escape, and jumped the last ten feet into the arms of the waiting crowd. Several blacks then hoisted the intrepid black daredevil onto their shoulders and carried him off in triumph to Liberty Hall on 138th Street. No one could ever have accused Hubert Julian of failing to make an entrance. Liberty Hall was, of course, the headquarters of Marcus Garvey’s Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA). It took some time for the crowd to shuffle in and settle down, but as soon as there was quiet, Julian began reading out a...

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