EXCERPT
Chapter One
April 1920
Brooklyn, New York
Papa says the only way for colored people to have equality is to agitate for it. Today his agitation includes my senior promenade at the Brooklyn Girl’s High School. Since it concerns me, it would be nice if Papa cared about my wishes on these matters.
He. Does. Not.
I have no desire to protest about those white girls banning us from their little old dance. I’m perfectly fine with having our own private celebration, and I told Papa as much when I mentioned that the white students had voted on whether we’d be allowed to attend.
By an overwhelming majority it had been decided that us colored girls would be excluded from the dance. This surprised me, but maybe it shouldn’t have, especially since we’d been denied a vote. Papa said we’d been disenfranchised.
As usual, when it comes to color line, I could fall out in the middle of the floor, scream or cry bloody murder, and it would make Papa no difference at all. He and his cronies were going to write their letters. This time to the principal, the superintendent, the mayor, God, and everybody else.
Now Papa is fully energized after a dinner of roast beef and vegetables as he paces in front of the dining room table where Mama sits quietly. His trudging back and forth makes my insides tumble and my head pound, so I stay a safe distance away on the living room sofa. I wish I hadn’t had that second slice of cake as now the entire meal rests too heavily in my stomach.
“I will have Jessie get the addresses of all the families with colored girls graduating,” Papa barks in his typical, all-business, gruff way of speaking. “So that I can assure we are all aligned in this conflict.”
Mama looks up from the letter she’s been reading all evening, perhaps annoyed at Papa’s interruption, but if she is I cannot tell by her expression. Mama’s serene smile is fixed upon her stunningly gorgeous face.
No matter what chaos Papa causes or chicanery I find myself embroiled in, Mama’s smile hardly ever changes. It could be that her stoicism is the mark of a dutiful wife and mother. Or it could have something to do with the nerve pills she takes that she doesn’t think I know about.
Besides, I don’t know why Papa’s discussing this with Mama anyway. He’s decided the task of finding the parents’ addresses is for Miss Jessie Fauset, his literary editor at The Crisis, not Mama. Because he’s lumped this affair into the oppression of the people bucket, and Miss Fauset handles these kinds of things for Papa. The struggle things.
“Are you sure the other parents want to make such a big fuss about this, Will?” Mama asks, wringing her hands, already getting worked up about it.
I can see the lines of frustration on Papa’s forehead as he furrows his brow, even though I think Mama’s question makes plenty good sense. I know for certain that my best friend Margaret’s parents aren’t agitators. Her father runs a successful business and has both black and tan customers. He may not want to lose any money to one of Papa’s protests.
“If they don’t then they must be made to understand what’s happening here,” Papa says, his tone matching the exasperation on his face. “We cannot stand for any discrimination against our daughters. They have toiled at their studies as diligently as the white scholars and have paid their school fees.”
I wish I could sink into the couch cushions and disappear. I may or may not have toiled very much. But it isn’t my fault. I never wanted to go to the Brooklyn Girl’s High School in the first place. I wanted to finish my classes in England at the Bedales School.
But Papa had given me a grand lecture about how I hadn’t applied myself, because no great talent had emerged from that investment in my education. If you ask me, my extraction from Bedales had more to do with how much it cost for me and Mama to live abroad while he stayed here in Brooklyn, than it had to do with any lack of unique gifts on my part.
At any rate, when Papa snatched me away from my friends at Bedales, I did not have quite the number of classes I needed to graduate. Papa had waged a war at my enrollment into the Brooklyn Girl’s High School to ensure that I wasn’t left behind while my friends went off to college.
Poor Mr. Felter, our principal, probably still hasn’t recovered from that initial encounter with Papa. And now he’s embroiled in another battle.
“I will get the addresses tomorrow, Papa,” I say to save Mama from more of Papa’s explaining. And to rescue Miss Fauset from this task that doesn’t have anything to do with The Crisis.
Papa turns to look at me as if he’s only now remembered I’m here. He gives me the beginning of a grin that doesn’t fully bloom. That’s enough, I suppose. He’s rarely pleased enough to give a full smile. I will take this over his ranting.
“Very good, Yolande. I am glad you see the importance of this.”
“Yes, Papa. I do.”
I don’t dare admit I’d rather we have a separate senior promenade for the colored girls. The senior committee chose the Hotel Margaret (not named after my friend, ha) and everyone knows they don’t want us there anyway. So, why can’t we just go to Harlem and dance all night?
“Mr. Felter is determined to shirk his responsibility to you and the rest of the colored students, by saying the promenade is a private social event where he has no jurisdiction,” Papa continues sermonizing. “He has drawn the color line before, and he must be stopped.”
But next year I won’t even be at this school, and this will be a fading memory. I wish I was attending Columbia or New York University, but Papa has arranged for me to attend Fisk University, his alma mater. So that’s decided. No one will remember me at the Brooklyn Girl’s High School. And if by chance I am remembered, I do not want it to be for Papa’s fight with Mr. Felter.
But I don’t say any of this, because for now, Papa is pleased with my initiative and support of the struggle. I settle for this tiny approval, since there is nothing I can do to stop this effort anyhow. The train has left the station, so Mr. Felter may as well get off the tracks unless he wants to be run right over.
“What infuriates me most,” Papa says as he finally sits at the table, signaling the end of the speech (for now), “is that I am certain it’s not the girls they’re concerned about having at the promenade. It’s their escorts. And I will not allow these valiant and gifted young men, who have been hand-selected by careful mothers, to be treated like they’d rape and pillage their precious ivory-skinned daughters.”
Mama glances at me, her lips curving into a wry smile. Her expression tells me Papa doesn’t know our secret, and I am glad about that. He might be disappointed to know that I do not currently have an escort to the senior promenade. George Cuffee was my intended date, but he’s attending some unimportant family function out of town. Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s unimportant, but George, disagrees. Abandoning me at the last minute is unforgivable, especially since, I have not yet found a replacement, and the dance is less than two weeks away.
Mama says she and her friends will find a suitable escort, but I don’t know if I believe them. George is the only decent boy who wanted to ask me. The rest of them are all terrified of Papa.
“Yolande, are you still sleeping over with Margaret tomorrow night?” Mama asks timidly, knowing exactly how Papa feels about me spending the night outside our home.
“Yes. We going to shop for new shoes to wear with our promenade dresses. And stockings too.”
“And you will be home Sunday morning, before they attend church as a family?” Papa asks.
The plan had been for me to go with them because there are plenty of potential escorts at the Welmons’ AME church. Since I go to school with all girls and hardly ever attend a church service, it is difficult for any boy to be in my company long enough to find me interesting.
“I think it’ll be fine just this one time, Will,” Mama says, coming to the rescue (thank goodness). “Many of our friends attend that same church.”
“I do not care what many people do,” Papa says as his fist comes crashing down onto the table.
“But Papa, I love going places with Margaret and Anna. They are the closest thing I have to sisters.” My voice is whiny, but I can’t help it. Papa is making a beggar out of me. “Won’t you make an exception this one time?”
“It would do Yolande some good to socialize with her friends. And the Welmons’ daughters are good girls.”
Papa’s lips become a thin, tight line. He never likes being defied, but on the rare occasion when Mama and I stand in unity, we are a great team.
“Very well. I suppose it can’t hurt. She is almost an adult and should be able to distinguish between fact and fable.”
I give Papa a gracious and adoring gaze and feel fortunate that he cannot read my thoughts. If he could he’d know that I care little about fact or fable when it comes to church. Papa needn’t worry about that at all. I’m going to that church for the boys.
***
It always feels strange sitting with the Welmon family on their church pew. They attend Mother AME Zion church in Harlem and when I visit, I squeeze between Margaret and Anna, to Anna’s irritation. Mostly because Margaret and I whisper the entire service while Anna tries to look cute.
We are an interesting trio, Margaret, Anna, and I. Margaret is tall, lean, and elegant with her mother’s lighter than a paper bag skin tone and pretty features. Her height and slim shape make her look much older than eighteen years, and those huge almond-shaped eyes intrigue all the boys.
Anna is slim like Margaret, but she and I are closer to the same height. Both sisters have those beautiful eyes, but Anna is dark, like her father.
And then, there’s me. I have my own assets, and I am smart enough to leverage them once the boys realize they don’t have a chance with Margaret and happen to look my way. Like the women in my father’s family, I have a round face with sleepy eyelids, and fair skin. My curves and cushion are in all the right places, so I’ve been told, but I’d be fine if there was a little less cushion.
Since my family doesn’t attend church services, I have learned by watching Margaret how to have the appropriate responses when the minister is preaching. I clap at the opportune times and even throw in an amen or two. At least they don’t go to one of those shouting churches where people fall out in the aisles when they feel touched by the spirit. I visited one of those with another friend and while I was highly entertained, I was also a little frightened. What if that spirit jumped on me?
Papa had insisted I didn’t need to worry about that, because most of the folk being touched by the spirit had just worked themselves into an emotional frenzy. But I’m not certain that he has all the answers on this subject. I was there, and it looked real to me.
Margaret nudges me in the ribs with her pointy elbow and I stifle a yelp. Then Anna nudges me for almost yelping.
“There’s Charles,” Margaret whispers.
I glance in the direction she’s pointing, and there is Charles Waters, looking debonair and rich. And he is both. His family has more money than they can even spend. Mama says it will be a coup if Margaret gets a marriage proposal out of him, because his mother has other plans for her son. But I don’t tell Margaret this nugget. Besides, who’s thinking about marriage right now except our mothers?
“Who’s that sitting next to him?” I whisper back.
The young man, whom I’ve never seen before, is very handsome even from across the sanctuary. He’s got a pretty, toothy smile and perfect eyebrows. I have a thing about a boy’s eyebrows, especially when they take time to groom them.
“That must be his musician cousin visiting from out of town.”
“Musician? He can’t be much older than we are,” I say, trying to get a better look at the boy’s features without obviously staring.
Anna glares at me and Margaret, but Margaret just rolls her eyes at her older sister. I don’t roll anything, because Anna’s sharp elbows are poised to nudge me again for being too noisy during the sermon.
We quiet down and pretend to listen although now I’m excited to get to the benediction. During the spring, their congregation usually leaves for lunch or dinner and comes back for an evening service. While we’re on the break, the young people try to get away to go have a bite to eat at the Y, and maybe even walk around Harlem, feeling fine in our church clothes. No matter what, I get to spend the entire day in Harlem with the Welmons until we all take the streetcar back to Brooklyn in the evening.
As soon as the preacher says amen, Margaret pulls a tube of lipstick out of her purse and hands it to me after slathering a layer of red all over her pouty lips.
“Am I not stunning?” she asks as she toots her pout in my direction.
I look down at the tube in my hands. “You are perfectly divine, but do you have one that’s less red? A pink perhaps?”
“Oh, does Papa’s little girl want a sweet candy pink?” Margaret teases. “Let me see.”
She digs around in her purse and produces another, less harlot-like shade. This one I accept and dab a tiny amount on my lips instead of the slathering that Margaret put on hers.
“Now we’re both gorgeous,” Margaret says with a shimmy that I don’t think is quite appropriate for church. “Let’s go find Charles.”
Old sour Anna stands in Margaret’s path as we try to exit the pew. She takes one look at Margaret’s lipstick and shakes her head. “Where are you two going?”
“Move Anna,” Margaret says. “You know where we’re going.”
“Mmm-hmm. It’s the Lord’s day, so make sure you’re not up to no good. You too, Yolande,” Anna fusses, sounding like somebody’s mama. Just not mine.
Margaret gives Anna a rude shove on the top of her shoulder, and she moves out of our path. Finally, away from the watchful eyes of Anna and Mr. Welmon, we make a beeline for Charles and his grinning companion.
“Wouldn’t it be grand if we had cousins escorting us to the promenade?” Margaret says wistfully as we move through the groups of chatting churchgoers.
“Yes, but I thought he was only visiting.” I’m not going to get my hopes up on a migrant colored boy.
Charles’s eyes light up when he sees Margaret crossing the room. I love how obsessed he seems to be with her, like he can’t get enough of looking at her. Papa never looks at Mama like he just wants to eat her up, and they’ve been married forever. I wonder if he ever did. Does getting married to someone change that? I hope not. I think I want someone to gaze at me like that always.
When we make it over to where the boys are standing, Margaret gives Charles’s hand a chaste squeeze and then steps back so that no one can say we’re being fast. We don’t need anyone insisting that we have any extra chaperones.
Up close, Charles’s companion is even more handsome, and so tall. He towers right over me, and I don’t mind it one bit. His eyes widen at my coquettish smile, and then he bashfully looks away. I was hoping he’d be a smooth charmer like Charles.
“Are you going to introduce us to your cousin?” Margaret asks.
Charles looks confused for a second. “Oh, this isn’t my cousin, this is Jimmie Lunceford. He’s in my cousin’s band. Jimmie this is my girl, Margaret Welmon, and her friend Yolande Du Bois.”
Margaret beams, probably at being properly titled my girl by Charles. Jimmie struggles to maintain eye contact with me, but he does give us a smile. My, he has pretty teeth. I bet he doesn’t eat sweets or have any cavities at all.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Jimmie says.
“The pleasure is all mine,” I say easing closer so Jimmie knows I mean it.
“Would y’all like to go have lunch at the Y before second service?” Margaret asks. “It’s so nice outside. We can probably get an ice cream too.”
It tickles me how Margaret never waits for Charles to ask her out to any amusement. She lets him know what’s going to happen and he falls right in line.
But this time, Charles exchanges a fidgety glance with Jimmie. Is he going to turn down Margaret’s request for lunch? I hope not because I’m hungry too. Whether or not the boys are buying, I need to eat before being forced to sit through more church.
“You know I’d love to go,” Charles explains, his hand lightly touching Margaret’s now angrily folded arms, “but I’m going with my cousin, Andy, and Jimmie. Their band came all the way from Denver, and they’re making a phonograph recording at the Columbia Graphophone Company.”
I feel my eyes stretch wide, while Margaret keeps pouting. “That sounds like fun,” I say. “Will you be playing an instrument, Jimmie? Or do you sing? What kind of music is it?”
“I play a whole slew of instruments, but today I’m going to be playing the alto saxophone,” Jimmie says.
Jimmie’s shyness just melted right away, as he seems to stand even taller with his square shoulders and muscled arms. I can hardly breathe, he’s so handsome, but I manage to maintain my composure.
“It’s jazz music,” Charles says, now trying to get back in the conversation with someone, because Margaret has all but turned her back to him.
“Well, come on then, Yolande,” Margaret says in a huff, not at all impressed by this talk of instruments and jazz. “Maybe we can find our own lunch. Perhaps George will buy us sandwiches.”
George W. Cuffee. I don’t want to go to lunch with him, after he’s left me without an escort to the promenade. I cannot cut him off completely, though, because Papa thinks he’s a fine young man.
If only Papa hadn’t launched into his battle formation. Then, I wouldn’t need an escort at all. But Papa takes every fight to the bitter end, because he’s a leader of the colored people from America to Liberia, especially the uppity and brilliant ones he’s dubbed the Talented Tenth.
Well, maybe he isn’t the leader of everyone, but that’s sure what it feels like. It’s why the old ladies in the neighborhood snitch about my every move. I can’t blow a bubble without Papa hearing it pop.
Before I realize what’s happening, the room starts spinning, and I stumble to the left a few steps. Thank goodness for Jimmie Lunceford and his strong arms. He catches me right before I tumble into the back of the pews.
“Are you all right, Miss Yolande?” Jimmie asks. “It is a little hot in here, do you need to sit down?”
“No, I’m quite all right, thank you.” I’m not all right, though, I’m starving, and the anxiety of Papa and the promenade just about overwhelmed me in the moment. But I smooth the wrinkles from the front of my dress and beam at Jimmie. He deserves it, for saving me and all.
“Maybe they can go with us, Charles,” Jimmie says, his hand still touching my elbow, and steadying me. “There’s room for spectators to listen to the band while we record.”
For some reason, Charles seems annoyed at this suggestion. Perhaps he doesn’t want us tagging along. Maybe he’s not as mesmerized with Margaret as I thought.
“I wish they could, but they need to be back for church this evening. We might not make it in time,” Charles says.
“Where is the recording taking place?” Margaret asks. “Maybe we can catch part of it and then leave early.”
Charles sucks in a sharp breath and shakes his head. “Way down in lower Manhattan at the Woolworth Building. There won’t be time to find lunch, get all the way there, listen, and come back.”
Margaret lifts an eyebrow at Charles. “Do you have another girl meeting you at the recording?” she asks. Charles’s mounting protests must have made her suspicious.
Jimmie and I exchange glances, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Now I wish Margaret and Charles weren’t here so that we could get properly acquainted.
“There’s no other girl, Margaret. I just don’t want you to get in any trouble right before the senior promenade. What if your father makes you stay home as punishment?”
Now, this is funny. The way our mothers have painstakingly planned and purchased dresses, and given us money for shoes, hairpins, and what have you, there is no colored father in Brooklyn who would dare impose such a punishment. Not even my papa. The wrath of their wives would be too great.
“You let me worry about how my father will or won’t punish me,” Margaret says with a sass in her tone. “I think I’d quite like to hear a jazz recording.”
“And it doesn’t start until two o’clock, so we have time to get a sandwich if we hurry,” Jimmie says. “I think Miss Yolande might need something to eat.”
Charles let out a defeated sigh. “Okay, Margaret, you two can come, but when Mr. Welmon and Dr. Du Bois start roaring, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Margaret says, her excitement returning. “Let’s go.”
“What will we tell your mother when we don’t make it back to church?” I ask, now feeling just a twinge of worry. Mr. Welmon doesn’t roar like Papa. The promenade might not be canceled, but I am not in the mood for one of his speeches about decorum, and the great woman I should be growing into.
“You know what?” Margaret says, with her nonexistent bosom poked as far forward as she can muster. “I am just going to tell her that we’re going out with Charles for dinner, and that we will be back before church is over. Wait here.”
We all watch Margaret disappear into the crowd of milling congregants. I turn to Jimmie to spark a conversation and surprisingly he’s already gazing at me. That makes my heart race, because the only other boy I’ve ever caught staring at me is George.
“So, Jimmie, are you attending college in Denver while you travel with the band? Did you have to take time away from your studies?” I ask, simply marveling that he’s here in Harlem, because Denver seems like another country, it’s so far away.
Charles covers his face with his hand, but I can tell he’s snickering while Jimmie looks good and nervous.
“I mean, it’s okay if you’re not in college,” I say, thinking maybe he’s embarrassed about that. “It’s not for everyone, although you can’t tell my papa that. Every issue of The Crisis is full of talk about graduations and the colored colleges.”
“Your father is that Dr. Du Bois? From The Crisis?” Jimmie asks, his eyes wide as saucers. “My father reads that magazine religiously. He saves every copy.”
“Yep, that’s her papa,” Charles says, clutching his side trying to hold in his laughter. “Are you gonna tell her, Jimmie?”
“Tell me what?”
“Oh,” Jimmie stares at the ground bashfully. “He just wants me to tell you that I’m only a sophomore in high school.”
“You must be joking,” I say, unable to believe this. “Only a sophomore, but here making a record with a real jazz band?”
Jimmie’s head pops up, now with a look of pride on his face. “I’m only seventeen, but I’m good enough to be in the George Morrison Jazz Orchestra. We were supposed to be going to Europe after this recording, but instead we’ve booked six weeks at the Carlton Terrace.”
“I am impressed, Jimmie. That is amazing.” He must play exceptionally well to be allowed in a traveling band at this young age. “Doesn’t your mother fret over you? I don’t think my mama would let me go to the end of our street at seventeen.”
“She does, but she trusts Mr. Morrison to keep a close eye on me, and I don’t get up to mischief anyhow.”
“You’re a good boy, Jimmie?” I ask, teasing with a flirtatious wink. “Can’t I convince you otherwise?”
“Maybe,” Jimmie says, blushing again.
Charles rolls his eyes at our flirting just as an irritated-looking Margaret rejoins our group, with Anna in tow.
“All right, I’m ready to go,” Margaret says. “My mother is making me bring her along.”
Jimmie face is full of questions. “This is Margaret’s older sister, Anna,” I explain. “She does go out with us sometimes.”
“Correct. Because you two can’t be trusted,” Anna declares with a motherly glare over the top of her eyeglasses. “Now what are we getting into? Are we really going to dinner?”
“You’ve muscled your way into our afternoon.” Margaret’s scowl is deep, and her cheeks are fiery red. “But you don’t get to ask questions. You just follow along and keep quiet.”
My stomach lets out an anxious growl and instinctively I touch my tummy. This tickles Charles and Jimmie, so I’m not sure if I should feel embarrassed, but I do.
“Let’s get Miss Yolande some lunch. Please,” Jimmie says as he offers his arm for me to grab. “Hold on to me so you don’t go stumbling again. Just until we find you a sandwich.”
I feel a different kind of swooning when I wrap my arm in Jimmie’s. A different kind of warmth, and a different kind of hunger.
And Jimmie . . . well, he sure seems ready to feed me.
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