Original Story

Braved Through Castes

They say I do it, ain't nobody caught me
Sure got to prove it on me;
Went out last night with a crowd of my friends,
They must've been women, 'cause I don't like no men.

From "Prove it on Me" by Ma Rainey

April (1927)

          It was a mild Saturday night. The smell of savory food combined with perspiration wafted outside the windows of the fourth-floor apartment and into the hallways of the tenement off 139th Street and Eighth Ave. The dark-skinned stocky man, accompanied by a well-dressed woman, held a small brown paper bag next to his face and laughed.
          "I brought my own bag in case ya'll testing. I had to wet it or I ain't passin'."
          Percival partially closed the door. "If we was color grading, you wouldn't be here. You got an invitation, didn't you?"
          "Yup, here it is." He flashed the small card for Percival to see. The invitation cards were handed out around the area to stylish and sociable types. They'd been printed that Monday, by an older Irish man who walked up and down the major avenues of Harlem with a portable press.
          "You accepting donations?" He pulled out a joint from the bag and offered it to Percival.
          Percival snatched it from his hand; he sniffed the spliff then smiled, "Get your ass in here 'fore I change my mind."
          The man gestured for his companion to enter, paying fifty cents for their admission fee. The couple joined the crowd and began mingling and dancing. This was the second rent party the three occupants had thrown since their roommate, Percival's ex-girlfriend, relocated to Chicago.
          The large living room and one of the bedrooms were bare. All the furniture had been piled up in the other bedroom with a handwritten "Do Not Enter" sign pinned to the door. In the kitchen there were pans full of fried fish and chicken, pigs' feet, chitterlings, collard greens, black-eyed peas, cornbread and potato salad on a long table; a poker game was going in a cramped corner. One of the hostesses, Judith, was loading up plates, which cost thirty cents. She had moved in the previous month after her landlord sold the building she was residing in and kicked everybody out. The other hostess, Nisa, was handling the liquor sales. The bathtub had been filled with hooch. Cups were ten cents and pitchers were fifty cents. People were hanging out drinking and digging into their food on the backside fire escape, with scores of laundry lines, held by metal pulleys and laden with clothes, dangling in the background.
          The latest fashions were on display in the packed apartment. Some women wore striped dresses with wide belts, cloche hats and Mary Jane shoes. Others wore colorful fringed flapper dresses with evening pumps and silk stockings. The men had also put thought into their attire. They wore notch-lapelled baggy linen or slim fit cotton suits of various patterns, including stripes and plaids, with matching black wingtip or brown brogue shoes.
          Partygoers were galvanized by the band. Ma Swinger and The Swamis consisted of Ma Swinger on trumpet, a trombone player, a saxophonist, and a drummer on a three-piece set. They were playing a popular jazz cover. Pairs kicked their feet up, rhythmically moving forward and backward doing the Charleston. One couple's moves were so synchronized and dynamic that the rest of the revelers formed a circle around them and cheered them on.
          Nervous over the possibility of being evicted, a rent party was the fastest way for tenants to raise money. It was common throughout Harlem. Having toiled throughout the week and all-day Saturday in stockyards, docks, foundries, warehouses, factories, and the inhospitable households of wealthy White families, the Black clientele that frequented these shindigs were in dire need of release and conviviality. Thus far, the night was proving profitable. Percival and Nisa kept handing Judith the money they'd collected for her to hold on to. Judith was a numbers' runner for the biggest numbers' operator in Harlem and had a reputation as a "tough bulldyke" not to be messed with.

* * * * * * *

          Harriet Bishop had followed Alma and Vera to the party. She'd been standing in the hallway for a while, her tears had dried as she waited for an opportunity to sneak in. Alma had cut off contact with Harriet, whose incessant jealousy had become unnerving. Vera and Alma had been dating for two weeks and they were mutually enamored. Harriet had seen them together soon after Alma broke up with her and she began spying on them daily. When some drunk men stepped out to get fresh air, she slipped inside the crammed apartment.
          Ma Swinger, having exhausted the throng with a series of belters, led the Swamis through a slower song. Her crooning accompanied the gritty melodic music:

Well the week is ovah
and you ready to unwine.
Clean yoself up good,
grab your dancin' shoes,
when the music start
all your troubles lef behind.

If you bout to burst
cuz your boss is mean,
or you feelin' low
cause your money lean,
take a few swigs a moonshine
an put them worries out yo mind.


          Vera and Alma were pressed against each other, swaying to the blues tune. Vera's hand slipped down to caress Alma's ass. Harriet saw them from across the room. She pushed past numerous couples to get a closer look at the woman who had come between her and the love of her life. Vera was everything she was not. Tall, slender, and high yellow. Her skin was radiant, her black curly hair, lustrous. The music grew louder as Harriet's heart beat harder and faster. For a second, she thought about turning around and suppressing the anguish that was devouring her mind and soul.
          Harriet glared at the amorous couple, her extremely dark skin blending with the dim lighting, then pounced.
          She pulled Vera off of Alma, her fury taking hold of her emotions. "You think I'ma let you run around with this half-breed bitch!"
          Before anyone realized what was transpiring, Harriet grabbed Vera's hair, forced her head back, and slashed her throat with a steel straight razor, cutting deep into her jugular veins.
Blood came gushing out of Vera's neck. A woman who had been dancing next to Alma and Vera screamed uncontrollably. The music stopped. People darted toward the front door while others huddled at the edges of the room. A younger athletic man tried to prevent Harriet from fleeing. He told her to put down the razor. As he got closer, she cut his arm, causing him to back away. In an instant, Judith snuck up from behind with a chair and slammed it against Harriet's back and head, causing her to fall on the floor, dazed. Several people held her down and restrained her hands with a belt. Percival ran to the police call box across the street.
          The place cleared out quickly. Alma had fainted. When she awakened, she was in shock and couldn't speak. One of the guests walked her home. Nisa and Judith paid the band and proceeded to get rid of the booze by letting it get sucked down the bathtub drain. Two police officers arrived fifteen minutes later. Harriet was sullen. She'd been bound to a chair with sheets, her hands still secured with a leather belt. Judith and Percival untied her. They refused to look at her face. She remained quiet and kept her head down the entire time. The officers handcuffed her and dragged her outside.
          Vera's lifeless body was prostrate. Nisa disrupted the atmosphere of death and amplified distress by covering her body with a sheet. When it turned a sanguine color, Nisa shuddered and Judith led her away from the macabre sight. Less than ten minutes after the cops arrested Harriet, a city morgue driver and his assistant carried Vera's corpse away on a stretcher. The driver asked what the victim's name was. Alma had already left and in the race to discard of any incriminating substances, such as alcohol or weed, and no one had thought to inquire about the dead woman's name.
          The assistant shrugged as they left the apartment. "Another Jane Doe. Harlem's full of 'em."
          Percival closed the door behind them and closed his eyes in an attempt to clear his head for the task at hand.

          The three roommates silently stood in the kitchen. Judith snapped them out of their dejection, "We might as well push ahead. Ain't nobody else gonna clean up this mess."
          Nisa wiped the pool of dark burgundy blood with numerous rags. She had to keep wringing them out in a metal bucket, dumping the liquid in the kitchen sink. Percival kept plunging it as it didn't drain well, trying his best to avoid getting splattered.
          She wept quietly while she repeated the sickening ritual. "I'm done with these house parties. These dang bulldaggers are worse than men. We shoulda hired bouncers."
          Judith countered, "This ain't got nothin' to do with you. That bitch done lost her mind. Can't keep track of every crazy nigga out here." She went over to Nisa and gently rubbed her back.
          Nisa shook her head. "That poor woman. I have no idea who she was. I can't imagine what her family's gonna go through."
          "This typa shit happens all the time. No choice but to keep going," Judith contended.
          "I'm sure Sapastein is gonna hear about this. We lucky to have a place this big. I don't wanna lose it," Nisa fretted.
          Their landlord, Arthur Sapperstein, hadn't bothered partitioning the apartments in the building as had been done in tenements throughout Harlem. In those, a one-bedroom became a three-bedroom despite the housing code violations, which had no bearing on the tenant rights of African Americans. On top of reducing the size of the apartments, many landlords also doubled the rents as the demand for housing greatly increased with the influx of Black migrants from the South.
         "That old bastard ain't turnin' down no money. He'll accept a blood-soaked envelope if the amount's correct," Judith said.
          After they cleaned up, Judith held Nisa by the waist and they kissed. The warmth of their equally ebony skin enveloped them. Nisa had been with men and women, but none had ever made her tremble with ecstasy as Judith had. Her tongue, lips, and saliva were intoxicating. Nisa would experience indescribable sensations when their bodies entwined. She'd been concerned that their relationship was going to be compromised by their cohabitation, but she found the arrangement to be reinvigorating. They enjoyed making meals and eating dinner together whenever their schedules allowed and had confided in one another that their sleep had improved greatly since they began sharing the same bed.
          Nisa stroked Judith's hair. "Your braids stayin' put."
          Judith smiled. "Everybody's complimentin' me. You got blessed hands, girl. Nobody do hair like you. You need to get your own shop."
          Nisa sighed. "I could use the change a scenery. I'm tired of piecing dolls together all day. Now they got us assemblin' black dolls. They just as creepy as the white ones."
         "Ed might have a storefront available soon. I can talk him into lettin' it out for a decent price."
         "I don't wanna get my hopes up about anything." Nisa replied.
         "He owe me. Amount a times I spotted probition agents sniffin' round the club."
         Nisa liked the idea of running a salon. "Might be worth findin' out, but don't go through too much trouble."
          Besides running numbers, Judith was also a waitress at The Blue Nile, the only major Harlem nightclub owned by an African-American, Ed Minor, and the sole racially integrated venue in the city. She'd been one of his paramours, primarily for monetary gain. She felt a sense of loyalty to him despite her contained aversion to his affections. Acquiring a space for Nisa to hone her already advanced skills would make Judith's disreputable maneuverings worthwhile.


* * * * * * *



          Officers Coogan and Lawson were annoyed. The 32nd precinct had finally quieted down after being overrun with prostitutes, johns, muggers, and others who were brought in for drunken and disorderly conduct. They were nearing the last hour of their shift when they were dispatched to the tenement on 139th Street.
          When they showed up to the apartment it was obvious, to them, that there had been a rent party. They'd been around long enough to know that there were always drugs and bootleg liquor to be found in these social gatherings, but by the time they got there any illegal substances had been disposed of. Harriet had been restrained and was being watched by Judith and Percival. She didn't even look up when Lawson handcuffed her and led her out of the apartment. Nisa asked Coogan what was going to happen with Vera's body. He informed her that someone from the city morgue would be by soon.
          Harriet was thrown in the back of the cop car. Lawson sat in the passenger seat and Coogan took the wheel. They drove north on Amsterdam Avenue.
          Lawson spoke in an agitated voice. "These niggers got no sense. They call us up when they need help and complain when we clean house." He turned his head and addressed Harriet. "You're a bloodthirsty bitch, huh?"
          His tone and language snapped Harriet out of her stupor. "I ain't got nuthin' to say to you dirty micks."
          Coogan eased off the gas pedal. "Watch ya mouth you god damn jigaboo!"
          Her rage resurfaced. "Fuck you and your whore mothers!"
          Coogan stopped the car. Lawson got out and opened the back door. He grabbed Harriet's arm and pulled her close. "I'll bash your head in!" he shouted, then slapped her on the mouth with the back of his hand.
          When he got in her face, she saw the heir of the plantation on which her grandparents had been enslaved and her mother and uncles sharecropped. He had raped her continuously since the age of nine until she was sixteen. He'd threatened to kill her if she told anyone. One of her older cousins, who'd been one of his many victims, gave her money and arranged for her to board a train headed North.
          "You white trash muthafucka!" She bit the side of Lawson's face.
          He bellowed. Without hesitation, he pulled out his revolver and shot her in the chest. Harriet died instantly.
         Coogan was alarmed. "What the fuck did ya do?"
         "She attacked me! Look at my face!"
          Lawson's cheek was bloody with deep bite marks. He went over to the front of the vehicle and Coogan took off. They drove to a desolate pier and dumped her body in the Hudson River. The two law enforcement officers didn't bother filling out reports. They agreed to claim that the remains of two deceased Jane Does had been taken to the city morgue by the time they arrived at the apartment. As they'd predicted, their fellow officers or supervisors were unconcerned about the rent party homicides and no one ever filed a missing person report for Harriet Bishop.


* * * * * * *

          The super of the building in which Vera had been renting a furnished room, disposed of her belongings after not receiving payment or hearing from her for two weeks. She'd been temping for an employment agency. Her first stint was as a chambermaid at a hotel. From there, she was placed in a commercial laundry where she operated a steam press for twelve hours a day. Once she'd proven to be dependable, the agency sent her to Connie's Inn, famous for its revues, to work as a coat-check girl. It was the only job she'd ever liked.
          She hadn't made many friends since she'd moved to Harlem because her work schedule consumed an inordinate amount of her time. She'd met Alma at The Nest, a divey club that served swill and chicken and waffles. They became quickly involved. Vera had stayed over at Alma's the majority of the time as her room was too small to accommodate them.
         Alma came close to having a nervous breakdown after Vera was killed. She'd been staying with her mother in the Bronx, coping with the trauma. By the time she went to Vera's room, three weeks after the incident, to try and salvage any of her belongings and obtain information to contact a family member, it was too late. The room was occupied by a man who told her he'd never met the previous tenant and didn't know anyone in the building.
          New York was a place where the line between anonymity and isolation could become blurred. Those who were used to living in towns where everyone knew each other might revel in the privacy of a city where people were coming and going at all hours or languish in the periphery of its whirlwind pace.
          Vera's body was buried in an unmarked grave at a municipal cemetery.




May (1927)


          Ed Minor was considered a generous man by many. During the holidays, he donated canned foods, winter clothes, and blankets to some of the poorest Harlem residents. Several times a year he'd pay for groups of neighborhood kids to visit the Bronx Zoo. Then there was the other side of Minor that was reserved for those who crossed the line. One employee, who'd been stealing money from the Blue Nile, was beaten mercilessly and all his fingers had been broken. The rotting body of a customer who had raped and permanently impaired a waitress from the club, when she was on her way home after finishing her late-night shift, was found in an abandoned warehouse. A rumor spread that his penis had been cut off.
          Judith began sleeping with Ed after he appointed her head waitress and director of the VIP section, a highly coveted position where the tips often doubled your pay. He'd done it, partly, to win her affection, but mostly because she was the top earner at the club and a go-getter. Judith tolerated the attention and the gifts Ed lavished on her, but when she fell in love with Nisa she decided to terminate the affair with him.
          Nisa and Judith had met at the club in the winter of 1924. Nisa was hired on as a waitress. Judith was instantly smitten with her. Four months into the job, a powerful Euro-American official, who enjoyed nothing more than indulging in the Harlem night life, groped Nisa. Without hesitation, she slapped him across the face. The incident set off a chain reaction that almost landed her in prison. Judith convinced Ed to intervene on Nisa's behalf. He mitigated the political boss's wrath by firing Nisa and gifting him a bottle of bourbon for his troubles. Ed wanted to appease Judith as they were having an affair, but he was also incensed that a drunken White man had the audacity to disrespect one of his staff who was simply trying to make an honest living. However unpleasant, he had to accept the fact that the dirty politician could shut down the club or, minimally, increase the presence of Prohibition Bureau agents. Ed got Nisa a job at a doll factory through his employment agency. It wasn't ideal, but it would afford her anonymity and provide a source of income.

          Ed stopped in to check on the club on a Thursday afternoon. The manager gave him a run-down of expenses, including bribes. The cops were taking a bigger cut from him than Euro-American club owners, but his profits from food and alcohol sales were substantial nonetheless. Judith was setting up the VIP section when he sneaked up behind her and kissed the side of her neck. Her instinct was to swing at him, but she fought the urge. She'd requested to meet with him and had anticipated this sort of behavior.
         "Hey, Beautiful. What you need me for? Better be for some lovin'."
          "Nigga, this a business meeting." She knew that he responded to her dismissive attitude toward him and wanted to hold his attention.
          "What sorta business?"
          "That storefront on 132nd. I want it."
          "Come over here." He grabbed her hand and led her to one of the VIP sofas. He tried to sit her on his lap, but she rebuffed his advances. She sat down in a chair across from him.
          He reached out across the table and held her hands. "Talk to me."
          "Ain't much to say. I wanna rent the space for a fair price."
          "You need money? All you gotta to do is give daddy a lil' sugar. I'll take good care of you."
          She pushed his hands away, "I ain't playin' games. Besides, I don't mess around with married men or women no more."
          "I see. You high and mighty now. That pussy too old and worn for chastity."
          "You still tryin' to run up in there like a boy ain't never tasted none, though."
He laughed heartily. Her cutting humor was one of his favorite things about her.
          Ed was suspicious of Judith's interest in the rental. "What you up to? You trying to set up a numbers operation and cut me out?
          "This is legit. I wanna open up a swanky beauty parlor."
          "You leaving me?" It was obvious he was concerned about the possibility that she'd move on.
          "No. I got some hairdressers ready to start as soon as the shop's set up. I'll supervise them and make sure it's running smoothly. I'ma keep tending my tables here." She didn't mention Nisa to avoid involving her, should things, for unforeseen reasons, go awry.
          "As long as it doesn't affect your work, it's fine by me." Ed looked at her empathetically. "You wanna make that C. J. Walker money. I get it. We need more women steppin' up to the plate. We can't push forward without ya'll."
          It was moments like these, when Ed shed his role of chauvinist to recognize the common struggle of Black women and men, that had impelled her to stick by him throughout their unconventional relationship. She decided against reminding him how much she'd done for him, including protecting his club from law enforcement. Letting him feel as if he was doing her a big favor would increase the chances of acquiring the rental space on favorable terms.
          "You want a reasonable rate? You take it as is. I ain't putting in a single cent for repairs.
The plumbing's in bad shape. And, you gonna need a team of exterminators to get rid of them big ass rats." His tone had shifted, and it was clear that he was in business mode.
          Judith contained her eagerness and looked him directly in the eyes as they negotiated the rent. When they agreed on a price, she extended her hand to shake his. "You got yourself a deal."
          "I'll drop off the keys later this week."
          She didn't want to delay the transaction. "I'll pick 'em up tomorrow at your office. I need to move on this."
          "Dang girl. You ain't fuckin' around, huh? I'll have a courier deliver them in the morning. They'll be here when you start your shift. This calls for a toast."
          He had a waiter bring them two snifters and a bottle of single malt Scotch. Judith took it as a genuine gesture of acknowledgment since those bottles were strictly imported for the wealthiest patrons. Their value went through the roof after the passing of the Volstead Act.
          Ed expertly poured the spirit. He took a whiff of the amber elixir then raised his glass, "To progress."
          Judith clinked her glass against his, "To progress."
          They drank the whiskey and Ed refilled the glasses. "This a good time to get in the hair trade. Black folks wanna look good for the weekend and they're willing to drop scratch on it.
How long you been wanting to do this for? You never mentioned anything about setting up a business."
         "I wasn't sure if I'd be able to save up enough money and I ain't trying to borrow from nobody. The rent parties ended in disaster."
         "I heard about it from Ma Swinger." He was feeling looser and poured himself a third round. He offered to refill her glass, but she declined. She was taking her time with this hard stuff as it was a lot stronger than the drinks she was used to.
         "The money was good. Helped us pay the rent and the bands with dough left over for the electric bills. We shoulda gotten into the habit of hiring security," she lamented.
         "You can't guarantee everybody's safety. I got behemoths working the door and the floor and we still get mugs who wanna cause problems. Two people got stabbed last week at a speakeasy over on Swing street. There's a reason undertakers are rakin' it in."
         Judith was pensive. She motioned for Ed to pour her another shot. This time she swigged it without grimacing. "That poor girl never saw it coming. None of us did."
         "Did you know her?"
         "I never met her. I saw her dancin' with her girlfriend. Didn't really pay 'em no mind. Damn shame."
         "Downright tragic," he concurred.
Ed had been involved in and witnessed much violence in his life and understood the impact it could have on even the toughest types. They imbibed freely while he counseled her on what would be required to get her business up and running, such as inspections, licenses, advertisements, and bribes.



September (1927)
          Eighteen-year-old Youngen Jacobs left Macon, Georgia to go find his older sister, Vera, in New York. She had been gone for two years. When they were children, he and Vera were taken in by their aunt Eunice after their mother had succumbed to the Spanish flu.
          Vera would write on a regular basis, but they hadn't received correspondence from her in six months. Eunice began to worry. She also saw the opportunity to get her nephew out of the South and have him reunite with his sister. When Vera left, an unabating weight had been lifted off Eunice's chest. She realized early on that Vera was different. She never paid mind to boys, spending most of her time with one pretty girl or another.
          Though Youngen had not been intimately involved with anyone, Eunice suspected that his sexual inclinations were much like his sister's. His tall slim frame, delicate nose, and radiant olive skin often prompted double takes from women and men alike. It was his semi-course hair and full lips that betrayed the Jacobs family history, wherein Youngen's great-grandmother had been coerced into the role of slave master's concubine. She had three children by him, two of which were sold off to a sugarcane planter in Louisiana.
          The economic prospects for African Americans in Macon were extremely limited. Before Vera migrated to New York she had been stuck in what was referred to as a slave market. She'd have to show up every morning and wait around, with many other Black women, for European American housewives to show up and select a laborer for the day to do housework for below market prices. Vera decided to leave Georgia after she insulted a White woman who demanded that she stay and wash the dishes when Vera was getting ready to go home after completing a twelve-hour shift. She had cleaned every inch of the house, washed and ironed clothes, and cooked lunch and dinner for the entire family. Having been paid, Vera chose not to stay. She'd yet to be compensated for overtime by any of her employers, which she estimated was at least six to eight hours of free labor a week. The woman threatened to call the police and Vera took flight. She'd heard of other incidents where African American women had been committed to mental asylums for refusing to obey the orders of Euro-American housewives. It was the last straw for her. She had no doubt that another encounter would result in her reacting violently toward one of these southern White women.
         Eunice and Youngen worked for a wealthy family. She was the head cook at the Felton's mansion. He'd been a house servant since the age of eleven when he stopped attending school. Eunice felt it was time to for him to join his sister and be spared from the unforgiving climate of Dixie. Though, Mrs. Felton was unfriendly and sharp-tongued she tended to let her staff go about their work if designated tasks were being completed, unlike other mistresses who took pleasure in mistreating their Black employees. Because Blacks were expected to be at the disposal of their White employers, Eunice made up a lie and told her that Youngen had gotten word from his ailing father and was going to see him in Virginia. Mrs. Felton warned that if he wasn't back by the end of the week, he'd have to find work elsewhere. Eunice nodded her understanding.


          A sliver of the late summer sun was beginning to appear as Youngen made his way across the Macon Terminal Station. Before he left that morning, Eunice grilled him, one last time, about the travel route.
          "I wanna hear you say it," she demanded.
          "I'ma take the Atlantic Coast Line up to Washington, D.C. Then I'ma transfer to the Pennsylvania Railroad line going to New York."
          "New York City! You don't wanna wind up in some other part of the state."
          "Okay, auntie."
          "May the good lord protect you." She embraced him then kissed him on the cheek, holding back her tears as she hurried to prepare breakfast for the Feltons.

          Before the train left the Macon Terminal, an armed group of Euro-American men ordered numerous African Americans to disembark, at gunpoint. Youngen braced himself, convinced he'd also be dragged off the train. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths. His trembling abated with the motion of the moving locomotive. Later on, dozens of Black migrants were left stranded at the Union Station in Columbia, South Carolina. The conductor and coach attendant declared that their tickets were no good and that they had to clear the platform. One station was bypassed altogether as almost all the passengers waiting for the train were Black. The southern oligarchs were doing everything in their power to impede the exodus of the oppressed masses, as the loss of cheap labor could lead to bankruptcy. For their part, local authorities throughout the region were enforcing vagrancy laws, which were specifically enacted to supply southern plantation owners and corporations with a free work force predominantly made up of impoverished African Americans.
          Though the first leg of the journey had been harrowing, the Forests, who boarded the Jim Crow coach in Fayetteville, North Carolina, brought an air of serenity to the tense atmosphere. They were headed to Newark. There were six family members. Two girls, a boy, Mr. Forest, and Mrs. Forest and her mother. They insisted Youngen keep them company when he offered to move to another part of the coach so that they would be more comfortable. Their sense of humor and generosity, insisting that he partake of their food, were uplifting. Youngen thought of his father as he observed Mr. Forest's affection toward his children. He contemplated whether his father had taken a similar train and how far he might've travelled. He'd left to seek employment in California when Youngen was an infant. He had sent them money for a few years, but after a while he stopped, and they never heard from him again.
          Mr. Forest's younger brother had urged them to head up to New Jersey, where he'd found a job at the Port of Newark as a dock worker. Mr. Forest inquired if Youngen could read. He confirmed that he had completed the fifth grade and that he'd read some of the Tarzan of the Apes series and the occasional periodical. Mr. Forest showed him a letter his brother had sent him.
          "De Sunday school teacher done read it ta us. Sound too good ta be true."
          Youngen read it aloud. It was full of grammatical errors, but still legible enough that he was able to make sense of the content:
          "Dear Elijah. I hope your mind and body is in good spirits. I know the cotton can wear colored folk down after a while. I hears the southern papers scaring Negroes bout the North. Tellin' them that is only crime and devilry up here. There is some of that like everywhere else. Here is what they don't tell ya. I gets twenty five dollars weekly for sixty hours work. If I gets hurt or sick I gots enough insurance to pay me sixteen dollars per week. They still won't let us Negroes in the union, but the educated Black people always pushing for our future. You won't believe that I can sit where I want on the streetcar and don't have to wait for Whites to buy goods like they do in North Carolina. I gets what I need whenever I wants. Please join your brother in Newark. I miss you all and dream for the day we are together again."
          Youngen handed the letter back. "That's wonduful."
          Mr. Forest folded it with care. "Cain you believe it? We's make round a dolla a day sharecroppin'."
         "If that," Mrs. Forest added.
          Youngen shook his head sympathetically. "I was a servant. Ain't gawn miss having to stand like a statue when White folks is eatin'."
          He gazed out the window wondering what Vera was doing at that very moment. Her letters described a mesmerizing urban landscape brimming with Black people from all over the world who looked proud and spry. The music scene was a recurring topic as well. Eunice would grip the letters anytime Vera shared her enthusiasm at having watched a live performance at a nightclub. She didn't care for the modern music or "indecent" dances that attracted the younger generations. Youngen wasn't sure how he'd fit into the sophisticated northern setting, but he trusted that his sister would lead the way.


          They transferred in Washington, D.C. to the New York bound line. The Forests along with several other southern Black travelers followed Youngen's lead as he read the signs indicating when the next train was leaving and from which platform. He felt responsible for them. The next train was departing in forty-five minutes. They waited quietly and made it onto the coach without a hitch.
          When the train had crossed into Pennsylvania the mood changed dramatically. The passengers began singing and engaged in banter. They seemed to shed the burden of their worries and uncertainty of what awaited beyond the indiscernible geographical divide. Grandma Forest led them in a prayer circle. "Heavnly fatha, gib us straint in du days ahead. We lef Egyp fo du promise lan, dear lord. Let us not steeh from du pat of righchuness, Amen." Her profound words filled Youngen with a sense of purpose.

          As the locomotive pulled into Penn Station around seven in the morning, Youngen was stirred awake by the commotion of the other passengers. They gathered their belongings excitedly. Mr. and Mrs. Forest asked him if he was going to be alright. They suggested that he stay with them in Newark and travel to New York to look for his sister on his free time.
          "My brother'll put in a good word for you. They need extra hands."
          Youngen was touched by Mr. Forest's offer. "You're too kind. I don't wanna trouble ya'll."
          "Hush. Ain't no bother, chile," interjected Mrs. Forest.
          Their concern for him strengthened his resolve. He was tempted, but he didn't want to deviate from his trajectory. Especially since Eunice was depending on him to locate Vera. After they got off, he took turns hugging the Forests one by one. They bid him safe travels. He waved goodbye before he disappeared from their sight.


          Penn Station was twice as big as the Macon Terminal and Washington Union Station combined. The throng was more than he could handle. He didn't dare weave through it, opting to walk along the far edge of the main waiting area. There were so many people in one place of all colors and sizes. The massive stone columns, vaulted mass windows, and intricately decorated arch ceiling of the station made him feel insignificant.
          When he stepped out onto 32nd Street and Eight Avenue the array of multi-story buildings caused him to stop and take in the panorama of this incomparable metropolis. The rapid gait of the pedestrians made him nervous, and the swarm of automobiles with their blaring horns and impatient drivers made him retreat further into the sidewalk. He approached a newsstand where an older man was rearranging newspapers.
          Youngen hadn't said a word when the man asked, "Lemme guess, yaw tryin'a get to Hawlem?" in a thick Lower East Side accent.
          "Yes, suh. I'm tryin' to get to this place." Youngen showed him the address on the envelope of the last letter he'd received from Vera: 219 West 131st Street, # 3-B.
          "Can ya read?"
          "Some."
          "Aright. This is whatya gonna do. Walk down dis way and take da IRT Broadway-White Plains Road line up to 125th Street. When you get up dare, ask one of da coluds to point ya to dis street. Make shaw to read da signs befaw you hop on da train. Else you'll end up in Brooklyn. You don't want dat. Got it?"
          "Yes suh, much obliged."
          The old man returned to his routine, mumbling, "Dare goes anutha job."
          Youngen made his way to the 34th Street subway station. He inserted a nickel into the wooden turnstile and followed the arrows to the uptown line. A short while later he was cramming himself into a train car with his shabby brown leather suitcase. The wicker seats were all taken, but he managed to secure a metal hanging strap. Two parallel rows of incandescent light bulbs made the car's spruce green interior visible against the dark subterranean tunnels. Ceiling fans circulated the warm heavy air. Unaccustomed to the jostling of commuters, he tried not to bump into the woman seated in front of him. Advertisements above passengers' heads for Wrigley's gum, Lux soap, Ben-Gay rub, Sunshine crackers, and Campbell's Soup distracted him. The train stopped at the next station and the conductor yelled out, "Forty Second Street; next stop Fiftieth Street!"
          The subway car was engulfed in the shrieking sound of steel wheels on steel tracks. He paid close attention to the signs at each station platform and listened for the conductor's announcements. The words, "One hundred and sixteenth Street. Next stop a hundred and twenty fifth Street!" jarred him into action. He wanted to make sure that nothing would prevent him from exiting. The second the doors opened he scampered out. Cautious not to collide with any of the oncoming commuters he made his way up several flights of stairs to the outside.
          Like Dunhuang was to the Silk Road, 125th Street between Lenox and Seventh Avenue was the nexus of Harlem. It functioned as the main thoroughfare for people headed in every direction of Manhattan. By eight a.m. there were droves of parents taking their children to school. Professionals merged with domestic and blue-collar workers headed to their jobs, elderly men and women absorbed the morning sun, boisterous groups of adolescents rushed to get to their classes, vendors were setting up, and slightly hungover hustlers observed the urban flow.
          The scene was euphoric. Youngen slowly spun around, taking in the human activity, countless lampposts, storefronts, massive tenements, and the imposing alabaster colored, terra-cotta trimmed Hotel Theresa. The morning traffic eclipsed Macon's by untold vehicles. He admired the dapper clothes and distinct hairdos of many passersby. Vera wasn't exagratin'. He channeled his sister's verve and reveled in the incomparable experience of being surrounded by a thriving community of African Americans going about their day.
         He looked up at the street signs and noticed that they were numbered sequentially, making it easier for him to figure out which way to go. A harsh dose of reality put a pall on his mood when he walked past a newsstand and glanced up at the cover of the Amsterdam News. Above a black and white photo of a horde of men and women dressed in Klu Klux Klan outfits, the headline read: Thousands Gather for Klan Rally in Queens. The unnerving sight was augmented by the shouts of a corner preacher warning pedestrians of the consequences of their refusal to renounce their carnal indulgences and accept salvation.

          The front door of the six-story apartment building on 131st Street was ajar, so he let himself in and followed the apartment numbers up to the third floor. He knocked on the door of apartment 3-B, at intervals, for about ten minutes. An elderly Trinidadian woman peered out from her apartment down the hall.
          "Whatya wont?" she demanded, eyeing him suspiciously.
         "Pardon me ma'am. I'm looking for my sister, Vera. I got this address from her."
         She constricted her face, narrowed her eyes, then looked at him up and down. "Nabody live de now."
         "Did you know Vera?'
         "Nah meh bisniss," she stated.
         "Do you know if a there was a woman living here?"
         "Nah meh bisniss. Be on ya way boy."
         "Sorry to bother you."
He went down the stairs. The abrasive tenant watched him leave, shaking her head as she closed the door.
          Youngen wiggled his feet to make sure that the small wad of cash his aunt had given him was still there. He had a few bills in his pocket for food and train fare. The cacophony of 125th Street was calling him. That commercial hub was too tempting not to return to. It was the busiest street he'd ever seen, further accentuated by dynamic characters. On his way back down, he considered the possibility of running into Vera. He reckoned the chances were slim but held out hope.
          Most of the businesses on Lenox Avenue were open by that point, many of which were on the first floor of ornate Italianate style brownstones. There were grocery stores, barber shops, and law offices. He was about to take a right turn on 125th street, when he came upon the strangest thing he'd ever seen. An African American police officer was giving a Euro-American man directions. Weary of gawking, since he'd been raised to never stare at anyone, he eavesdropped while slowly continuing down the street. He couldn't believe that such an interaction was taking place. Vera never told me bout no colored lawmen.
          The bustle had exponentially picked up since he'd been there an hour before. Whereas other cities, such as Macon, tended to have a small number of each type of retail establishment, Harlem had dozens. On 125th Street alone there were scores of clothing stores, laundries, photography studios, pharmacies with soda fountains, shoe repair, tailor, and cigar shops, banks, law practices, jewelers, hardware stores, physician and dental clinics, billiard halls, and insurance companies. Makeshift shoe shine stands also abounded. The age range of the shoe shiners was vast, from children to old men. A boy not much older than ten waved him over. Youngen was tempted to have his worn black leather shoes polished but erred on the side of thriftiness since he wasn't sure what his expenses would be in the days that followed.
          Pushcarts lined the sidewalk edge opposite the storefronts. There were many edible treats to choose from. Having been lectured by his aunt, on numerous occasions, about nutritious foods versus unhealthy snacks, he purchased two apples and a banana from a fruit vendor as well as roasted yams from another vendor who prepared them fresh on a small roaster. He stashed the apples in his suitcase and ate the banana and yams while people watching.
          It was pure entertainment for him to observe a persistent woman haggling with a vendor for a better price on dried fish and cassava and a Checker cab driver yelling at pedestrians to either, "move it or lose it!" This was the first time in his life that he'd felt part of a self-asserting Black community. No one was walking with their heads down or getting off the sidewalk when a White person, of which there were far fewer than in Macon, was approaching. The volume of the Harlemites street chatter that surpassed southerners' pleasantries by multiple decibels, was music to his ears.
          On two separate occasions Youngen thought he saw Vera. The first time was in the afternoon. He was halfway through a knish that he'd gotten at a Jewish deli on East 125th Street. The Hebrew letters and intriguing smells had drawn him in. While he was indulging in the savory treat, a young woman of a similar stature and complexion as Vera was about to go into a hat store. In a split-second he covered the rest of the knish in its paper wrapper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket then bolted across the traffic congested street and ran up to the front of the store's display window. He sighed when his eyes homed in on the woman as she was browsing around. Disappointed, he turned back toward Lenox Avenue.
          Lost in thought, pondering why Vera had cut off communication altogether, he almost bumped into a short, stocky Calabrian who was hauling a large block of ice to an indoor fish market. "Wash et imbecille!" the man yelled at him as he handled a pair of tongs and readjusted the hunk of ice on the piece of canvas tarp covering his back and shoulder. Youngen immediately stepped aside. From the man's tone, he surmised that the foreign word was meant as an insult.
          Later on, in the early evening, he caught the profile of a woman with long black curls and beige skin. She got on a trolley at Seventh Avenue that was headed downtown. He trotted alongside it to get a better look. His heart was racing when she sat down toward the back. Her visage deceived his sense of sight. He rubbed his eyes and Vera's face faded, recast as another diligently sculpted apparition. The trolley sped up and he remained motionless on the sidewalk; his heart had slowed, but his stomach tightened.
          Macon had been relegated to the recesses of his mind since he'd departed on the Atlantic line nearly two days before. But at that moment, he considered returning to the daily routines of the Felton household and the quaint warmth of aunt Eunice's old cottage. With no one familiar for hundreds of miles, the uncertainty of his prospects further intensified the knot in his gut.
          He hadn't bothered keeping track of time. Though it was still light out, the post clock on the corner of Eight Avenue and 126th Street indicated that it was five thirty. Longing for any degree of conviviality he made his way back to the front of a pool hall where he'd noticed males of various ages loitering. When he smiled and said hello to a couple of older teenagers, one of them got in his face.
          "Who you with, Ethel?"
          Youngen's voice quivered, "By myself."
         The other teen grabbed him by the collar, "I'll smack fire out your ass! What you got in here?" He snatched the suitcase out of Youngen's hand.
          Youngen was petrified. Out of nowhere a reddish-skinned man in his mid-twenties with a boxer's bearing slapped the teen on the back of his head and instructed him to give back the suitcase. He did as he was told and took off with his friend.
         "You alright?"
         Youngen was trying to process what had happened. He managed to respond. "Yes. Thank you."
         "Boy, you got country written all ovah. Where you come up from?"
          "Macon."
          "Is that right? My cousin come up from Georgia last year. What's your name, fella?"
          "Youngen, pleased to meet ya," he replied shaking the man's hand.
          "They call me Fagin, cuz I takes care of the orphans." The reference was lost on Youngen. "You got family here?"
          "My sister, but I ain't heard from her in months. Her name's Vera Jacobs. Do you know her?"
          "Afraid not. Get a lotta that these days. It's like emancipation, when niggas roamed all ovah looking for kin been sold off. Cost a livin' got everybody jumpin' from place to place. Some head to Philly or Chicago lookin' for cheap rent. Not a lot a coloreds got phones, hard to keep up."
          Youngen didn't know what Fagin meant by the comparison. He'd never learned about the legacy of chattel slavery. The antebellum period and reconstruction were barely taught in African American schools and what little was allowed to be taught was a distorted version of actual history that depicted mirthful mammies and contented field slaves on idyllic plantations.
          The idea of Vera taking off without telling anyone made him anxious. He pictured the gold-plated telephone in Mr. Felton's study. He had yet to use one. Vera, where are you?
          "Do ya?" Fagin asked.
          "Do I what?" He hadn't heard the question.
          "You have somewhere to stay?"
          "Not yet."
          "I know a spot. I can take you there. You don't wanna be out here after dark."
          Youngen was hesitant. He found Fagin charismatic and affable, though he was conflicted about his desirous feelings toward this stranger as he'd been on previous occasions when he'd been attracted to other males. "I should find a room for the night."
         "Ain't nuthin' but goons and grifters in them flophouses. They'll strip you down to the skin. I'll set you up; you make some money. I get my cut. Everybody eats."
          Youngen was silent. The altercation with the two teens had snapped him out of his fascination with the cosmopolitan vibe of the area. With the sunlight beginning to wane he was concerned that the probability of dealing with criminal element would greatly increase. Having to choose between hostile individuals and an amicable person who was offering him shelter and work, he was compelled to choose the latter.
         

          Fagin told Youngen to wait for him at the bar in the buffet flat on the second floor of a townhouse on 141st and Fifth Avenue while he went to get the manager. Fagin said hello to the bartender who sneered at him. Burgundy colored lightbulbs emitted a gloomy glow in the spacious establishment that was augmented by the red silk curtains covering all the windows. There were several African America men of various ages, sizes, and skin tones parading around in scanty clothing. An older mahogany-hued man grabbed two of them by their waists and they disappeared to a backroom concealed by a purple damask portiere. Youngen was troubled by the situation. A tall muscular man wearing an embroidered silk dress and vibrant makeup came over to the bar to get his drink order.
          He lightly caressed Youngen's face. "My, don't you look sweet. What's your name princess?"
          "Youngen," he said, barely managing to utter his name as his nerves succumbed to sheer dread.
          "Not too young, I hope." The man laughed heartily. "Don't do no kinda tricks till they pay up. Pretty thing like you needs to charge top dollar." He blew Youngen a kiss then whisked away two dry martinis.
         Youngen was panicking. I shouldn'ta come here. What was I thinking? His attempt to slip out the front door was thwarted. A man in a Pullman porter uniform walked in and was met by a matronly woman, both blocking the entrance. The man handed her a wad of cash and she told him she'd be right back with a receipt for his savings deposit.


          The bartender at the buffet flat hadn't seen anyone this green in ages. When the matron stepped away, he walked around the counter, grabbed Youngen by the arm and led him through the kitchen to a side exit down a set of stairs and shoved him outside. Youngen had practically become weightless, as if guided by an unseen entity. The bartender gave him a business card for an employment agency and told him to show up at nine o'clock on the dot.
          "Make sure to give 'em the card so they know I put you on."
          Youngen intuitively acted to ensure his own safety, "I don't have a place ta stay."
          "Go to the flophouse on 136th off Eight Avenue, number twelve twenty. Tell 'em Manco sent you. They always got rooms available."
          The bartender stepped back inside, the door closing behind him before Youngen could thank him for his kindness.
          He was westbound. It took him half an hour to get to the lodgings on 136th Street. The Ninth Avenue Line's elevated train tracks cast a long shadow on the grimy sidewalks riddled with litter. Youngen had to walk past several prostitutes standing outside the dilapidated building.
          "Hey sugar, you need a lil' nookie tonight? For two clams I'll make you cum like a sheik."
          This was his first encounter with the underbelly of the night. He'd heard it condemned during Sunday morning sermons. Face to face with this statuesque and attractive sex worker, his impulse was to run away. It hit him there and then that he was at a crossroads, presently cut off from his past with his future suspended beyond this alien setting.
          Maintaining his composure, he cleared his throat, "No, thank you." He stepped inside the building, determined not to give up on his mission to reunite with his sister or squander the opportunity to flourish in this Black Mecca.
         

          At a quarter to nine, Youngen walked into the employment agency on the first floor of a brownstone. He'd cleaned up as best he could with the small window of time he'd been allotted in the communal bathroom of the run-down hotel. There'd been a long line of transients waiting impatiently for their turn. Despite the resonant clacking of the el combined with the assorted noises outside, he slept straight through till the morning. He'd remained fully clothed, not even bothering to take off his jacket or tweed cap, to avoid having any part of his skin touch the malodorous and stained cot in the narrow closet sized room.
          A dark-skinned woman in her early twenties was arguing with the receptionist.
          "I'm a certified legal secretary, but I'm only getting cleaning jobs."
          "You're free to apply at other agencies. The laundry position is what we got right now. Make up your mind or I'll give it to somebody else."
          She frowned. "Fine. Like I got a choice."
          The secretary jotted down the directions and sent her on her way.
          Asserting himself, Youngen got the receptionist's attention and handed her the business card with the bartender's name on the back. She looked at it and handed him a form to fill out. He tried to write as neatly as he could. It was his first time applying for a job. Without much in the way of references, other than his years as a house servant, he simply provided his name, address in Macon, and the surname of the family he'd worked for. She took the form and consulted with the supervisor who was sitting at a desk towards the back.
          He overheard the receptionist say something about an elevator operator. The supervisor glanced over at Youngen. She shook her head and went into another office. The receptionist returned and directed him to take a seat in the waiting area. There were several rows of uncomfortable chairs and a long bench against a side wall. He opted to sit on the edge of the bench, away from the professionally dressed job seekers. Some of them had sneered when they noticed his antiquated apparel, causing him to feel self-conscious.
          The ambient noise of ringing telephones, typewriters, and low volume conversations temporarily drowned out his inner-voice. It was a welcome respite from the pessimistic thoughts assailing his mind. Especially those regarding Vera's whereabouts. Most of the applicants had been waiting since six a.m. Youngen was barely there for twenty minutes when they called him up. The others scowled at him. Someone murmured, "pasty muthafucka." The receptionist took him to an office in the back.


          A ruddy brown heavyset man in his early fifties, wearing a navy blue custom-tailored three-piece suit, was sitting behind a walnut wood and leather top Art Deco desk.
          He motioned for Youngen to sit down.
          "What's your name, son?"
          "Youngen Jacobs, suh."
          He stared intently at Youngen. "I'm Edward Minor."
          A framed picture, hanging on one of the walls, jumped out at Youngen. It was a portrait of a regal looking man with a robust ebony face, garbed in a military uniform and a bicorne hat adorned with ostrich feathers.
          Ed smiled when he saw his reaction. "You know who that is?"
         "Is he a king?"
          "That's the honorable Marcus Garvey. He's serving time as we speak for inciting Black people to return to the motherland. I personally don't want to go back to Africa, but I think we can civilize our African cousins without stealing everything like these European devils have done for centuries. We can teach them how to be economically independent and create communities that'll eclipse Harlem."
          Youngen knew nothing about Africa, or the United States for that matter. His education didn't include many geography or history lessons. For the most part, hearsay and gossip of affairs within the boundaries of Macon had defined the extent of his awareness. Developments leading to the Great War had briefly captivated him, especially when some local African American men who were headed to train at Camp Gordon near Atlanta, were given a farewell barbecue. Of all the events in his short existence, the Spanish influenza pandemic of 1918 would be the most impactful. He was nine and full of enthusiasm, surrounded by affection. Unable to withstand the merciless infection, his mother perished. Things fell apart quickly. He retreated into his memories of her, devoted to preserving the remnants of her being. Vera sought escape, becoming hardened and distant.
          Ed reviewed his application. "Let's see here. Nice penmanship. Shows you have some schooling. You've been a servant for a white family in Macon, I gather."
         "The Feltons. They trained me for domestic duty."
         "Of course. It's about the only thing you can do down there other than wasting away on plantations for White trash. It'll come in handy for catering, but up here you can move up and seek other professions if you willin' to get your hands dirty and stay focused. It's easy to go astray. I seen country bumpkins, like yourself, barely here a month and they're running up tabs at whore houses and gambling spots. Save every penny. Treat your Saturdays like a weekday and go for a long walk on Sunday morning, it's good for the soul. An older fella I worked with when I was a janitor, back in the nineties, imparted those words of wisdom. I started out with nuthin'. Consumption took my father when I was an infant. My mama worked like a dog to feed four of us. Crammed in a Hell's Kitchen slum. Now she's got a cozy home in Striver's Row and my siblings are doing well. I own several rental properties and a nightclub. Mind you, only twenty five percent of businesses in Harlem are Black owned. We gotta support our own."
          He had never met anyone who spoke so assertively and with such articulateness. Reverend Kimbrough spoke loudly and anxiously, but this man's tenor was different. He was emphatic yet unflinching.
          Youngen wanted to contribute something relevant to the exchange. "I bought most my food from colored folks."
          "Good man."
          Ed perused through numerous slips laid across his desk. He picked one up and paused to think. "Can you start tomorrow evening?"
          "Yes suh."
          "It's sir! I ain't no redneck. Let me hear you say it. Sir!
          "Yes, suur."
          "That's better. Keep practicing. You'll sound like a New Yorker in no time." He was amused by the idea of this timid rube mixing it up with city slickers. "I'm sending you to the Morgan's cocktail party. It's fast paced. Do whatever the permanent staff tells you. Don't drink any water too close to starting time. They don't want the domestics using they bathrooms, cuz them moneyed niggas shit don't stink. And don't look anybody in the eye. Treat 'em like Whites. That's why they hobnob anyway, so they can screw each other and keep lightening up the race. Those yellow bastards act like they grandparents wasn't dragged from the jungle and stuffed in slave ships. These New Negroes giving me a hard time cuz I won't send out no Congos or Zulus to these fancy functions. The guests don't wanna see a shiny jet-black server with blindin' white teeth. I don't make the rules. I find 'em jobs in factories and dockyards. What more can I do? I can't force 'em on my clients. I have a business to run.... oh well. It's a shame your hair got that bit a napp in it. If it were wavier you could've passed for Spanish. I could've gotten you higher paying gigs. They love those exotic, black hair, olive skin types out here."
          Youngen touched his hair. "I'm sorry."
          "Don't ever apologize for what God gave you. I'm merely stating facts. Besides, the game is rigged. It don't make no sense to hate yourself. That's what they want. Always be professional and defy their misconceptions." Ed winked at Youngen in an effort to mitigate the significance of his comment. "Enough of that. Let's get you sorted."
          Ed requested assistance through an intercom and a curvy secretary appeared immediately with a measuring tape. She asked Youngen to stand up and took his measurements. Ed observed them. Memorizing his shirt and pants size she went to grab the corresponding garments. Youngen sat back down. Ed had seen all kinds, poon hounds, buggerers, nymphos, voyeurs, and many like this young man, who weren't sure what they truly liked. Regardless, he always deemed it necessary to lay down the law.
          Ed picked out a Cuban cigar from a small wooden box, cut off the tip, and lit it with a gold plated lighter, blowing the smoke to the side. "I noticed you ain't pay no mind to that fine ass woman. I been around long enough to read most people's behavior. Could be you're shy or pious. Truth is, I don't care what you get up to on your own time. Everybody got a fetish. Catholics are obsessed with virgins and them White Protestants will suck the cock off a sailor when their wives ain't looking. But if I so much as get a whiff of any queer antics when you on the clock, it's over." He slammed his fist on the desk. "I run a clean enterprise. That's what separates me from my competitors. You represent Big Apple Staffing, now." He poked his own chest repeatedly with his index finger. "You make me look bad and you'll be on the next train to whatever confederate shithole you came from. Understand?"
          Perplexed by the sudden shift in Ed's disposition and uncomfortable with his insinuations, Youngen was on the verge of challenging his misgivings. Adhering to the advice he'd just received, he decided to be professional. "Yes, suh. I mean sir."
          Ed relaxed back into his leather swivel chair and took a long slow puff of the cigar. "You stayin' with family?"
          "I'm still tryin' to find my sister. I stayed in a flophouse last night. That's why I brought my suitcase."
          "You're in luck. I got a vacancy in one of my buildings. We'll deduct the rent from your pay, no worries. Bertha'll give you a key and the address on your way out. You'll be responsible for keeping your uniform clean. Any questions?"
          "No sir."
          "Oh, fore I forget. Make sure to get them shoes shined." Ed flicked a nickel in his direction, which he awkwardly caught.
          Youngen wanted to shake his hand. Other than the erratic tangent, it had been a positive experience. He concluded that being cordial would suffice.
          "Thank you kindly. I'll be there early tomorrow."
          Ed nodded approvingly and instructed him to close the door behind him.


          It took him about an hour to walk from Ed's boarding house to the affluent Sugar Hill district. He arrived early to the palatial Queen Anne style red brick residence on the corner of West 146th and St. Nicholas Avenue. A reserved bald butler led him to a utility closet where Youngen changed into his uniform. The wheat-complexioned butler, whom Youngen estimated to be in his late seventies, instructed him on what his duties would be. The Felton's were teetotalers; therefore, he had never learned to mix drinks. The butler gave him a quick lesson on making a Bee's Knees, which consisted of bathtub gin and honey, as well as a Mary Pickford, a more luxurious drink that called for grenadine, pineapple juice, and rum, perhaps the only authentic spirit available during prohibition as it was smuggled in from the Caribbean.
          From the minute his shift started, he worked non-stop. There were two other men from the agency. They were older, calm, and focused. It was obvious they were seasoned servers. While they balanced trays on their shoulders with ease, Youngen was weary of tripping. He held on to a tray with both hands, firmly, and passed hors d'oeuvres and drinks around the backyard and garden. The hostess, Emily Morgan, projected an air of vanity. Save for her full lips and thick curls, she appeared to be of northern European descent. Her blonde hair and blue eyes augmented the contrast between her and her husband, Antonio, who could not pass for any ethnicity other than African American, despite his light brown skin and wavy reddish hair. He'd made his fortune from his drugstore chain. After earning a degree in pharmacology at Howard University he rose from a technician at a failing apothecary to the proprietor of fourteen stores throughout upper Manhattan.
          When he was twelve, Antonio had gone fishing and lost track of time. On his way back home, as dusk loomed, he heard shouting and laughter in the distance. It sounded ominous. He hid behind a shrub thicket from where he witnessed a group of drunken White men hang a Black man from a large sycamore tree. Two of them used their torches to light the victim on fire while he shook uncontrollably in a futile attempt to survive. Antonio was lying face down on the ground pressing his hands against his mouth to hold back the desire to scream and cry. His tears pooled on the soil as the flame of the body and the noxious smell of burning flesh engulfed the air around him. He never told another living soul about the horrifying incident. From that day on he swore to leave the backwoods of Florida as soon as possible and never look back.
          There was a tense moment, halfway through the evening, when Mr. Morgan and Youngen's eyes met. The primal communion disturbed Youngen as he saw a sorrow in Antonio's face that he'd seen back in Georgia among the most wretched of men. He never expected a man of such affluence to have that unmistakable countenance. His aunt used to say, "there's a hell down here that cain't be described by no religion. Pure despair." Youngen wondered if that hell haunted this successful individual.
          In an effort to avoid locking eyes with anyone else, he made the rounds in strategic patterns, weaving in and out of clusters of partygoers, though he couldn't help overhearing snippets of dialogue. A group of very light skinned Blacks complained about the influx of southern African Americans to the urban North. One woman who affected a Mid-Atlantic accent was emphatic about the issue, "these ignorant shiftless coons will only exacerbate the rampant vice and disease of this city. Their drawl alone is enough to turn one's stomach." At another end of the sizeable yard, a smug financial speculator held court as he expounded on the bursting of the real estate bubble the previous year and warned his audience to brace themselves for a severe economic downturn in the market. At one point, Youngen could tell that Mrs. Morgan was assaying his movements. It was difficult to resist peeking at the hostess. The second he budged, he saw her eyes, which were fixed on his hair, retreat to the circle of sycophants vying for her attention.
          Once the last guests left, the cleaning phase ensued. Youngen was self-directed, taking the lead on certain tasks and consistently assisting his co-workers. The two other caterers departed quietly as soon as they were done. The butler had given them each a small bag of leftovers and bid them goodnight. Youngen was on his way out when the butler, who'd been impersonal thus far, complimented him. "You did well tonight. Some of the cats they send just wanna eat and gotta be watched constantly."
          "Thank you. I was a servant in Macon. This is similar, 'cept I'll be going to different places. I never seen so many rich Negroes."
          "They ain't all rich." He lowered his voice. "Some of them tryin' to marry into money."
Ed was right. They all light skinned, too. Something else that struck Youngen as peculiar was how the Butler's diction had changed when he spoke to him. When he was addressing the Morgans and their guests, he used very formal language. In the South speaking formally to Euro-Americans was considered an act of insolence and would result in African Americans being labeled an "uppity nigger," one of the most life-threatening accusations in Jim Crow country. A pronounced drawl was expected, with yessums and yessahs as the standard vernacular of compliance. The butler sent him off with a bag full of appetizers.
          The surreal nature of his current circumstances sank in as he walked back to the boarding house. Images of the memorable occurrences of the previous seventy-two hours revolved in his head. He thought of his former colleagues and Aunt Eunice. I hope the Forests made it to their destination safe and sound. Then there was the Feltons and the Morgans. Did they share more similarities than differences? He couldn't quite discern why Mrs. Morgan made him feel objectified, as did the man in the silk dress at the buffet flat. Did Fagin have another, more considerate, side? There were couples and solitary figures on the streets. He pushed his reflections aside and concentrated on following the exact route he'd taken to Sugar Hill, in reverse.


October (1927)


          Vera had fallen into a pit. She called out for Youngen over and over. Each time he reached out to her, the pit got deeper. Just as it began to recede and he could no longer hear her, he woke up, weeping and shivering. His sheet was damp from perspiration. It was dark out. Unable to go back to sleep, he pulled out a memo pad he'd purchased for this specific undertaking and commenced composing a letter to aunt Eunice.
          He'd held off on correspondence in the hope that he might locate Vera. Writing to relate the troubling news of her disappearance was an overwhelming responsibility. And he was unwilling to capitulate to the ominous predicament. The content was vague and the tone optimistic. He steered the wording toward the scenario Fagin had described: Many have left to filly or chekago. I asked some people here and there but no luck yet. Harlem is so big. Country foke is looking for family just like me. It will take time. The two short paragraphs he managed to produce represented his most extensive writing since he stopped attending school. He withdrew a five-dollar bill from his shoe and put it in a small envelope along with the letter.
          For once he was able to take his time in the communal bathroom. There was usually a queue and without fail the person closest to the door would knock abruptly, signaling that Youngen's self-maintenance had become an inconvenience. It was around four in the morning, giving him at least half an hour before his neighbors gradually drifted out into the hallway to form a line. Far from an ideal ambience, the restroom was drafty and dreary. Its only unique feature was a ribcage shower, which wasn't common in other lodgings and a luxury that was unheard of in the South. Warm water poured out weakly from the showerhead. For once he was able to relish the stimulation of the stream on his skin, without worrying about banging his elbows on the metal piping, in a space no bigger than a phonebooth. I could get used to this.

          He'd been at Big Apple Staffing for over a month. Every morning he'd call the agency from a phone booth down the block from the boarding house. They were offering him assignments frequently as he'd proven himself reliable. There'd been an assortment of functions, including art gallery openings, galas, a banquet in the Upper East Side, and another soiree at the Morgan's. He wasn't able to befriend anyone at work. Employees reported to a site, performed their duties, and hustled at the end, to go home to their families or meet up with their girlfriends, or often, to their second jobs.
          Once though, he hit it off with another server, at a black-tie affair, that was closer to his age. They talked sporadically during the event. Youngen couldn't muster up the courage to suggest that they stay in contact. Unfortunately, he hadn't seen him again. Similarly, the boarding house wasn't designed for fraternization. Tenants came and went at all hours and, prioritizing their privacy, locked themselves in their rooms. This northern version of the grind was in stark contrast to the southern agricultural custom of African Americans, wherein the period after their daily toil was set aside for commensality and camaraderie.

          He got ready for his foray downtown to the New York Civic Club on West 12th Street. It was a City College alumni breakfast in honor of Sergeant Ulysses Storms, veteran of the 369th Infantry Regiment, whose book about the Jazz scene in Paris would soon be released. Considered a World War I hero in France, he was the first U.S. soldier to receive a Croix de Guerre. Meanwhile, the U.S. military, at the behest of racist White soldiers, had segregated the armed forces and refused to recognize the contributions of Black troops, stooping so low as to spreading slanderous stereotypes of African Americans as, cowardly, sexually violent, and intellectually incapable of maintaining discipline.
          Youngen and another server refilled coffee cups and brought out trays loaded with hot food, setting the plates in front of the attendees on a round table. They both told the guests to enjoy their meals and to let them know if they needed anything else. The guests thanked them and proceeded to eat. The other server stood by the kitchen doorway while Youngen remained within earshot to provide any additional assistance.
          "I'm hoping to commission Aaron Douglas for the cover," confided a professor, who was publishing a compendium of quilt weaving traditions.
          "That could prove difficult. He's in high demand these days. His recent illustrations for The Crisis and Opportunity are outstanding. He's able to fuse folk symbolism with cubist representation. His rendition of Egyptian iconography is impressive," one of his peers remarked.
         Sergeant Storms shared his perspective. "I look toward Central and West Africa for inspiration. It's where our ancestors were abducted from then sold into slavery. Our music, cuisine, linguistic acuity, and our reverence of nature stem from there. They're the cradle of the diaspora. Egypt and Ethiopia are fascinating and important to African history, but they're not the wellspring of our spirituality."
         An alumnus countered, "Yet your publication spotlights Paris. I don't get Negro artists and intellectuals' fixation with that city. I'd be more inclined to visit Lhasa or traverse the Andes."
          "I can attest to the prevailing sentiment as I was truly treated like a human being by the majority of Parisians I interacted with. The first few times I entered an establishment I braced myself for mistreatment. After a while I was able to let my guard down, something I've never been able to do in my country of birth. Even in Harlem I've been shunned on numerous occasions because of my sable pigment. Since the abolishment of chattel slavery, countless African descendants in this country have lived under an encomienda system, much like the colonized aboriginals of Central and South America. I was in no hurry to get back to the States after the war. I do believe Paris is still worth exploring. Many Parisians are willing to dispel the propaganda of European superiority," the sergeant responded.
          Youngen listened intently to these erudite men, though he was struggling to grasp the scope of the engrossing discourse, which became more politically charged.
          "The Hell Fighters should've been here defending our people instead of fighting the Huns in France. It's no different than the Buffalo Soldiers. They were sent out West to help wipe out the Native Americans instead of being deployed to the South to ensure the safety of freed peoples during Reconstruction. That's why the Klan is now more widespread and stronger than ever," opined the professor.
          The sergeant nodded in agreement and added, "Griffith's grotesque distortion of history in Birth of a Nation stirred White spectators into a frenzy. Why those ignorant ofays walked out of theatres sobbing over the depictions of northern aggression against the chivalrous southern rabble and their humiliation at having to endure the insolence of emancipated slaves. If they're willing to kill each other wholesale, imagine what they'd be capable of were we to rise up in armed resistance."
          "We don't have to imagine. They showed us what was in store back in '19. Their scorched earth campaigns left entire colored towns looking like Verdun. All a Negro has to do is accidentally bump into a White woman and next thing you know Black communities are razed. Disparity and discrimination exist throughout the world, but it's laughable that the American empire touts itself as the anointed defender of freedom," inveighed another alumnus.
          Youngen was roused by the palpable energy of their discussion. Paying mind to their drinks he refilled their coffee cups and the other server was right behind him with a pitcher of water.
          Sergeant Storms made a prophetic statement. "I believe the last war was a precursor of greater carnage still to come. As history has shown, the weapons for warfare will only improve in function. Europe is rife with fascist organizations, many of whom want to restore the old imperial order. I hope our people wise up the next time around. It doesn't matter how often we defend this republic; we'll always return to a hostile society."
         These individuals' courteousness made Youngen feel appreciated. They thanked him and the other server, again, and made their way out of the dining area. When they were done cleaning up, the kitchen staff prepared them a meal and told them that they could eat wherever they wanted since there were no visitors around.
         "I haven't been treated this well at other events," Youngen said to his co-worker.
         "I've tended to these academics in the past. They got better manners and don't see us as inferiors like them wealthy Negroes do. Pardon, but I'm terrible with names. What was it again?"
         "Youngen. You're Terence, right?"
         "That's right. You got a good memory."
          Terence was slightly darker than the servers the agency normally hired for catering gigs and he was a lot more amiable. They conversed about the pressures of the job and their goals. Terence was trying to attain a high school diploma then enter an apprenticeship to be a pipefitter. Youngen simply wanted to keep sending money to his aunt. She'd always relied on his pay to supplement expenses and he didn't want her to endure privations. It hit him that other than searching for Vera, he didn't have long-term plans for his future. He asked Terence if he could help him enroll in classes. Terence asked for his address and gave him his word that he'd either mail the information or drop it off.


          Ed Minor called Youngen into his office. Someone had called from the Morgans.
          "They lookin' for a houseboy. Said they think you meet the requirements. It seems you light enough for Mrs. Morgan's tastes. You'd basically be doing what you did in Macon. Only difference is these are mulattoes instead of full-blown ofays."
          Ed's last comment, whether intentional or not, made him feel uneasy about the offer. He didn't want to return to the role of faithful servant to a wealthy family. The dialogue between the emphatic gentlemen at the Civic Club left an indelible impression on his psyche. He wanted to learn about the country he inhabited as well as distant nations and cultures.
          "I'm enjoying going to different places."
          "That's fine. There's enough high yellas on the payroll that'll jump on it. They tell me you always available when they need you. Keep up the good work."
          "I certainly will. If there's more functions at the Civic Club, I'd be interested."
          "Ah, you like being around the educated bunch. They're a lot less pretentious then the nouveau riche crowd. I'll keep it in mind. Did you find your sister?"
          The question caught him off guard. He recalled mentioning his sister when they first met, but he'd assumed that it was of no interest to this prosperous entrepreneur.
          "Not yet. Is like she vanished."
          "What's her name?"
          "Vera. Vera Jacobs."
          He wrote it down. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know."
          When Youngen left, his posture was slightly more upright than when he'd entered.




November (1927)


          Judith had bankrolled a large portion of the investments needed to repair and furnish the storefront. Nisa spent what little savings she had on styling tools and hair care products. They allotted any time they weren't at their jobs to fix up the place, assisted by their roommate, Percival, and a handyman they'd hired. The salon had officially opened in July. It comprised three steel framed padded swivel chairs with corresponding countertop mirrors, a backwash unit, stained glass sconces in each corner, as well as pomades, ointments, scissors, nail files, brushes and hot combs. There was also a wooden cash register and a table with magazines next to a row of padded chairs for customers to sit while they waited. Nisa and the two other stylists who rented their chairs from her, were quickly building up a clientele.
          Her first customers on that chilly Saturday morning were a mother and daughter.
          The mother introduced herself. "Good morning. I'm Delphina and this is Abigail."
          "Welcome. What part of South Carolina ya'll from?"
          Delphina was impressed by the observation. "You can tell?"
          "There's a lot of Carolinians up here. We tend to stick close. The Georgians and Floridians find each other when they arrive here, too."
          "My family's from Summerville, outside Charleston. Where ya'll from?" Nisa inquired.
          "We're from Florence. It's closer to North Carolina."
          After a few more pleasantries Delphina asked Nisa about her services. "I straighten my hair, but I don't want her scalp to get damaged. I noticed your sign for braids and was curious."
         "You making the right choice. I know just what'll compliment her features."
          Nisa proceeded to work on Abigail's hair while she and Delphina conversed.
         "What you think of Harlem?"
         Delphina responded enthusiastically. "We never seen nuthin' like it. Every kind of Negro under the sun. We grateful for the indoor plumbing and gas heat. And the schools are nearby. We had kids who used to walk 7 to 10 miles each way in every type of weather back in Florence."
         "Me and my brother used to walk bout that much to our rickety schoolhouse."
          "It's odd to see colored and Italian and Polish children in the same classes. They play together during recess and use the same libraries. It took me a while to sit in the front of the trolleys cuz I been going to the back my whole life."
          "Racialism exist in New York, but we closer to freedom up here than we'll ever be down there. It takes a while to adjust to modern city ways. There a lot of friendly people and it's easy to get around once you figured out transpatation." Nisa reassured her.
          "The subway's intimidatin'. So many trains. All that noise. My husband sold his vehicle. It took a beating on our drive up from Florence and it would've cost too much to repair. Besides, he's not used to the traffic up here. There's some crazy drivers in this city."
          "That's for sure. You got to be alert or they'll run right into you."
          Abigail was squirming while Nisa styled her hair into Ashanti braids. She interrupted the conversation and asked, "How much longer?"
          Nisa continued to tuck in the braids "We're getting there, sweetie. I wanna make sure they're nice and firm."
          Abigail giggled when she saw her mother's reflection in the mirror. Her mother had her thumbs in her ears and was wiggling her fingers. Nisa was also amused.
          "Did you get to vote?"
          Delphina raised her hands toward the ceiling. "Praise God, Yes. First person in my family since my grandma. She voted once during Reconstruction. Wasn't allowed to do it again. The Klan made sure of that. Words can't describe the feeling you get when you cast your vote."
          "I've been here nigh eight years and I still get dolled up to go to the voting booth. It makes you realize how invisible we are in the South. Most these politicians is corrupt as hell like everywhere else. At least we get a say, and once in a while they listen to our demands."
         "My husband was happy and angry at the same time. Said, 'we had to uproot to cast a ballot.'"
          Nisa manipulated the parting comb, "How you dealing with the cost of livin'?"
         "I had no idea it would be this expensive. We've always managed. He's a janitor at the Renaissance Casino Ballroom and a union rep for the Porters' Brotherhood. I'm a maid for a wealthy White family off Park Avenue. They ain't friendly, but at least they leave me be to do my work."
          "That's all you can ask for. I known some poor women who get them mean housewives on 'em night and day. Break 'em down till they start losing they hair from lack a sleep and havin' no life of they own. They'll drop in sometimes. I try to patch 'em up as best I can."
          "Some folks is just cruel. I got a ten-hour shift with a fifteen-minute break. I'm savin' up to get my teaching certificate and continue where I left off," Delphina declared.
          "Good for you. I hear mothers in here complaining that there ain't enough Negro teachers."
          "I been helping out at Sunday school. We attend the Abyssinian Baptist Church. What's your congregation?"
          There was an awkward silence. Nisa didn't know how to respond. She hadn't attended Church in years. She had concluded that she'd chosen her relationship with Judith over worshipping where religious leaders and their followers condemned women like them. Delphina was about to say something when Nisa replied, "I haven't been going lately."
          "You're always welcome in our church, sister."
         Nisa could tell that she meant well. "That's kind of you to offer."





          Youngen was clad in sturdy boots, a heavy coat, gloves, and a pair of wool pants. He'd also purchased a scarf, an accessory he'd never worn back in Georgia. The search for a formfitting hat was unsuccessful so he kept wearing his old tweed cap. Like most recent transplants from warmer climates, the northern autumn weather was rougher than he'd anticipated. His hair had begun to get unruly and he was looking to get a haircut, but all the barbershops were crowded, and he didn't care for their loud smoky atmosphere. He had quickly learned that Sunday afternoons were designated, by most Harlemites, for leisure, and few dared to be caught strolling down Seventh or Lenox Avenues without their best threads. Many went out for walks and a bite to eat after morning church services. Others stepped out after sleeping in, due to late Saturday night shifts or carousing.
          He stared at the sign in front of the salon on the ground-level of a four-story brownstone:
Uptown Beauty Boutique. Inside, Nisa was putting the final touches on Abigail's coiffure. He was unsure whether to go in.
          Nisa saw him and waved. The friendly gesture convinced him that he should ask about getting his hair cut.
          He stepped inside. "Hello."
          "How can I help you?" Nisa asked.
          "Do you cut men's hair?"
          Nisa looked at his mane. "I don't have an electric clipper. If you don't mind scissors, I can trim it down for you."
          "Don't mind at all," he replied cheerfully.
          She told him to take a seat. After removing the salon cape off Abigail, she spun the chair slowly in front of the mirror. "You happy with your new style?"
          Abigail was bashful. "Yes. It's pretty."
          "Another satisfied customer." Nisa pressed on the braids one last time and proceeded to give Delphina instructions on how to tend to them. "I sell some of Madame Walker's products, but I'ma give you one of my homemade dressings to nourish the roots. I use my grandma's wild plant recipes. Her mama was a Cherokee healer. It's hard to get the ingredients. You can also apply it to your scalp after straightenin'. It'll soothe irritation and prevent your hair from going brittle."
          Delphina took the tin jar with the handmade Nisa's Naturals label and opened it up. She sniffed the salve and admired the label. "You startin' your own product line?"
          "Been thinkin' about it. I'm just making enough to sell outta here."
          "How much is it?"
          "First one's on the house. If you happy with the results, spread the word."
          "Indeed. We'll be back for sure."
          Delphina paid Nisa and reminded Abigail to thank her. She grabbed Abigail's hand, bid Nisa and Youngen a blessed day, and they departed.
         Nisa motioned Youngen to the chair. "I'm sorry. I forgot to mention I don't carry congolene. Did you want your hair relaxed?"
         "I just don't want it knottin'. It's startin' to already."
          "How short do you want it?"
         "Not too short."
         "Your hair's creole texture. I'll round it out on top and taper the sides. Sound good?"
         "Swell. I'm Youngen by the way."
         "Nisa. Glad to meet ya."
          She was trying to determine who he reminded her of. They talked about the differences between barbershops and beauty parlors. He hadn't gotten around to exploring the cultural resources of Harlem and asked her for suggestions. She recommended movie theatres, museums, and recreation areas, such as Morningside, Mount Morris, and Colonial parks, where live music, refreshments, and games could be enjoyed by the public.
         A disheveled man in his thirties sauntered in. He was selling lingerie, ties, and jewelry items. "Greetings. May I interest you in accoutrements for yourselves or that special someone?"
         "If they're hot, I prefer you peddle elsewhere."
          "I take umbrage with the insinuation."
          "I don't care what you take. Is too many hucksters pushing orchids they lifted the same day. I don't need the headache."
         "I assure you, milady, these finest of wares have been procured by the sweat of my brow. I beg you not equate me with the scores of scoundrels that would defile the delicate air of your venerable establishment with contraband."
         "Either way, I don't have time right now."
          "And the gentleman?"
          Youngen glanced at the ties and politely declined.
          "Come back in the late afternoon. There'll be more customers."
          "Very well. You are most considerate. Till then. Au revoir."
          Nisa rolled her eyes, annoyed by the ebon seller's grandiose verbiage.
          Something was bothering her about Youngen's presence. "You came up by yourself?"
          "Yeah. I been looking for my sister. Ain't had no luck. Her name's Vera Jacobs. Does it ring a bell?"
          "Vera Jacobs. Hmm. Na. Sorry. I which I could help."
          She was close to finishing. He closed his eyes as she trimmed his neckline, and she froze. Seeing his features at that moment triggered a series of memories she had relegated to a far corner of her mind. He wasn't as light-skinned, and the shape of his face was different, but the bridge of his nose, his mouth, and eyebrows strongly resembled those of the woman who'd been killed at the final rent party she'd held in her apartment. Vera. Could it be her? What are the chances? The deceased woman's delicate features were hard to miss. Nisa had retained enough of a recollection of her physiognomy to make a comparison. Her face got warm and her heart was thumping.
          If it was his sister, she couldn't fathom breaking the news of her tragic fate. She tried to chalk it up to mere coincidence. People were looking for relatives all the time. Last minute evictions or lost addresses were a common occurrence. How I would I tell him anyway? It'll crush him. What if I'm wrong?
          Nisa was struggling to distract herself from the awful dilemma. She asked Youngen if the current length was adequate. He confirmed that it was and complimented her on her prowess. She brushed off any residual hairs then took off the cape. As he was putting on his coat, a painting hanging near one of the sconces practically hypnotized him. It caused his head to sway from side to side. The glowing colors and light-dark contrast jostled his nerves. The image of a grey-haired elder guiding an absorbed child to play a banjo stirred unexplored emotions.
          Nisa broke the enchantment. "That's called The Banjo Lesson by Henry Ossawa Tanner. I forget what year exactly. Probably early nineties."
          He spoke softly without taking his eyes off the piece. "My grandpa played banjo. He died when I was five. I don't remember his face, but I'll never forget the rhythm. My aunt says I used to dance like a Billy goat whenever he plucked them strings." Nisa managed to force a smile. She allowed him to bask in the nostalgic moment as she swept the floor. The image of Vera dancing closely with her girlfriend, emerged involuntarily. In an effort to thrust her gnawing thoughts aside, she turned on the radio Judith had acquired from a professional thief who placed bets with her. Youngen said goodbye. She told him to take care. As he was leaving, Nisa's coworkers were arriving. She watched him fade out of sight as she contemplated what would transpire if he returned.


          On Sunday, Youngen ate traditional Southern food for lunch. He waited on a long line on 135th Street and Lenox Avenue to buy chittlins and hog maw from Delta Lily who had made a name for herself as a purveyor of authentic Southern cuisine. She'd started out selling from a salvaged baby carriage and had expanded to a state-of-the-art food truck. He had been yearning for his aunt Eunice's meals ever since he'd left Macon. The steamy tangy meat almost brought tears to his eyes.
          From there he caught a trolley to the Grand Theatre on 125th Street where he caught a matinee of, Ten Nights in a Barroom. He'd watched a film at the Douglass Theatre in Macon with Vera and Eunice. The screen and seating capacity of the Grand were enormous. When the movie started, the woman sitting next to him pulled a wax paper bag of potato chips from her purse and offered him some. He thanked her but didn't partake in the noshing.
          In the film's climax, the protagonist's daughter is killed during a bar fight. The scene overwhelmed Youngen. He began weeping when the father held the little girl in his arm. The light from the projector illuminated his face intermittently.
          The woman sitting next to him saw the tears flowing and rubbed his back to console him. "Body and Soul made me cry. Ain't no shame in it."
          Once everyone had left, he got up and felt woozy. He stood pensive outside the theatre. What if she's hurt or in trouble? The sun's rays shielded him from the cold air. Wandering in no particular direction, a jumble of images swirled and collided, fractured, and coalesced in his brain. Railroad cars packed with well-dressed dark-skinned job seekers reflected off Vera's chestnut brown eyes. Printed excerpts from Tarzan novels, depicting Indigenous Africans as non-sentient creatures floated in martini glasses held by disdainful women arrayed in bedazzled silk vesture. The photograph of a Klan rally on the cover of the Amsterdam News disintegrated in the middle of the prayer circle led by grandma Forest. Fagin tugged on his arm while smoke rings from Ed's cigars widened and obscured their path. A commotion up the block shook him from his illusory episode. When his mind cleared, he found himself in front of a bookstore. He went inside and asked the clerk to direct him to the history section.


* * * *


          Terence and Youngen worked together on other occasions at the Civic Club and the Elks Lodge on 129th Street. Terence eventually visited him at his boarding room. He dropped off a math and grammar primer that would help prepare Youngen for the evening classes he would soon attend at P.S. 89 twice a week. They hung out now and again, grabbing meals if their days off coincided.
          His search for Vera reached a standstill. Ed had asked one of his secretaries to look for Vera's name in the employment records. Nothing came up. Youngen had passed on the address on the last letter she'd mailed to him and his aunt. Ed sent someone from the Blue Nile security team to investigate, but nothing came of it. Youngen continued to let people know that he'd moved to Harlem specifically to find his sister. Her name began to petrify with each passing season.





* * * * * * *





1954

          Nisa was trying to place the man waiting for the train on the opposite platform. She'd been reading Go Tell It on the Mountain while waiting for the uptown 2 train on 116th Street. When she looked up his presence had startled her. She felt an urgent need to figure out where she knew him from. He was standing a few yards to the left of her on the other side reading the New York Age. She peered down the tunnel to see if the train was close. The downtown # 2 was approaching. The clacking of the wheels against the rails was increasing in volume. Youngen folded the newspaper and put it in his briefcase. When he looked up and stepped closer to the edge of the platform, Nisa stretched out an arm to get his attention and yelled, "Excuse me! Excuse me, sir!" Her words were rammed by the subway train. She was trying to pin point him within the crowd of commuters inside the car in the hope of gesturing to him to get off. I should've gone to the other side. The station was eerily silent after the echoes of the train died out. She pondered how she would've told him about the violent end of the woman, she presumed to be his sister.


          Youngen asked his fourth period students to hand in their essays on the significance of Brown vs. Board of Education. The supreme court ruling that declared school segregation unconstitutional had animated the juniors and seniors he taught. It seemed to hit a nerve despite the fact that no White students attended the school. The history lessons on the Black experience in the United States and the Caribbean rarely sparked their interest. His refusal to propagate a Eurocentric narrative was challenged and criticized by parents, peers, and administrators, some of them Black. It made no difference. He was committed to dispelling the Discovery of the Western Hemisphere by conquistadors like Columbus, the Lost Cause, and other falsehoods.
          The classrooms in the school building were neglected and the books were outdated. He paid out of pocket for supplemental reading material. The protracted battle, by African Americans, to gain equal footing in the job market and access to higher education, frustrated him. Still, he couldn't deny that the civil rights movement was building momentum. Why else would White supremacists across Dixie vow to annihilate southern Black activists and their northern allies.
          There was an intense discussion that day about the backlash against Reconstruction by neo-Confederates and the kind of tactics that might be used by state and local governments to thwart the implementation of Brown vs. Board of Ed. Usually, the rowdy teens were in the hallway before the school bell stopped ringing. Youngen was pleased that they were taking their time to get to their next classes, chatting keenly, because they'd been stimulated by the relevant topic.
          Daniel Frazier, an English teacher, ate lunch with Youngen every Thursday. They'd been in a discreet relationship for three years. No one outside of their circle of friends knew that they were intimately involved, and they were cautious about displaying any degree of affection at work. Daniel showed up right after the class had finished and sat on the other side of Youngen's desk. They ate their sandwiches as Youngen apprised him of the lively session he'd just had with his pupils. Daniel patted his hand in solidarity. Youngen didn't remind him of their no touching rule. He eased back into his chair and patted Daniel's hand in return.

* * * * * * *

          Youngen and Nisa's paths would never cross again. After their initial encounter, he had intended on returning to Nisa's salon for the second time but decided to accompany Terence to the barbershop he frequented instead. Youngen kept going back as his facial hair was becoming thicker and he needed a proper shave, a service not provided at beauty parlors. Two years after he'd met Nisa, he'd walked past the storefront, but Nisa's business was gone. It had been replaced by a confectionery. She'd moved to a bigger space closer to Central Park on 119th Street.
          He attained his high school diploma and enrolled in Hunter College where he earned a teaching degree. Terence had gotten married in 1935. It was a modest wedding replete with homecooked soul food and a Jazz trio. Youngen met a man with whom he would develop his first intimate relationship. It resulted in heartbreak, as the man could not escape familial pressure, marrying and having children with a woman he didn't want to be with.
         Youngen eventually recovered. He moved to a studio flat in Manhattanville in 1938.
          He'd maintained correspondence with his aunt Eunice. She would end every letter with, "Sending my love and affection to you and Vera."
          Eunice came up to visit him in 1946. It was the one and only time she'd leave the state of Georgia. Visiting the Empire State Building and gazing at the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry were memorable highlights of her trip. She wanted to see the last place Vera lived before she left. The decrepit building hadn't been demolished. They snuck inside. Neither of them had forgotten the floor or apartment number. Standing in front of the door, Eunice said a prayer. They couldn't contain their grief, embracing one another for support.
          That night they reminisced about Vera's feisty nature and her love of dancing. They were candid about her sexuality. Eunice held Youngen's hand. She wanted to express her beliefs. "There's no reason why you shouldn't find someone to share your life with. As long as you ain't doin' harm to others is nobody's business who you with."
          By the seventh day she was ready to return to her cottage at the edges of Macon. He never stopped sending her money, stashing his savings in a glass jar that he hid under a wooden plank in his closet, which combined with her savings made it possible for her to retire in her mid-seventies. Her own mother had tended to an affluent family in Juliette until she was in her late eighties and unable to perform her duties efficiently. Toward the end of her life Eunice had a telephone installed in her home. Youngen had gotten one years before. They would talk every Sunday without fail.
          He resigned himself to the idea that his sister had either drowned or emigrated to another part of the world with the girl of her dreams. Memories of his hometown were altered by the hatred spewed and resistance to equality espoused by the European American population of the Jim Crow confederacy. He never returned to the South, even though his affinity for the Northern sphere was continuously tested. No matter the setbacks or hardships, Youngen Jacobs would resolutely extol the resilience and innovations of African descendants.








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