1MY life now depended upon my finding work, and I was so anxious that I accepted the first offer, a job as a porter in a clothing store selling cheap goods to Negroes on credit. The shop was always crowded with black men and women pawing over cheap suits and dresses. And they paid whatever price the white man asked. The boss, his son, and the clerk treated the Negroes with open contempt, pushing, kicking, or slapping them. No matter how often I witnessed it, I could not get used to it. How can they accept it? I asked myself. I kept on edge, trying to stifle my feelings and never quite succeeding, a prey to guilt and fear because I felt that the boss suspected that I resented what I saw.

2One morning, while I was polishing brass out front, the boss and his son drove up in their car. A frightened black woman sat between them. They got out and half dragged and half kicked the woman into the store. White people passed and looked on without expression. A white policeman watched from the corner, twirling his night stick; but he made no move. I watched out of the corner of my eyes, but I never slackened the strokes of my chamois upon the brass. After a moment or two I heard shrill screams coming from the rear room of the store; later the woman stumbled out, bleeding, crying, holding her stomach, her clothing torn. When she reached the sidewalk, the policeman met her, grabbed her, accused her of being drunk, called a patrol wagon and carted her away.

3When I went to the rear of the store, the boss and his son were washing their hands at the sink. They looked at me and laughed uneasily. The floor was bloody, strewn with wisps of hair and clothing. My face must have reflected my shock, for the boss slapped me reassuringly on the back.

4“Boy, that’s what we do to niggers when they don’t pay their bills,” he said.

5His son looked at me and grinned.

6“Here, hava cigarette,” he said.

7Not knowing what to do, I took it. He lit his and held the match for me. This was a gesture of kindness, indicating that, even if they had beaten the black woman, they would not beat me if I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

8“Yes, sir,” I said.

9After they had gone, I sat on the edge of a packing box and stared at the bloody floor until the cigarette went out.

10The store owned a bicycle which I used in delivering purchases. One day, while returning from the suburbs, my bicycle tire was punctured. I walked along the hot, dusty road, sweating and leading the bicycle by the handle bars.

11A car slowed at my side.

12“What’s the matter there, boy?” a white man called.

13I told him that my bicycle was broken and that I was walking back to town.

14“That’s too bad,” he said. “Hop on the running board.”

15He stopped the car. I clutched hard at my bicycle with one hand and clung to the side of the car with the other.

16“All set?”

17“Yes, sir.”

18The car started. It was full of young white men. They were drinking. I watched the flask pass from mouth to mouth.

19“Wanna drink, boy?” one asked.

20The memory of my six-year-old drinking came back and filled me with caution. But I laughed, the wind whipping my face.

21“Oh, no!” I said.

22The words were barely out of my mouth before I felt something hard and cold smash me between the eyes. It was an empty whisky bottle. I saw stars, and fell backwards from the speeding car into the dust of the road, my feet becoming entangled in the steel spokes of the bicycle. The car stopped and the white men piled out and stood over me.

23“Nigger, ain’t you learned no better sense’n that yet?” asked the man who hit me. “Ain’t you learned to say sir to a white man yet?”

24Dazed, I pulled to my feet. My elbows and legs were bleeding. Fists doubled, the white man advanced, kicking the bicycle out of the way.

25“Aw, leave the bastard alone. He’s got enough,” said one.

26They stood looking at me. I rubbed my shins, trying to stop the flow of blood. No doubt they felt a sort of contemptuous pity, for one asked:

27“You wanna ride to town now, nigger? You reckon you know enough to ride now?”

28“I wanna walk,” I said simply.

29Maybe I sounded funny. They laughed.

30“Well, walk, you black sonofabitch!”

31Before they got back into their car, they comforted me with:

32“Nigger, you sure ought to be glad it was us you talked to that way. You’re a lucky bastard, ’cause if you’d said that to some other white man, you might’ve been a dead nigger now.”

33I was learning rapidly how to watch white people, to observe their every move, every fleeting expression, how to interpret what was said and what left unsaid.

34Late one Saturday night I made some deliveries in a white neighborhood. I was pedaling my bicycle back to the store as fast as I could when a police car, swerving toward me, jammed me into the curbing.

35“Get down, nigger, and put up your hands!” they ordered.

36I did. They climbed out of the car, guns drawn, faces set, and advanced slowly.

37“Keep still!” they ordered.

38I reached my hands higher. They searched my pockets and packages. They seemed dissatisfied when they could find nothing incriminating. Finally, one of them said:

39“Boy, tell your boss not to send you out in white neighborhoods at this time of night.”

40“Yes, sir,” I said.

41I rode off, feeling that they might shoot at me, feeling that the pavement might disappear. It was like living in a dream, the reality of which might change at any moment.

42Each day in the store I watched the brutality with growing hate, yet trying to keep my feelings from registering in my face. When the boss looked at me I would avoid his eyes. Finally the boss’s son cornered me one morning.

43“Say, nigger, look here,” he began.

44“Yes, sir.”

45“What’s on your mind?”

46“Nothing, sir,” I said, trying to look amazed, trying to fool him.

47“Why don’t you laugh and talk like the other niggers?” he asked.

48“Well, sir, there’s nothing much to say or smile about,” I said, smiling.

49His face was hard, baffled; I knew that I had not convinced him. He whirled from me and went to the front of the store; he came back a moment later, his face red. He tossed a few green bills at me.

50“I don’t like your looks, nigger. Now, get!” he snapped.

51I picked up the money and did not count it. I grabbed my hat and left.

52I held a series of petty jobs for short periods, quitting some to work elsewhere, being driven off others because of my attitude, my speech, the look in my eyes. I was no nearer than ever to my goal of saving enough money to leave. At times I doubted if I could ever do it.

53One jobless morning I went to my old classmate, Griggs, who worked for a Capitol Street jeweler. He was washing the windows of the store when I came upon him.

54“Do you know where I can find a job?” I asked.

55He looked at me with scorn.

56“Yes, I know where you can find a job,” he said, laughing.

57“Where?”

58“But I wonder if you can hold it,” he said.

59“What do you mean?” I asked. “Where’s the job?”

60“Take your time,” he said. “You know, Dick, I know you. You’ve been trying to hold a job all summer, and you can’t. Why? Because you’re impatient. That’s your big fault.”

61I said nothing, because he was repeating what I had already heard him say. He lit a cigarette and blew out smoke leisurely.

62“Well,” I said, egging him on to speak.

63“I wish to hell I could talk to you,” he said.

64“I think I know what you want to tell me,” I said.

65He clapped me on the shoulder; his face was full of fear, hate, concern for me.

66“Do you want to get killed?” he asked me.

67“Hell, no!”

68“Then, for God’s sake, learn how to live in the South!”

69“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Let white people tell me that. Why should you?”

70“See?” he said triumphantly, pointing his finger at me. “There it is, now! It’s in your face. You won’t let people tell you things. You rush too much. I’m trying to help you and you won’t let me.” He paused and looked about; the streets were filled with white people. He spoke to me in a low, full tone. “Dick, look, you’re black, black, black, see? Can’t you understand that?”

71“Sure. I understand it,” I said.

72“You don’t act a damn bit like it,” he spat.

73He then reeled off an account of my actions on every job I had held that summer.

74“How did you know that?” I asked.

75“White people make it their business to watch niggers,” he explained. “And they pass the word around. Now, my boss is a Yankee and he tells me things. You’re marked already.”

76Could I believe him? Was it true? How could I ever learn this strange world of white people?

77“Then tell me how must I act?” I asked humbly. “I just want to make enough money to leave.”

78“Wait and I’ll tell you,” he said.

79At that moment a woman and two men stepped from the jewelry store; I moved to one side to let them pass, my mind intent upon Griggs’s words. Suddenly Griggs reached for my arm and jerked me violently, sending me stumbling three or four feet across the pavement. I whirled.

80“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

81Griggs glared at me, then laughed.

82“I’m teaching you how to get out of white people’s way,” he said.

83I looked at the people who had come out of the store; yes, they were white, but I had not noticed it.

84“Do you see what I mean?” he asked. “White people want you out of their way.” He pronounced the words slowly so that they would sink into my mind.

85“I know what you mean,” I breathed.

86“Dick, I’m treating you like a brother,” he said. “You act around white people as if you didn’t know that they were white. And they see it.”

87“Oh, Christ, I can’t be a slave,” I said hopelessly.

88“But you’ve got to eat,” he said.

89“Yes, I got to eat.”

90“Then start acting like it,” he hammered at me, pounding his fist in his palm. “When you’re in front of white people, think before you act, think before you speak. Your way of doing things is all right among our people, but not for white people. They won’t stand for it.”

91I stared bleakly into the morning sun. I was nearing my seventeenth birthday and I was wondering if I would ever be free of this plague. What Griggs was saying was true, but it was simply utterly impossible for me to calculate, to scheme, to act, to plot all the time. I would remember to dissemble for short periods, then I would forget and act straight and human again, not with the desire to harm anybody, but merely forgetting the artificial status of race and class. It was the same with whites as with blacks; it was my way with everybody. I sighed, looking at the glittering diamonds in the store window, the rings and the neat rows of golden watches.

92“I guess you’re right,” I said at last. “I’ve got to watch myself, break myself....”

93“No,” he said quickly, feeling guilty now. Someone—a white man—went into the store and we paused in our talk. “You know, Dick, you may think I’m an Uncle Tom, but I’m not. I hate these white people, hate ’em with all my heart. But I can’t show it; if I did, they’d kill me.” He paused and looked around to see if there were any white people within hearing distance. “Once I heard an old drunk nigger say:

94All these white folks dressed so fine

95Their ass-holes smell just like mine.... ”

96I laughed uneasily, looking at the white faces that passed me. But Griggs, when he laughed, covered his mouth with his hand and bent at the knees, a gesture which was unconsciously meant to conceal his excessive joy in the presence of whites.

97“That’s how I feel about ’em,” he said proudly after he had finished his spasm of glee. He grew sober. “There’s an optical company upstairs and the boss is a Yankee from Illinois. Now, he wants a boy to work all day in summer, mornings and evenings in winter. He wants to break a colored boy into the optical trade. You know algebra and you’re just cut out for the work. I’ll tell Mr. Crane about you and I’ll get in touch with you.”

98“Do you suppose I could see him now?” I asked.

99“For God’s sake, take your time!” he thundered at me.

100“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Negroes,” I said. “They take too much time.”

101I laughed, but he was disturbed. I thanked him and left. For a week I did not hear from him and I gave up hope. Then one afternoon Griggs came to my house.

102“It looks like you’ve got a job,” he said. “You’re going to have a chance to learn a trade. But remember to keep your head. Remember you’re black. You start tomorrow.”

103“What will I get?”

104“Five dollars a week to start with; they’ll raise you if they like you,” he explained.

105My hopes soared. Things were not quite so bad, after all. I would have a chance to learn a trade. And I need not give up school. I told him that I would take the job, that I would be humble.

106“You’ll be working for a Yankee and you ought to get along,” he said.

107The next morning I was outside the office of the optical company long before it opened. I was reminding myself that I must be polite, must think before I spoke, must think before I acted, must say “yes sir, no sir,” that I must so conduct myself that white people would not think that I thought I was as good as they. Suddenly a white man came up to me.

108“What do you want?” he asked me.

109“I’m reporting for a job, sir,” I said.

110“O.K. Come on.”

111I followed him up a flight of steps and he unlocked the door of the office. I was a little tense, but the young white man’s manner put me at ease and I sat and held my hat in my hand. A white girl came and began punching the typewriter. Soon another white man, thin and gray, entered and went into the rear room. Finally a tall, red-faced white man arrived, shot me a quick glance and sat at his desk. His brisk manner branded him a Yankee.

112“You’re the new boy, eh?”

113“Yes, sir.”

114“Let me get my mail out of the way and I’ll talk with you,” he said pleasantly.

115“Yes, sir.”

116I even pitched my voice to a low plane, trying to rob it of any suggestion or overtone of aggressiveness.

117Half an hour later Mr. Crane called me to his desk and questioned me closely about my schooling, about how much mathematics I had had. He seemed pleased when I told him that I had had two years of algebra.

118“How would you like to learn this trade?” he asked.

119“I’d like it fine, sir. I’d like nothing better,” I said.

120He told me that he wanted to train a Negro boy in the optical trade; he wanted to help him, guide him. I tried to answer in a way that would let him know that I would try to be worthy of what he was doing. He took me to the stenographer and said:

121“This is Richard. He’s going to be with us.”

122He then led me into the rear room of the office, which turned out to be a tiny factory filled with many strange machines smeared with red dust.

123“Reynolds,” he said to a young white man, “this is Richard.”

124“What you saying there, boy!” Reynolds grinned and boomed at me.

125Mr. Crane took me to the older man.

126“Pease, this is Richard, who’ll work with us.”

127Pease looked at me and nodded. Mr. Crane then held forth to the two white men about my duties; he told them to break me in gradually to the workings of the shop, to instruct me in the mechanics of grinding and polishing lenses. They nodded their assent.

128“Now, boy, let’s see how clean you can get this place,” Mr. Crane said.

129“Yes, sir.”

130I swept, mopped, dusted, and soon had the office and the shop clean. In the afternoons, when I had caught up with my work, I ran errands. In an idle moment I would stand and watch the two white men grinding lenses on the machines. They said nothing to me and I said nothing to them. The first day passed, the second, the third, a week passed and I received my five dollars. A month passed. But I was not learning anything and nobody had volunteered to help me. One afternoon I walked up to Reynolds and asked him to tell me about the work.

131“What are you trying to do, get smart, nigger?” he asked me.

132“No, sir,” I said.

133I was baffled. Perhaps he just did not want to help me. I went to Pease, reminding him that the boss had said that I was to be given a chance to learn the trade.

134“Nigger, you think you’re white, don’t you?”

135“No, sir.”

136“You’re acting mighty like it,” he said.

137“I was only doing what the boss told me to do,” I said.

138Pease shook his fist in my face.

139“This is a white man’s work around here,” he said.

140From then on they changed toward me; they said good morning no more. When I was just a bit slow in performing some duty, I was called a lazy black sonofabitch. I kept silent, striving to offer no excuse for worsening of relations. But one day Reynolds called me to his machine.

141“Nigger, you think you’ll ever amount to anything?” he asked in a slow, sadistic voice.

142“I don’t know, sir,” I answered, turning my head away.

143“What do niggers think about?” he asked.

144“I don’t know, sir,” I said, my head still averted.

145“If I was a nigger, I’d kill myself,” he said.

146I said nothing. I was angry.

147“You know why?” he asked.

148I still said nothing.

149“But I don’t reckon niggers mind being niggers,” he said suddenly and laughed.

150I ignored him. Mr. Pease was watching me closely; then I saw them exchange glances. My job was not leading to what Mr. Crane had said it would. I had been humble, and now I was reaping the wages of humility.

151“Come here, boy,” Pease said.

152I walked to his bench.

153“You didn’t like what Reynolds just said, did you?” he asked.

154“Oh, it’s all right,” I said smiling.

155“You didn’t like it. I could see it on your face,” he said.

156I stared at him and backed away.

157“Did you ever get into any trouble?” he asked.

158“No, sir.”

159“What would you do if you got into trouble?”

160“I don’t know, sir.”

161“Well, watch yourself and don’t get into trouble,” he warned.

162I wanted to report these clashes to Mr. Crane, but the thought of what Pease or Reynolds would do to me if they learned that I had “snitched” stopped me. I worked through the days and tried to hide my resentment under a nervous, cryptic smile.

163The climax came at noon one summer day. Pease called me to his workbench; to get to him I had to go between two narrow benches and stand with my back against a wall.

164“Richard, I want to ask you something,” Pease began pleasantly, not looking up from his work.

165“Yes, sir.”

166Reynolds came over and stood blocking the narrow passage between the benches; he folded his arms and stared at me solemnly. I looked from one to the other, sensing trouble. Pease looked up and spoke slowly, so there would be no possibility of my not understanding.

167“Richard, Reynolds here tells me that you called me Pease,” he said.

168I stiffened. A void opened up in me. I knew that this was the showdown.

169He meant that I had failed to call him Mr. Pease. I looked at Reynolds; he was gripping a steel bar in his hand. I opened my mouth to speak, to protest, to assure Pease that I had never called him simply Pease, and that I had never had any intention of doing so, when Reynolds grabbed me by the collar, ramming my head against a wall.

170“Now, be careful, nigger,” snarled Reynolds, baring his teeth. “I heard you call ’im Pease. And if you say you didn’t, you’re calling me a liar, see?” He waved the steel bar threateningly.

171If I had said: No, sir, Mr. Pease, I never called you Pease, I would by inference have been calling Reynolds a liar; and if I had said: Yes, sir, Mr. Pease, I called you Pease, I would have been pleading guilty to the worst insult that a Negro can offer to a southern white man. I stood trying to think of a neutral course that would resolve this quickly risen nightmare, but my tongue would not move.

172“Richard, I asked you a question!” Pease said. Anger was creeping into his voice.

173“I don’t remember calling you Pease, Mr. Pease,” I said cautiously. “And if I did, I sure didn’t mean....”

174“You black sonofabitch! You called me Pease, then!” he spat, rising and slapping me till I bent sideways over a bench.

175Reynolds was up on top of me demanding:

176“Didn’t you call him Pease? If you say you didn’t, I’ll rip your gut string loose with this f-k-g bar, you black granny dodger! You can’t call a white man a liar and get away with it!”

177I wilted. I begged them not to hit me. I knew what they wanted. They wanted me to leave the job.

178“I’ll leave,” I promised. “I’ll leave right now!”

179They gave me a minute to get out of the factory, and warned me not to show up again or tell the boss. Reynolds loosened his hand on my collar and I ducked out of the room. I did not see Mr. Crane or the stenographer in the office. Pease and Reynolds had so timed it that Mr. Crane and the stenographer would be out when they turned on the terror. I went to the street and waited for the boss to return. I saw Griggs wiping glass shelves in the jewelry store and I beckoned to him. He came out and I told him what had happened.

180“Then what are you standing there like a fool for?” he demanded. “Won’t you ever learn? Get home! They might come down!”

181I walked down Capitol Street feeling that the sidewalk was unreal, that I was unreal, that the people were unreal, yet expecting somebody to demand to know what right I had to be on the streets. My wound went deep; I felt that I had been slapped out of the human race. When I reached home, I did not tell the family what had happened; I merely told them that I had quit, that I was not making enough money, that I was seeking another job.

182That night Griggs came to my house; we went for a walk.

183“You got a goddamn tough break,” he said.

184“Can you say it was my fault?” I asked.

185He shook his head.

186“Well, what about your goddamn philosophy of meekness?” I asked him bitterly.

187“These things just happen,” he said, shrugging.

188“They owe me money,” I said.

189“That’s what I came about,” he said. “Mr. Crane wants you to come in at ten in the morning. Ten sharp, now, mind you, because he’ll be there and those guys won’t gang up on you again.”

190The next morning at ten I crept up the stairs and peered into the office of the optical shop to make sure that Mr. Crane was in. He was at his desk. Pease and Reynolds were at their machines in the rear.

191“Come in, Richard,” Mr. Crane said.

192I pulled off my hat and walked into the office; I stood before him.

193“Sit down,” he said.

194I sat. He stared at me and shook his head.

195“Tell me, what happened?”

196An impulse to speak rose in me and died with the realization that I was facing a wall that I would never breech. I tried to speak several times and could make no sounds. I grew tense and tears burnt my cheeks.

197“Now, just keep control of yourself,” Mr. Crane said.

198I clenched my fists and managed to talk.

199“I tried to do my best here,” I said.

200“I believe you,” he said. “But I want to know what happened. Which one bothered you?”

201“Both of ’em,” I said.

202Reynolds came running to the door and I rose. Mr. Crane jumped to his feet.

203“Get back in there,” he told Reynolds.

204“That nigger’s lying!” Reynolds said. “I’ll kill ’im if he lies on me!”

205“Get back in there or get out,” Mr. Crane said.

206Reynolds backed away, keeping his eyes on me.

207“Go ahead,” Mr. Crane said. “Tell me what happened.”

208Then again I could not speak. What could I accomplish by telling him? I was black; I lived in the South. I would never learn to operate those machines as long as those two white men in there stood by them. Anger and fear welled in me as I felt what I had missed; I leaned forward and clapped my hands to my face.

209“No, no, now,” Mr. Crane said. “Keep control of yourself. No matter what happens, keep control....”

210“I know,” I said in a voice not my own. “There’s no use of my saying anything.”

211“Do you want to work here?” he asked me.

212I looked at the white faces of Pease and Reynolds; I imagined their waylaying me, killing me. I was remembering what had happened to Ned’s brother.

213“No, sir,” I breathed.

214“Why?”

215“I’m scared,” I said. “They would kill me.”

216Mr. Crane turned and called Pease and Reynolds into the office.

217“Now, tell me which one bothered you. Don’t be afraid. Nobody’s going to hurt you,” Mr. Crane said.

218I stared ahead of me and did not answer. He waved the men inside. The white stenographer looked at me with wide eyes and I felt drenched in shame, naked to my soul. The whole of my being felt violated, and I knew that my own fear had helped to violate it. I was breathing hard and struggling to master my feelings.

219“Can I get my money, sir?” I asked at last.

220“Just sit a minute and take hold of yourself,” he said.

221I waited and my roused senses grew slowly calm.

222“I’m awfully sorry about this,” he said.

223“I had hoped for a lot from this job,” I said. “I’d wanted to go to school, to college....”

224“I know,” he said. “But what are you going to do now?”

225My eyes traveled over the office, but I was not seeing.

226“I’m going away,” I said.

227“What do you mean?”

228“I’m going to get out of the South,” I breathed.

229“Maybe that’s best,” he said. “I’m from Illinois. Even for me, it’s hard here. I can do just so much.”

230He handed me my money, more than I had earned for the week. I thanked him and rose to leave. He rose. I went into the hallway and he followed me. He reached out his hand.

231“It’s tough for you down here,” he said.

232I barely touched his hand. I walked swiftly down the hall, fighting against crying again. I ran down the steps, then paused and looked back up. He was standing at the head of the stairs, shaking his head. I went into the sunshine and walked home like a blind man.