I Am the American Negro (collection)/I Am the American Negro

by Frank Marshall Davis

For works with similar titles, see I Am the American Negro.

I AM THE AMERICAN NEGRO
(A sequence to be imagined)

A very small, dark lad dressed in a linen robe of dazzling whiteness stands speaking on a busy corner. Passers-by gaze at him curiously. Some stop while others hurry on, but his voice carries his words evenly until he has finished.

"Amid the colossal cacaphoniesthe strident symphoniesof your sprawling steel millsof your star-snatching skyscrapersof your bellowing freights and expressesof your rich-loamed farm landsof your lusty cities and your crawling townsamid your frenzied hallelujahsto a mighty masqueraderto a robot of levers and wiresyou call either God or ProgressI lift up my small voice . . . .I, a numerical nonentityin your already forgottentwelve million brown stepchildren . . . .Will you listen awhile?There is much I would say."

***

The scene vanishes.

Now is shown the interior of a tall temple in semi-darkness. The dim figure of a giant of indeterminate brown, his arms and legs shackled, is faintly seen, kneeling before an altar. There is heard the low monotony of a prayer. White faces peer through the dark windows showing increased satisfaction at every word.

"Lord, have pity on me!From my soul's depth I speakIt is truth You hearAlthough my words have a strange sound—For I am the American Negro!I am a man apart . . . ."

A mist falls over the faces at the windows. A strong white light plays on the kneeling giant's features. The jangle of the shackles on his arms beats a tom-tom rhythm to the words that come first slowly and deliberately, and then more quickly from his mouth.

"I, the American Negro, am a rainbow race, a kaleidoscopic breed found only in this land.In my veins runs the blood of Caucasian Europe and of the Indians of America for my slave women were tempting to their white masters and my men came to the New World with Cortes.In me is a monstrous union of many African tribes . . . tribes who were mortal enemies in the deep green jungles of the great dark continent.Yet I do not value my savage ancestry for my white folk tell me black Africa has given nothing to civilization . . . my historians sing of the golden glories of the ancient empires . . . of Mandingo, Benin, Yoruba; of old Timbuctoo, Kana, Zimbabwe, Zegzeg, of the great king Abuade Izchia but I will neither listen nor believe for no white lips have phrased these words, and therefore they cannot be true.
My dream is to be physically white . . . so I straighten my kinks, bleach my skin and look down on those darker than I . . . For myself I build pale gods to serve . . . whatever white folk do I imitate."

***

The voice of the giant grows louder. The jangle of his chains almost drowns out his words. He stops kneeling and stands erect, his head thrown back, blood trickling from his legs where the shackles dig into his flesh. Great drops of sweat glisten on his forehead. The white faces at the window reappear and smiles play on their features.

"But most of all, dear Lord, I have no guts and I refuse to heed the law of self-preservation.I cry . . . yet I will not heal those ills bringing tears to my eyes.I will not support men and movements battling for my betterment.I will not pool my dollars to fight in the courts atrocities committed against me or illegal laws denying rights guaranteed by the Constitution of my country.I will not unite my resources to found businesses giving jobs to my people nor will I lend wholehearted support to enterprises run by men and women of my race.

I send my young to college and then I let them go forth as graduates into hotels as waiters and bellhops, into railway stations as redcaps for I have no work they may do but teach or sell insurance.If I am lynched or shot or my women raped I will complain in low whispers to my black brothers and sisters . . . more I dare not do.I am afraid to protect myself against anything white."

***

Great veins stand out in the giant's throat. His hands claw the air before him. His body rocks and sways. His hair mats against his forehead from the sweat that pours from his body and mixes with the small ooze of warm, red blood.

"I grin, I dance, I sing. I am the minstrel man for white America!I am a hodge-podge of paradox, a crazy collection of inconsistencies.Seldom to myself and before no whites dare I confess these traits.Pity me, Lord, for there is none other like me . . .I am the American Negro!"

***

Suddenly the temple is brilliantly lighted. The giant—still chained, still erect—raises his arms above his head. His face changes constantly, chameleon-like, from milky white to inky black. Then the light fades and the giant stands still. As he speaks, the white listeners cease their smiles and, one by one, leave the windows. Only one or two remain. His voice is low, deliberate . . . the tones firm and even . . . he drops wearily to the floor with his hands in an attitude of prayer before him.

"And yet, Lord, with my weakness there is strength for who but I could carry these bonds and still exist?I have given America loyalty unequalled in man's history.From the loins of my brown women, sons have come forth to fight and die for a democracy that may lynch the survivors.I have planted seed deep in the womb of the good earth and reaped only cotton  . . . and mobs . . . and peonage.I am the public martyr for America's arena . . . I gave Crispus Attucks at the Boston Tea Party and today I am handed Scottsboro, in Alabama.My country's papers give me front page headlines for my murderers and one paragraph beside the want ad section for my men of letters and science."God the Father" and "Love thy Neighbor" shout my white brothers in Christ from behind the doors of their gaudy churches slammed shut and locked when I seek to enterWriters sling buckets of ink to show the skin You gave me proves inferiority . . . purses bulge with cash exchanged for the mass privilege of systematic hate.In courts down South I am fodder for chaingang and electric chair since any white convict has more say-so than my Doctors of Philosophy

Only my dollars know no color line . . . and sometimes even they are banned!"

The forehead of the giant wrinkles in a frown. His eyes open, stare before him . . . his face looks puzzled . . . wonderment . . . incomprehension . . . hesitancy . . . amazement . . . all these expressions pass across his countenance. His voice goes on . . . slowly . . . carefully.

"Yet I cannot hate America for this land sprouts out of my bleached bones from Bunker Hill to St. Michel and in my veins flows the blood of these my brother races.But I cannot love America for my back is sore from the welts of prejudice rubbed with the salt of segregation.Lord, what shall I do?"

Beside the giant there suddenly appears a form neither male nor female, neither black or white. It wears tattered clothing and holds its body with stately majesty. The newcomer speaks. The giant turns his head to listen. Fear passes first across his face . . . then as the newcomer goes on in a satin-soft voice the low hum of a mighty choir is heard in the distance . . . the sound gains momentum . . . the music can now be heard quite distinctly . . . yet the satin-soft voice of the speaker is heard above it all . . .

{{ps2|Choir| "Come on
Black man
Grab your hat
Let's get goin'
MMMMmmmmmmmmm

mmmmmmMMMMM"

}}

Voice	"Fathered by Lincoln Mothered by a Civil War Born in the smoke and blood of Spottsylvania Courthouse, Bull Run, Gettysburg. Given the sharp daggers Of three Constitutional Amendments. Clothed in the greatest Civilization known to modern man Then set on the road to town . . . But today You lie sleeping Far, far outside the City Gates."
Choir	"Come on Black man Grab your hat Let's get goin' MMMMmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmMMMMM" {{ps2|Voice|"Singer of hymns, warbler of the blues, picker of cotton, layer of railroad ties . . . poet and bonecrusher . . . big muscles and Ph.D's. America has seen you go to school at Howard, Atlanta, Tuskegee; at Harvard, Oxford, Berlin and come out prattling of Plato and Einstein in sixty different jargons. Poppies in France grow from your blood and flesh . . . San Juan hill knows the victorious tread of black feet . . . but here the story ends. String 'em up in Alabama . . . burn 'em in the hot-seat in Georgia . . . give a cop a bonus for everyone he kills . . . kick 'em till they're down, mister, then kick 'em again for fallin' . . . they're black and they won't fight back." }}
Choir	"Come on Black man Grab your hat Let's get goin' MMMMmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmMMMMM"
Voice	"Arm your Christ with a shotgun . . . hire six attorneys to work with Jehovah . . . teach your priests how to uppercut . . . if David had slung a prayer and a hymn Goliath would have chalked up another win. Sure, we all know there's one of you to nine of them so try to win sitting down . . . but if that won't work let 'em have it, buddy . . . you can't live forever anyhow!" {{ps2|Choir| "Come on Black man Grab your hat Let's get goin' You can't live forever Anyhow! MMMMmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmMMMMM" }}

***

The giant trembles from head to foot . . . his voice rumbles . . . roars . . . as he stands before this stranger . . .

Giant

"Who are you? Who are you? I never saw you before . . ."

The stranger fades into the deepening shadows . . . and as the figure disappears only a satin-smooth voice is heard.

The giant, strengthened by the stranger's words, tears the shackles from his arms. He takes a step forward, forgetting his legs are shackled too . . . He falls crouching on the floor . . . He beats the floor with each heavy, bleeding fist.

Giant	"Who are you? Who are you?"
Voice	"I am experience!"

The giant crawls to the edge of a window. With great agony he draws his body up closer . . . closer . . . closer to the sill . . . Finally he stands erect . . . weak . . . tottering . . . he peers through the window into the coming darkness . . . the low humming sound of the choir can still be heard.

There are no faces left at the windows.

The giant turns . . . looks at the emptiness around him . . . frowns in disgust . . . opens his mouth to speak when the temple falls in a crash . . . and the voice of the giant is stilled.

The low, satin-soft voice he heard is drowned out by the rolling tumble of loose, crashing stones . . . these stones that formed the temple of America's Social System end the life and problems of the Negro giant as they collapse.

Barely audible above the din there sounds the laughter of the gods . . .