TEXT B The year which preceded my
father’s death made great change in my life. I had been living in New Jersey,
working defense plants, working and living among southerners, white and black. I
knew about the south, of course, and about how southerners treated Negroes and
how they expected them to behave, but it had never entered my mind that anyone
would look at me and expect me to behave that way. I learned in New Jersey that
to be a Negro meant, precisely, that one was never looked at but was simply at
the mercy of the reflexes of the color of one’s skin caused in other people. I
acted in New Jersey as I had always acted, that is as though I thought a great
deal of myself-- I had to act that way -- with results that were, simply,
unbelievable. I had scarcely arrived before I had earned the enmity, which was
extrodinarily ingenious, of all my superiors and nearly all my co-workers. In
the beginning, to make matters worse, I simply did not know what was happening.
I did not know what had done, and I shortly began to wonder what anyone could
possibly do, to bring about such unanimous, active, and unbearably vocal
hostility. I knew about jim-crow but I had never experienced it. I went to the
same self-service restaurant three times and stood with all the Princeton boys
before the counter, waiting for a hamburger and coffee; it was always an
extrordinarily long time before anything was set before me: I had simply picked
something up. Negroes were not served there, I was told, and they had been
waiting for me to realize that I was always the only Negro present. Once I was
told this, I determined to go there all the time. But now they were ready for me
and, though some dreadful scenes were subsequently enacted in that restaurant, I
never ate there again. It was same story all over New Jersey, in
bars, howling alleys, diners, places to live. I was always being forced to
leave, silently, or with mutual imprecations. I very shortly became notorious
and children giggled behind me when I passed and their eiders whispered or
shouted -- they really believed that I was mad. And it did begin to work on my
mind, of course; I began to be afraid to go anywhere and to compensate for this
I went places to which I really should not have gone and where, God knows, I had
no desire to be. My reputation in town naturally enhanced my reputation at work
and my working day became one long series of acrobatics designed to keep me out
of trouble. I cannot say that these acrobatics night, with but one aim: to eject
me. I was fired once, and contrived, with the aid of a friend from New York, to
get back on the payroll; was fired again, and bounced back again. It took a
while to fire me for the third time, but the third time took. There were no
loopholes anywhere. There was not even any way of getting back inside the
gates. That year in New Jersey lives in my mind as though it
were the year during which, having an unsuspected predilection for it, I first
contracted some dread, chronic disease, the unfailing symptom of which is kind
of blind fever, a pounding in the skull and fire in the bowels. Once this
disease is contracted, one can never be really carefree again, for the fever,
without an instant’s warning, can recur at any moment. It can wreck more
important race relations. There is not a Negro alive who does not have this rage
in his blood -- one has the choice, merely, of living with it consciously or
surrendering to it. As for me, this fever has recurred in me, and does, and will
until the day I die. My last night in New Jersey, a white friend
from New York took me to the nearest big town, Trenton, to go to the movies and
have a few drinks. As it turned out, he also saved me from, at the very least, a
violent whipping. Almost every detail of that night stands out very clearly in
my memory. I even remember the name of the movie we saw because its title
impressed me as being so partly ironical. It was a movie about the German
occupation of France, starring Maureen O’Hara and Charles Laughton and called
This Land Is Mine. I remember the name of the diner we walked into when the
movie ended. It was the "American Diner". when we walked in the counterman asked
what we wanted and I remembered answering with the casual sharpness which had
become my habit: "We want a hamburger and a cup of coffee, what do you think we
want" I do not know why, after a year of such rebuffs, I so completely failed
to anticipate his answer, which was, of course, "We don’t serve Negroes here."
This reply failed to discompose me, at least for the moment. I made some
sardonic comment about the name of the diner and we walked out into the
streets. This was the time of what was called the "brown-out",
when the lights in all American cities were very dim. When we reentered the
streets something happened to me which had the force of an optical illusion, or
a nightmare. The streets were very crowded and I was facing north. People were
moving in every direction but it seemed to me, in that instant, that all of the
people I could see, and many more than that, were moving toward me, against me,
and that everyone was white. I remember how their faces string connecting my
head to my body had been cut. I began to walk. I heard my friend call after me,
but I ignored him. Heaven only knows what was going on in his mind, but he had
the good sense not to touch me -- I don’t know what would have happened if he
had -- and to keep me in sight. I don’t know what was going on in my mind,
either; I certainly had no conscious plan. I wanted to do something to crush
these white faces, which were crushing me. I walked for perhaps a block or two
until I came to all enormous, glittering, and fashionable restaurant in which I
knew not even the intercession of the Virgin would cause me to be served. I
pushed through the doors and looked the first vacant seat I saw, at a table or
two, and waited. I do not know how long I waited and l rather
wonder, until today, what I could possibly have looked like. Whatever I looked
towards her. I hated her for her white face, and for her great, astounded,
frightened eyes. I felt that if she found a black man so frightening I would
make her fright worthwhile. She did not ask me what wanted, but
repeated, as though she had learned it somewhere, "We don’t serve Negroes here."
She did not say it with the blunt, derisive hostility to which I had grown so
accustomed, but, rather, with a note of apology in her voice, and fear. This
made me colder and more murderous than ever. I felt I had to do something with
my hands. I wanted her to come close enough for me to get her neck between my
hands. So I pretended not to have understood her, hoping to draw
her closer. And she did step a very short step closer, with her pencil poised
incongruously over pad, and repeated the formula: "... don’t serve negroes
here." Somehow, with the repetition of that phrase, which was
already ringing in my head like a thousand bells of a nightmare, I realized that
she would never come any closer and that I would have to strike from a distance.
There was nothing on the table but an ordinary water-mug half full of water, and
I picked this up and hurled it with all my strength at her. She ducked and it
missed her and shattered against the mirror behind the bar. And with that sound,
my frozen blood abruptly thawed. I returned from wherever I had been, I rose and
began running for the door. A round, pot-bellied man grabbed me by the nape of
the neck just as I reached the doors and began to beat me about the face. I
kicked him and got loose and ran into the streets. My friend whispered, "Run!"
and I ran. My friend stayed outside the restaurant long enough
to misdirect my pursuers and the police, who arrived, he told me, at once. I do
not know what I said to him when he came to my room that night. I could not have
said much, I felt, in the oddest, most awful way, that I had somehow betrayed
him, I lived it over and over and over again, the way one relives an automobile
accident after it has happened and one finds oneself alone and safe. I could not
get over two facts, both equally difficult for the imagination to grasp, and one
was that I could have been murdered. But the other was that I had been ready to
commit murder. I saw nothing clearly but I did see this: that my life, my real
life, was in danger, and not from anything other people might do but from the
hatred I carried in my own heart. The word reputation in "my reputation in town enhanced my reputation at work," is used in a (n) ______ sense.