The Vulture (17 page)

‘Victories that are cheap are cheap. Those only are worth having which come as a result of hard fighting,’ I.Q. said.

‘Don’t you ever say anything that’s not a quote?’ I asked.

‘I’d like to join BAMBU.’

‘In what capacity?’

‘As a teacher. I can teach practically anything.’

‘All you need is a general statement. You know what I mean. A little thing about yourself in terms of biographical material. You send it in to the central office and they send it to the branch you specify if you have a choice.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘Do you see? Everything I say isn’t a quote.’ With that he moved off toward the dance floor.

As he walked away, I was reminded of a quote myself. It was something very practical that Buddha had said: ‘A man should first direct himself in the way he should go. Only then should he instruct others.’

BAMBU originated in August of 1967 in Harlem. That was the time when I first heard of the residents of Harlem asking for more black people to teach in the high schools. They wanted more black courses in the curriculum. Latin was out, because they thought their children should know Swahili. They wanted their children to know more about their roots and heritage. For a while there was very little response from the people to the program that BAMBU outlined. It began as a cultural organization where black
dance groups did African numbers and guest speakers came in. By November, however, four older brothers and I began a tutorial program in black history at BAMBU’s 125th Street Liberation School, and the community began to gather interest.

I had been working as a tutor-teacher for four months when the organization decided they were going to expand to all parts of the city. Two buildings were acquired in Brooklyn right away, and then came two more in the lower Bronx. In April Brother Bishop told me that the Chelsea area would be opened because a group of parents known as the Black Community Council was establishing a center for us. When the opening was announced formally to the neighborhood, I was set up as chairman because of my familiarity with the people. I was given April and May to get the building into working condition. Sister Mason worked with me as secretary and accountant. Between the two of us a large number of pamphlets and leaflets were distributed throughout the community and surrounding area.

We gave August 7 as an opening date because I hoped by then I would have a staff of capable workers and teachers. I was learning a lot about trying to organize. I found out how difficult it is to get volunteer help. The brainwashing of black people in America had become more serious than I wanted to believe. As a race we were suffering from taking on the white boy’s value of the dollar. The white boy values the dollar over everything else that he comes in contact with, including his fellow beings. He had become triumphant over the Indians in America because he sought land and power and money to such a degree that human life was secondary.

By the end of June I had been advertising the fact that a branch of BAMBU was organizing in the community and would need volunteer help in terms of the teaching and
maintenance. The maintenance was taken care of by Sister Mason’s brother, who would also run the projector for the films I had ordered. The books that had been sent for were simply shoved into a corner until I got to them, because I didn’t have anyone to check them and shelve them. The rest of the people who came by the office were high-school students who were willing to run errands but honestly did not have the real qualifications to do anything in the classroom. That was why I was pleased when I.Q. said that he wanted to join us. He was a high-school graduate with a scholarship to Columbia, and I knew that he was intelligent. All of the applications were handled by the same box number, but after they were screened and a check made by the central office on qualifications, they were sent to the area chairman for approval or rejection on the basis of a personal interview. I.Q.’s application would naturally come to me.

The last week of June I found it impossible to get to the office. I had my final exams and graduation practice and a million other things to do. I took a leave of absence and left things with Sister Mason. I told her that I wanted to be sure and pass the exams and get the hell away from under the white man’s structure. I was thinking about that as John’s party started to get mellow. The forty-fives were replaced by a few Latin jams. Eddie Palmieri, Tito Puente, Cal Tjader, and Joe Bataan took over for a half-hour, and then came Little Anthony and Smoky and grinding couples. I laid low while the women got their heads together. I don’t think I’d ever seen so much rum disappear in my life. I thought of the busy weeks ahead of me. I would start with N’Bala on Monday. I would work there from nine until three and then go to the center from four until ten. This would go on five days a week. I didn’t know if I was ready, but that was what was happening.

July 12, 1968

I went straight home from the center on Friday night. Sister Mason and I had painted the lobby and stopped about nine when we decided we wouldn’t be able to finish another stroke before collapsing. At times I almost forgot that the sister was working two jobs like I was. She came in punctually every day and worked as long as I asked her to with no complaints, but when I stopped to think about her, she was hurrying on her way home. I got home about nine-thirty and made myself a couple of sandwiches. I had no sooner sat down to eat when the phone rang.

‘Brother Hall?’ someone asked.

‘Yes?’

‘Brother Hall, you have a possible teacher in your center by the name of Ivan Quinn.’ I said yes. I had just received I.Q.’s application that afternoon. ‘I don’t think you would appreciate Mr Quinn’s services very much if you saw the type of black man he really is. Why don’t you follow him tonight? He’ll be leaving his house about ten o’clock.’

The words ‘ten o’clock’ were followed by a click on the other end of the line. I checked my watch and saw that it was already a quarter to ten. I gave Websta a call. The phone rang four times before Websta answered groggily.

‘Web, this is Afro,’ I said. ‘Look, brother, I was wondering if I could borrow your car for an hour or two?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s parked right across the street from here. You comin’ over?’

‘I’m gonna be in a semihurry. I’ll be there in about five minutes.’

‘Okay. I’ll put the key under the mat. I gotta get some sack.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘No sweat. Put the key back under the mat when you’re through.’

That was a beautiful brother. He was always willing to give a hand when it was needed, without a whole lot of questions. I ate the sandwich on the run and made it from my place on 22nd Street to Websta’s on 15th Street in little or no time. The key was under the mat, and I found the 1962 Oldsmobile parked just as I had been told. I swung it out into traffic and circled north on Tenth Avenue and then east on 20th Street. New York streets are generally set up so that the odd-numbered streets go one-way west and the even numbers are one-way east. The avenues with odd numbers generally go downtown and the even numbers go uptown. I pulled up about five cars behind I.Q.’s parked blue Volkswagen.

I still didn’t know what I was doing or why. At ten o’clock I.Q. still hadn’t come out of the house. I started to think about the whole situation, and I felt a little embarrassed. Who was I to distrust another brother and follow information given me by a man who wouldn’t identify himself? But, I decided, if I.Q. wasn’t doing anything, I wouldn’t see anything. I sat for another five minutes before he came out.

I.Q. wheeled into the street and pointed toward Ninth Avenue. At Ninth he swung downtown to 18th Street and went back to Eighth Avenue. At Eighth he started uptown. I stayed just far enough back to see him without his noticing me. It was clear now that the call I got was at least partially correct, but what was the significance?

We stayed on Eighth Avenue all the way to 59th Street and Columbus Circle. There we took a right turn and started toward the East Side on Central Park South. I was still about five car lengths behind him. At Lexington Avenue I.Q. turned into a parking space and got out. I parked a few yards back and watched. He stood on the corner of
Lexington Avenue and 59th Street smoking a cigarette. He was clean as a whistle, as usual. He was a little under six feet, dark-complexioned, with a very flat nose and thick bush. He was vined in an open-throated white shirt with olive slacks. There was a string of shark’s teeth around his throat. Aside from that, he had on the usual wire-framed sunglasses.

Another five minutes passed before I saw what was going to happen. A blazing red 1968 Firebird pulled up at the corner, and I.Q. got in. I took off in pursuit, but this car would be a whole lot harder to lose than I.Q.’s Volkswagen. At Second Avenue there was a right-hand turn, and the late-evening traffic was light enough to clear a path all the way to Canal Street. I fell almost a block behind, timing things so that I still caught the lights. The Firebird gave a left-hand-turn signal between 32nd Street and 31st and swung off down a parking ramp. I was sure that the two of them would be coming back up the ramp, so I parked across the street and watched. There could be no denying anything now that I had seen things with my own eyes. But who called me and told me what would take place? The two of them came back to ground level and walked arm-in-arm through the door that led to the Festival Motor Inn. I merely nodded and drove off.

I.Q. was screwing a devil!

July 27, 1968 / 11:35 P.M.

‘I got to talk to you, Afro. Wait up!’

After walking Natalie home I stopped in the park on 17th Street. I knew that I.Q. had been following me, waiting for an opportunity to see me alone. I had waited for almost half an hour when it started to sprinkle slightly, so I got up to leave.
That was when I.Q. hailed me. He was coming in from the 16th Street side of the park.

After catching him with the chick, I stalled for a couple of days before I sent back the rejection. I hadn’t known exactly what I would say when I met him and he asked me about it. I decided that since he didn’t know I was the one who would inevitably accept or reject his application, I wouldn’t tell him anything at all.

‘I got this in the mail today,’ he said. He passed me the letter with the rejection notice stamped across his application. I went through the motions of reading it.

‘I wonder why?’ I asked.

‘One cannot know everything,’ he quoted. He didn’t know anything at all. I had him fooled.

‘What were your papers like? I mean, what were the references like?’ I continued to play the game.

‘I had knowledge of naught but victory, but defeat has shown me only a clearer road. It is only a detour to better things.’

‘You don’t mind being rejected?’

‘Sorrows are like thunderclouds,’ I.Q. said. ‘In the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.’

One of those thunderclouds opened up just then and sent us scampering for the cover of José’s awning.

You’re a hard man to deal with, Brother Quinn, I was thinking. It’s always hard to help a brother defeat himself.

July 29, 1968

I was sitting in Natalie’s room with her mother. We were talking about the ‘movement’ and about my work in particular.

‘BAMBU is the type of organization that black people have
been after in this area for a long time. Our parents have felt it necessary that our children be taught our native language and learn more about the contributions black people have made to the world.’ Mrs Walker had asked about the place I thought BAMBU might take in the community.

‘And what type of stands will your organization be taking?’ she asked. ‘Will you be pro-violence?’ She had already told me that she was a Howard graduate and read everything she could get her hands on. ‘I’m referring to groups like the Black Panthers. I wonder if that’s really how our young people feel?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, do you really feel as though there is nothing else we can do but go out into the streets with guns strapped to our bodies as though we were living in the Old West and shoot everybody in sight?’

‘I didn’t realize that that was the policy or program of the Panthers.’

‘You’ve seen them, I’m sure. They carry guns and wear berets. And what do they feel themselves capable of? I mean, let’s be realistic, Mr Hall. What can several hundred young blacks do with pistols against the United States Army?’

‘I think you’re missing the point,’ I said as lightly as I could. ‘The Panthers, to my knowledge, have never attacked the police force or any group of individuals for any reason. They claim they wear their firearms for protection. You know how difficult it is to defend yourself sometimes in the ghetto.’

‘
You
are being very idealistic,’ she said. ‘Of course that’s what the Panthers
say
they are wearing the guns for. But in the meantime, they are constantly baiting the policemen and obstructing their duties.’

‘The policemen in most cities and towns are not the servants of black people. If you will remember the reason for the riots
in 1964 in Harlem and the riot in Watts, they were because a black youth had died at the hands of a white policeman. Beg pardon, that was here. In Watts a man was taking his wife to the hospital for the deliverance of their child, and the policeman claimed his gun accidentally went off. The police force in this country is only an extension of the government.’

‘Let me ask you this,’ Mrs Walker began. ‘What chance do you think the Negroes in America would have in all-out war?’

‘The census says that we are outnumbered ten to one.’

‘You know that that does not answer my question,’ she said. ‘But you can still follow the train of thought . . . What do you feel are the best answers in the racial situation? Is the best method violence or nonviolence?’

‘Idealistically, I would say nonviolence, but black people are becoming very impatient as far as that is concerned. Black people have lived the lives of second-class human beings in the past and are simply getting fed up.’

‘Is this the way you feel? You know, it’s very disheartening to see young people without hopes and dreams for better days ahead.’