When Commitment Was Golden

We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too.   -Langston Hughes, circa 1926, the Harlem Renaissance

…. and rolled down my window for a deep breath of the fresh crisp air while the majestic sunset duskily fell over the numinous quiet of the scenic Sandia Mountains while moody colorations of red and pink illuminated the snow-dusted panorama while violent winds rustled fiercely at the foothill foliage while I puffed my cigarette and sipped creamy coffee while searching for Chrisette Michele’s Golden song while I adjusted my rear-view mirror for a final look at the totemic rows of deciduous trees folding along that infamous Route rounding the arc bend of Pino Canyon trail which leads to the Elena Gallegos Picnic Grounds just before the Cottonwood Springs Trail (where coyotes and cougars pass Juniper trees) where I parked alongside a dry field collection of Apache Plumes, bear grass, and Soapweed Yuccas to take a break, eat falafel, and snap pictures of the effulgent moon shimmering on Rio Grande.

I arrived at the Havana Tavern anxious to meet with members of the North American Writer’s Festival (which meets

 annually at various locations around the nation). Some of us decided to meet up the night before the conference to mingle, chat, and discuss each other’s latest book publications. Salsa, chips, spicy-peanuts, lizard wings, and an iced bucket full of sweaty Corona beers filled the two small tables pushed together to accommodate the small interracial group of eclectic writers, poets and authors.

A funky bunch of mujeres bonitas stood near the entrance by the retro jukebox swaying their slinky Tenochtitlan hips to a primitive beat and rhythm of their own. Restless white boys hover over the beat pool-table making silly bets, drinking warm Coronas, and shooting pool, unsure of what to do about the deliciously exciting chicas dancing saucily to Van Morrison’s sexually seductive implorations: “Tell me what you want, tell me what it is…Tell me what you need, see if I can get it….tell me, tell me, tell me….Tell me what you want, tell me….What you need…See if I can get it right now, child….”

I excused myself from the table to find the restroom, glancing over at the short-skirted Mexican girls, their uninhibited dances spinning hot, wild, fantastic thoughts among the private conversations of the college boys. I thought about the freshness of their unbridled youth, and wondered if the college boys would ever invite the sensual girls to their table for drinks. “May I help you?” said the waitress, startling me from my pointed train of thought. “Uh, no, I’m looking for the restroom.” “Over there, all the way to the back,” she said, pointing towards the far end of the long, narrow tavern.

I returned to the discussion with Aaron talking about some articles he’d recently read on readersrooms.com. After reading Deatri King-Bey’s and Angelia V. Menchan’s insightful commentaries on black authors and white readers, he began to notice other articles circulating around the internet regarding the percolating issue of white folks reading black books. Quite amused, I grabbed another beer, lit a cigarette, listened to Aaron’s lugubrious question, and thought about Salma Hayek in that Antonio Banderas movie.

“Do you think that white people read books by black authors? Or, should black authors even care if white folks read black books?” Aaron turned to Ron, Shelley, and Amy and says, “I mean, we can all be honest and candid here.” Ron, an aloof, white, Jewish professor and author of a history text book pushed his beer bottle backwards, clasped his hands together, took a deep breath and answered, “As a rule in life I don’t subscribe to this black/white segregated culture. There are good people and bad people and good books and bad books. Any other thinking is primitive and belongs in the caveman era. I know there may not be many people who think like I do but I couldn’t care less what they think.” Shelley adds, “Look how many white readers enjoyed Alex Haley’s books. Toni Morrison certainly has a large white audience. In the romance genre, there are many black authors who are beloved by white readers. Examples of these include Shirley Hailstock, Sandra Kitt, and Francis Ray. A writer’s skin color should be of no significance when selecting reading materials.”

Baba Olutunde is an oral poet from West Africa. He recently published his first book of poetry, fables, and folktales. He looks up from his rubbing hands and turns to Aaron. “It is funny that you should ask me this question. I sold my newest book of poetry to a white young lady two days ago. At first I debated about the idea because my material was written with black people in mind. It never dawned on me that a white person would be interested in my book, especially with the front cover looking the way it does.” Amy, owner of a t-shirt store which specializes in recovery addiction apparel, folded her arms and gives Baba Olutunde an authoritative stare. “I have read many books by black authors, for different reasons. I have read all of Sammy Davis, Jr’s books because I was his mistress for 15 years. I loved him and wanted to know what he had been through. He used to tell me stories and I was fascinated. I love poetry, and I have read many books by black poets, but not because they were black but because I could relate to the feelings of loneliness and despair. I am an addict in recovery. I used to live with Richard Pryor.

Lark Telarana is the author of a book titled Minerva. In between bites of lizard wings, sips of margaritas, and random glances

 at the strange Tex-Mex decor of the old and rickety tavern, she returns her drifted attention to the discussion at hand. Seated next to Chip, a black author from D.C. (with whom I’d spent time online chatting extensively about the life and times of Edgar Allan Poe), Lark wipes her mouth and joins the discussion. “This is funny to me. I know it’s a serious question, but it reminds me of when one of my students asked me this same question back when I was teaching high school English. There was an email circulating – I’m sure you remember it: Blacks Don’t Read! Well, my kids were stupefied by it, not because it was insulting as hell, but because it was partially true – especially the part about blacks not gaining power in America because we continue to choose not to read! So, the question came up, how do black writers get famous if other blacks won’t read their books? Well, the student’s research projects were evidence that not only are white people entertained by the writing of legitimate black writers, but many are enamored with them as well!” Aaron almost chokes on a lizard wing. “Legitimate?” he asked. “Yes, I said it,” Lark interrupted, “Legitimate black authors; not phony writers who produce bullshit! But I digress; back to your question, Aaron. As I said before, it is a known fact that white people read the work of black authors. The Harlem Renaissance writers are well known by white readers and writers alike. Let’s be for real. Derek Walcott, Toni Morrison, and Soyinka didn’t become Nobel Laureates because a group of us decided to nominate them.”

There really wasn’t much for me to say so I lit another cigarette and returned my attention toward the young folk. The Mexican girls had joined the college boys for pool, darts, and Coronas. Chrisette Michelle’s song swirled around my head (”Take me back to the days when lovin’ was pure….”). The pretty barmaid was standing near the cash register counting her tips. She noticed me staring at her….her Harley-Davidson boots, winked, and continued counting her cash. Lark was still analyzing the flaws and successes of the Harlem Renaissance, and how Langston, Zora, Nugent, and Wallace (the Harlem Renaissance’s elite “Niggerati”) would’ve never cared whether or not whites read their works. “Maybe Lark has a point! Maybe it is a question of legitimate writing?” Aaron giggled at Lark raising her glass to signify approval. Amy seemed out of place and stuttered to find the right words: “I, I, I just think we should love each other and get along….and I think that black people should be more concerned with supporting their own arts and books an’ stuff. They should be committed to their own culture and not care about or depend on white people to buy their books.” That remark triggered another argument. Ron and Shelley (Keroauc’s Desolation Angels) politely excused themselves and left the table.

I ate the last cold lizard wing, took a swig of beer, and turned around to notice if the barmaid was still counting her cash. She was. I interrupted Lark and Amy, “excuse me ladies, I’ll see you all at breakfast,” and walked over to the barmaid to introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Push….any dancing going on in this town?” “Yes, there is!” You wanna go?” “Sure, let me get my purse.” “What’s your name?” “Denicio. Denicio Barbier.” We got in my car, clamped our seat belts, Denicio smiled, I grinned, and Chrisette cried: “I’m so ready to be like the olden days when commitment was golden….”