Booker T & Them: A Blues

20. Which Treats, circa 1911, of Trust & Fulfillment, & the First Sally that Booker T. Takes to View the Ingenious Work of D.W.

( 175 ) Pointed, without protest, to his assigned section, sits. In the dark. Anonymous. Taps his toe against the waiting, wanting to rein in the reel & flicker of his thoughts, day & night bounding beyond his will, like newly foaled fillies: a lynching per week at least; in the coming election Wilson, TR, & Taft likely candidates with little fault to find; unmindful of the privilege of a Tuskegee teachership ungrateful faculty whining & sniping at his authority like Du Bois & the Wells woman. The photo-play begins: HIS TRUST The Faithful Devotion and SelfSacrifice of an Old Negro Servant White actors as blacks; minstrelsy moved forward in this newest form—but used to that: remembers coalblackened-faced whites in the mine at Malden, with their already raw, low-side manner, so begrimed no difference can be told till after Saturday night’s tin tub scrubbing. Civil War South. Master/Husband, sword at his waist, leaving wife & child to join the glorious Gray. Slave George, uncle-aged, good, sober, trusty, always but a step away, vows to look after Missus, Missy, & all. 01 Harris text.indd 175 12/13/11 11:26 AM ( 176 ) Battle rages, the Colonel falls. Little Miss rides George horsey back as sad word & sword arrives. Missus wavers but stays staunch with George’s support, even when vile Yankees loot & torch the homestead—with Missy inside! Takes 2 trips but faithful George saves child & sword. Then provides his homeless charges rough shelter, & sleeps dog-loyal (companion, sentry, protection) outside across his hovel’s threshold. Iris out. The End. Then: HIS TRUST FULFILLED After the war, yet still under manumitted George’s wing, Mother/Widow, passing beloved sword to him, passes. He, secretly deeds “his savings” to daughter for college, & leaves her with good white family. In the dark she thanks the whiteman for her good fortune & weds her English cousin. George in tatters & tempted, thinks thievery, but doesn’t, yet is exiled still. But his trust fulfilled, sits at home, selfless, with the symbolic sword. Iris out. The End. So struck near dumb is BT as the stories rise before & in him—like Sunday morning sun back at his first bright, unhaunted childhood moments in the home of Mrs. Viola Ruffner—that only after the action stops & the lights rise realizes there’s been a piano player all along; like a ghostly, knowing guide clueing, accompanying, cuing to feelings, thoughts. 01 Harris text.indd 176 12/13/11 11:26 AM ( 177 ) Urge to leap up, sing out at what he’s just seen, like besotted sinner coming to sweet Je-sus; rail against the coalface mountain of silence of (in)difference from the others in attendance, rising, gathering to shuffle, unconverted, out. Hope! He wants to run to block the Exit & shout. The reward of Loyalty & Trust. This, Hallelujah, is it! Hope! The rock on which to build our new prayer house, don’t you see! Thinks: This Griffith, a Southerner loves the South & its many parts as much as I! We in our secret, oft’-denied humanity; in our separate darkness, separated but singular in need; in our 1 blind blood; 1 throbbing blind heart; 2 teary blind eyes, grope toward each other’s answer of bonds of Trust & affection &, oh yes, Loyalty, through the woeful, intolerable gape between us. Thinks (as he doesn’t often) of art: Perhaps (with this new form—Southern. American. More than fancies of kings, knights, & swords) is Art with reason for it. & it does have its place. Is a new bag of tricks & way of showing our (mine & this Griffith’s) love of what we love, then, now, & to be. Is Art more moving than Church. Is dug from a deeper vein, a richer lode, running back the length of my life, of my being, to the quivering pap of the formation of my soul & heart. The me I am. The gape of Fear, my brothers, BT wants to shout. Fear, Hope’s opposite, that tells us it is better to— 01 Harris text.indd 177 12/13/11 11:26 AM ( 178 ) slay that blind yearning for kindness & trust that cowers in us; better to kill that truth than let it free, be exposed to the wild of slights & serpents. Better to kill it, Fear whispers within the dark, dank & dripping chambers of our own cold-walled hearts; better to cuddle & coo to it as we pinch its nose, seal its mouth, & steel our muscles against its kicks & thrashes till its fierce argument for release is spent, & its pulse has pounded its last, & then, & only then...