Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin
Martin tried to slow
his breathing, “Steady now, Martin, you’re going to pass out if you don’t calm
down, calm down for your mother,” he mused to himself. He struggled to hold it together. He wanted to convince himself that it wasn’t
true – it just couldn’t be so. He
thought that if he could convince himself that his mother wasn’t going to die,
then he could convince her that it couldn’t be true, that the Jesus she loved
wouldn’t send this whirlwind into their lives.
Amanda Johnson knew her
son, and she knew that he would spend his last penny on doctors and second
opinions. She took her right hand and
gently placed it on the side of Martin’s face.
This was a mother’s touch, magic she’d used since he was a baby. She would hum and place his left cheek in her
hand and it would always calm Martin down, his crying turned to whimpers and
whimpers soon to peaceful sleep. It
still worked; with just a touch from her hand, the storm raging inside him
suddenly went silent. She looked into
his eyes, into his soul and without saying a word gave him understanding. He knew it was true, he knew the most
important person in his world would soon appear only in photographs. He knew a piece of him would also disappear. He knew she was alright and had accepted it,
and he knew that he would never be alright.
There it was – that song she always hummed…..he knew the words.
Yes
Jesus loves me
Yes
Jesus loves me
Yes
Jesus loves me…….for the Bible…….
“Martin you’re
different than other men, even as a boy you were different.” Amanda was still
touching his face gently, looking into his eyes. “When your father was a boy in Mississippi,
he was visited by a man traveling through the town where he grew up.” Amanda
paused and stroked Martin’s forehead as if he was a small boy, smiling. “This man told your father that he was going
to have a son with a special gift and a call that would change many lives,” she
said. “This man who your father believed
wasn’t from this world said that you would either impact many lives for good or
for evil.”
Martin took her hand
from his forehead and held it gently. “Mom,
I don’t want to hear about anything my dad might have said or thought right now. He’s not here and has never been here for us,”
Martin said firmly.
Suddenly there was a
tap on the door and a throat cleared. “’Scuse
me, ya’ll ok in there?” It was the Pastor come to retake his office.
“Oh my, we’ve been in
here quite a while, sorry, Pastor Robinson, we’re coming right out,” Amanda apologized. “Martin, we have to continue this
conversation. What I have to tell you is
important and could change the direction of your life,” Amanda said wiping any
leftover moisture from her eyes.
Martin walked down the
steps of the church and strolled into the parking lot. His mother stayed behind to catch up with
Pastor Robinson.
“Hey Mister Martin,” a
female voice greeted him as he opened his car door. It was Sarah; she had waited for Martin,
sitting in her car in front of his car.
“Sarah, listen, I’m not
up to talking right now. It’s been a
difficult day and I feel really tore down right now,” Martin said – not looking
in her direction.
“Fine, you jerk, you
hit and run fake Christian, you just like da rest of dem fake phony ministers
in dis fake church,” Sarah preached poison from her pain and smoked the rear
tires as she protested Martin’s lack of interest in conversation.
“Guess I’ll be looking
for another gig,” Martin thought, knowing that Sarah was favorite niece to the
Pastor and the Robinsons were on every board in the church.
On the drive home,
Martin retreated into a state of cognitive dissonance after being broadsided by
the revelation of his mother’s terminal condition. He could not yet accept the death of the life
that had sustained his life for so many years.
He had not yet accepted the death of his father and felt somehow that he
now had to dive deeper into his father’s life to properly grieve his father, to
prepare to grieve for his mother, and to finally know how to live without both
of them.
That night Martin
conversed with demons and angels who kept him up turning like a door on its
hinges. One voice condemned him for
sleeping with Sarah, one voice kept repeating, “More Death, More Death, Where
is God in ALL THIS DEATH?” Another voice, soft almost like a whisper, would be
heard between the screams of the other two, “God has a plan. A traveling man was sent and will return.” Then
out of the corner of his eye, Martin would see a figure, a man standing at the
door of his bedroom, but when he would put his glasses on and focus there was
nothing, just a feeling and a presence. At
3 AM, Martin sat up in his bed and yelled, “ENOUGH!” And the voices went silent.
His mind was confused
and he wondered about what was real and what just an illusion. He got out of bed and stumbled toward his
bathroom. Martin didn’t want to bother
his mother at this time of the morning, so he thought he would spend some time
in the shower washing away the cobwebs from his mind. Martin seemed to receive inspiration in the
shower. It was like the feel of water
washing over his flesh and the sound of the spray somehow cleansed and inspired
his soul. Martin called in to work the
day after his mother’s confession, taking an emotional day off. He stayed in bed until noon trying to silence
his fears by refusing to accept the awful truth about his mom. He thought that repeating some scriptures
over and over in his mind would chase away fear and somehow relieve the
stabbing pain in his chest, but it wasn’t working. “Dude, pull yourself together, get a grip,
this thing might not happen anyway. How
could God do this to you?” he thought. He
rose from his tomb and headed for the shower.
Once in, he turned the hot water up as high as he could stand it and
allowed the water to pour down his head and over his body. “I refuse to believe she’s going to leave me,”
he swallowed as if this thought was hard to get down. Then his thoughts began to focus on his
father. He really didn’t know anything
about his father’s childhood and his father had never told him how he’d lost
his left hand. “Who was my father really?
What’s his story and what kind of upbringing did he have?” he thought. Shutting off the water and wrapping himself
in a towel, Martin walked into his closet, reached for the pants he wore the
previous day and dug out his iPhone. The
touch of one button dialed his father’s younger brother, Cyprus. “Yea, Uncle Cyprus, this is Martin Jr….yea,
yea, good and you? Listen, I was wondering if I could spend some time with you. No everything is ok, I just needed to ask you
some questions about my father. OK, six
is fine with me. I’ll see you then.” Martin
hung up.
Martin pulled into the
driveway of a Victorian three-story home built around 1900 at 6:05 PM. He drove his Vette, hoping it would make him
feel better on the way there – for some reason, he was extremely nervous. His uncle Cyprus was his father’s younger
brother, a retired columnist for the Tribune.
He seemed an OK guy, but for some reason Martin always felt a little
uneasy around him. He seems to look at
you as if you had something in your teeth and he wasn’t going to tell you it
was there. And although he was Harvard educated
and a published author, his speech patterns placed him in the back woods of
Mississippi. Martin always felt the man
kept a lot of secrets and they would surface in his facial expressions, causing
him to throw looks that didn’t fit the context of the conversation you might be
having with him.
Martin exited his car and started to
walk up the long sidewalk to the house. As
Martin approached the porch, a voice greeted him.
“Hello MJ, boy don’t
you look like yo’ beautiful mama,” Uncle Cyprus said through a smile.
“Hey Uncle, how are
you?” Martin returned the greeting. It was
dusk and the porch light was on behind Cyprus outlining the silhouette of a 6’
5” black Big Bird.
“Well, boy, I’ve been
waiting for you to come see me. Here,
sit down and tell me what brings you out this way?” Cyprus said, his face now
shifting to a serious glare.
“Uncle, are you well? How’s
everybody doing? How’s …”
Cyprus interrupted, “Hold
on Martin. Arcella, could you bring Martin,
Jr. and me some iced tea please baby?”
A voice came through
the screen door, “Hello, MJ…coming right out baby,” Arcella replied.
“Everybody’s good boy. It’s really good to see you. When’s the last time we got together, oh what
two years before Able passed at the family reunion?” Martin hated the nickname
“Able.” His father’s family used this strange name for his father.
“Uncle, why do you call
my dad by that name?” Martin asked respectfully.
“That’s a deep question
son, you sure you want to know?” Cyprus said.
“Sometimes the past is better left right where it happened, in the past. But I guess that’s why you’re here, right? You
want to know ‘bout your daddy’s childhood…..right?” The screen door opened and
a woman in her sixties skillfully came through it negotiating the door with her
right hip while holding a tray with a giraffe and two glasses containing ice
cubes and iced tea. “Oh dang girl, that
looks nice. Dats why I keeps you around.”
Cyprus was openly flirting with his wife, openly staring at her hips as she
strolled onto the porch. Arcella placed
the refreshments on the small table between Martin and Cyprus. The old man’s flirts made Arcella’s woman
sway her hips just a little wider than need be as she swaggered back through
the door. “Oh yea, that’s my baby, girl. Still fine as the first day we met, still
makes my heart do double time,” Cyprus said suppressing a boyish laugh.
“I heard that and you’d
better just calm down, you know that heart can’t take no stress, Cy,” Arcella
spoke from inside the house.
Cyprus chuckled, his
eyes squinting as he held back a belly laugh.
“Yea, nephew, the old man’s ticker is shot. I’m on borrowed time and blessed to be alive
right now,” Cyprus said.
“Oh uncle, I didn’t
know. Maybe this was a bad idea. I didn’t know you were sick,” Martin said.
“Nonsense, MJ, besides,
ain’t nothing better than talking about that father of yours, well at least
nothing I can do in this condition,” Cyprus said again chuckling. “Dat father of your’n was a great man. We was blessed to be in his presence. God saw fit to give me dis great man of God
as a brother,” Cyprus looked out into the now dark yard as he spoke.
“Great……Great…..Uncle,
why do you think my dad was such a great man?” Martin was trying to hold back
anger as he spoke. “And why the name
Able? There was plenty he wasn’t able to do,” Martin was losing control.
“Wait a minute, MJ, I
can’t let you speak ‘bout my brother like dat.” Cyprus’s heart started to beat
faster at Martin’s words. “We called him
Able cause of the sacrifice he made for the whole family, a more than
acceptable sacrifice……..I guess you don’t know how your father lost his left
hand……..I guess you don’t know how he save every black family in Union
Mississippi……nigger I guess you ain’t never heard ‘bout dat night…….no I don’t
think you even know your father.” Cyprus was standing, his eyes fixed on Martin
and his anger atop a totem pole of guilt.
“Dude, that’s why I’m
here. I’m here for the truth. The truth I know is that he was never there
for me and mom, never around, sacrificing his family for the church, for God. Is that what great men do, uncle?” Martin
matched his uncle’s rage and stood glaring back at him.
The old man froze and his anger began to
withdraw but his heart had started a rhythm that would soon beat out a death
march. Suddenly Cyprus grabbed his chest
and tried to speak but nothing came out of his mouth. He slumped back in his chair trying to slow
his breathing. “Uncle, uncle, you ok?
I’m sorry I didn’t mean to get you riled up.” Cyprus didn’t respond to Martin
but stared at the ceiling of the porch. Cyprus
was fighting for his life and his heart was on the side of his adversary.
Arcella burst through
the door. “Hey old man, you ok, Cy…..you
ok?” She turned to look at Martin.
“I’m sorry,” Martin
said.
“Call 911….NOW!”
Arcella shouted.
Cyprus was leaving,
completing his journey but before he reached his destination he made some stops. He went back to that night in 1933 to Union,
Mississippi. He was a boy of 9, again
terrified because of the fear he saw in his father’s eyes and the men on
horseback in bed sheets holding torches shouting outside. “Bring that little nigger thief out chere or
I’ll order these good Christian men to burn you out….you and da rest of da
niggers up and down dis hollow gonna all die tonigh less’n I get the nigger dat
stole from my store today.”
Jubal Johnson, the
father of Cyprus and young Martin, Sr., turned to the two boys, his shot gun in
his hand and whispered, “What they talk’n bout Martin?”
“Daddy I don’t know.”
Jubal fixed his eyes on
young Cyprus, “Boy, wat you done did now? What kinda devil’s work you done did
now?” Jubal was wet with sweat and fear drenched the atmosphere of the two-room
share cropper’s cabin. “You boy’s got
the wrong niggers!” Jubal shouted. Jubal
put the shotgun down, walked to the door, opened it and stepped outside into
the torch light. Cyprus and Martin
peered through the window. Cyprus could
see 25 to 30 men on horseback and his father first stand and then on his knees,
pleading for the life of himself and his family.
“Cyprus, you see wat
you done caused. I told you not to steel. The good book says don’t be steeling stuff
and now God is punishing us and go’n kill all the niggers in dis valley,” young
Martin, Sr. was talking while looking
out the window at his father.
“Listen, nigger, we
want the little tar baby dat robbed us or we will have all yo’ black hides
hanging in the trees of dis hollow by morning,” the lead clansman declared with
a strange pleasure in his tone. The lead
clansman rode a big pale horse and had a Civil War saber strapped to his side. Cyprus watched in horror as the man walked
his horse close to his father, drew his saber and cut Jubal Johnson across the
face. Cyprus was so terrified that tears
wouldn’t come, then suddenly he heard a scream.
It was their mother who was the community midwife coming back late from
delivering a baby two cabins over. She
was running toward Jubal, screaming and waving her arms. “No…oh No…..we ain’t done nothing! Leave my Jubal be, leave him be…” she
screamed through tears. As she ran to
her husband, one of the horsemen rode up behind her and kicked her in the back,
sending her tumbling ending up on top of her husband – out cold. Jubal held her, his blood dripping down his
cheek onto her forehead.
“Bring dem niggers,
hang and cut him; you boys can have a little dark meat before we string her up
right long side her man,” the leader shouted.
Suddenly the cabin door
opened and 12-year-old Martin stepped out and walked toward the horsemen. “No, boy, get back in the house!” Jubal
yelled. Just as the words left his lips,
a blow from the boot of the lead clansman rendered Jubal unconscious. Cyprus watched as his older brother walked
straight toward the leader.
“I’s the one who stole. I’s the one who did it,” Martin said looking
the leader in the eyes. “Well now, looky
here, looky what we got, a nigger with some guts,” the leader said.
“Kill em…..Hot tar dat
nigger….cut ‘em off……chops ‘is head off……” the other riders volunteered
suggestions.
“Ya see dis boys, dis nigger’s got
some courage, trying to save the whole lot, dis is a dangerous nigger,” said
the leader as he walked his horse slowly toward Martin. “Let’s just see how brave you really is
nigger, hold up the hand that offended the white man,” he spoke as he drew his
saber.
Martin held up his left
hand and without delay, the saber whistled through the air cutting clean,
leaving an innocent black hand in the dirt.
Martin fell to his knees and looked up and the leader. “There, is that enough, you got your blood,
you got your sacrifice. You want
more…..COME ON KILL ME……KILL ME THEN…..KILL ME!” young Martin, Sr. shouted.
The lead clansman
sheathed his saber as his horse raised back on its hind legs. “Come on boys, let’s go. Dats enough for
tonight.” The riders disappeared into the dark.
The leader remained on his horse, looking at Martin. Then he dismounted, took off his belt and
tightened it around the end of the boy’s stump.
“I want you to live,
little nigger, to show all the other niggers what happens to those who
disrespect the white man.”
Cyprus came back to the
porch, back to see his wife and Martin, Jr. standing around him in horror. “Martin, you don’t know but dat night, your
daddy saved us all. Your daddy saved us
all!”
“I’m so sorry uncle. Oh God, please don’t let this happen,”
Martin’s heart was breaking.
“Listen, boy, I took
the candy from the store. Your pappy
took the punishment in my place. He
sacrificed and God accepted it like Able,” Cyprus could now only whisper. Arcella held his hand, then buried her face
in his chest as Cy, her lover and friend, took his last breath.
“Lord…..oh Lord….I
didn’t mean to…..oh God, Aunt Arcella,” Martin’s pain stuck in his throat.
“Martin….listen to me,
we had borrowed time from God. Cy was
supposed to be gone six months ago. It’s
not your fault. Now go, leave me with my
husband.”
Martin, Jr. stumbled
off the porch in disbelief. There was
the voice again, “Death, all this Death, where is God in all this?” Tears ran
down his face and his mind raced. For
the first time in his life, Martin started to wonder if death was an option for
him.
Martin sat in his Vette
and turned the key as he peered out into the darkness. “Lord, please forgive me of the wrong I’ve
done and the hurt I’ve caused. Oh God,
be patient with me. Jesus, help me, help
mom and Uncle Cy and Lord……please……heal my mother,” Martin prayed but he heard
nothing.
On his way back to his
apartment, Martin pushed his Vette as fast as the road would allow. The blacktop road on the way to his uncle’s
house featured steep embankments and sheer drop-offs. The tires on his Vette protested as Martin’s
eyes filled with tears. The Vette decided
to go faster and Martin didn’t resist.
Then his cell phone
went off. Martin jumped then answered,
“Hello,” Martin said. “Yeah hello, this
is Olivia,” her voice seemed filled with concern.
Martin was relieved to
hear Olivia’s voice and for a split second took his focus off the road. He didn’t react quickly enough to the next
sharp turn and his Vette leaped over the curb, through the guard rail and
soared airborne down an embankment.
“Hello, Martin, you’ve
been on my mind and I was wondering if we could catch up this weekend?” Olivia
said. But there was no reply. Martin’s phone was dead.
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