The Portable Promised Land Page 9

“Looking for me?” he said with a sinister glint in his eyes. “You shouldn’t look for me. Never turns out well.”

  “I just wanna know why.”

  “Why, why, why,” he said. “People always want to know why. Let’s just say I like to have blood in the game.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no place like home, but New York City is a close second.”

  I felt sick.

  “You know what,” he said. “I just had an idea. I could use another rapper in my stable. I keep the actors shelved here because I don’t need any more of them in Hollywood, but another big rapper could be good. I’ll get my friends at MTV to pump your video and in a few months you’ll be richer than you ever dreamed.”

  I had a vision of wealth, power, and pussy. And I’d seen him for who he was. I’d never get seduced.

  “Oh, this’ll be great,” he said. “We’ll do big things together. Just do me one favor. I’m short a waiter tomorrow night. Can you fill in?”

  THE AFRICAN-AMERICAN

  AESTHETICS HALLOF FAME,

  OR 101 ELEMENTSOF BLACKNESS

  (THINGS THAT’LL MAKE YOU SAY:

  Yes! That There’s Some Really Black Shit!)

  [IN NO SPECIAL ORDER]

  The black-fist Afro pick.

  Double dutch.

  The angry, disgusted, mountainously attitudinal 360º neck roll incomplete without an eye roll where the roller shows only the whites of her eyes.

  The devilish cut eyes with the disdainful teeth suck.

  Red Devil Hot Sauce. Special citation: Naomi Campbell, who keeps a bottle in her purse.

  Grits.

  The clock worn round the neck. Special citation: Flavor Flav, who first popularized the look that came to be a visual metaphor for the coded saying, ‘Do you know what time it is?’ — a metaphor especially loaded because it was never clear whether or not Flav was a wise trickster playing the fool or just a fool, whether he knew what time it was in life or not, whether the joke was on him or on you.

  The ornate Jesus piece. Also, the gold Lazarus medallion.

  The hi-top fade.

  Afro-sheen.

  Cazals.

  Gazelles.

  Timberlands (Tims).

  Dashikis.

  Jack & Jill.

  Cee-lo.

  Dominoes.

  The shake ’n’ bake want-fries-wit-that-shake? crossover dribble punctuated by a rim-rockin crowd-shockin big-boogie power-ballet slam-funk dunk.

  The Afro, the bigger the better, especially bigger than a basketball. Special citations: young Michael Jackson, Angela Davis, Sly Stone, Dr. J, Touré, Cornel West, ?uestlove, Fat Albert.

  The one-arm, leaned-back, way-back, head-cocked cool driving pose.

  Curry pepper.

  Cocoa butter.

  The stove-top pot of grease.

  The human beatbox.

  The ghetto blaster.

  The boomin system.

  The Kangol.

  The zoot suit.

  The polyester Adidas jogging suit with three stripes down the side. Special citation: Run-DMC.

  The one-pant-leg-rolled-up look.

  The sheepskin.

  The porkpie hat.

  The ski-goggles-worn-in-summertime inner-city thing.

  Gators.

  Wallabees.

  Kente cloth.

  Gold teeth.

  Airbrushed nails dotted with diamond studs.

  Baggy pants. Special citations: Cab Calloway, hiphop en masse.

  The doo-rag, especially tied in the front.

  Fat laces.

  Jet, Essence, Ebony.

  Nameplate four-finger rings.

  Dookie gold-rope nameplate neck chains.

  Name belts.

  Chunk earrings that hang millimeters above the shoulder, aka doorknockers.

  Funky names, self-given or community-bestowed (anything but that government name). Special citations: Cool Papa Bell, Kool DJ Red Alert, Father Divine, Queen Mother Moore, Daddy-O, Daddy Grace, Puff Daddy, Big Daddy Kane, Sojourner Truth, Howlin Wolf, Lightnin Hopkins, Pigmeat Markum, Cornbread Maxwell, Sugar Ray Robinson, Jelly Roll Morton, Oran Juice Jones, Ice Cube, Iceberg Slim, Hot Lips Page, Butterfly McQueen, Tiger Woods, Snoop Doggy Dogg, Chubby Checker, Biggie Smalls, Fats Domino, Heavy D, Pee Wee Dance, Al B Sure!, World B. Free, BB King, KRS-One, LL Cool J, H. Rap Brown, Doug E Fresh, Q-Tip, Eazy-E, Malcolm X, Foxy Brown, Magic Johnson, Muddy Waters, Bootsy Collins, Smokey Robinson, Dizzy Gillespie, Sleepy Floyd, Slappy White, Spoonie Gee, Stevie Wonder, Sly Stone, Hype Williams, Billie Holiday, Screamin Jay Hawkins, Cannonball Adderly, Ol Dirty Bastard, the Lady of Rage, Jeru the Damaja, Dat Nigga Daz, Afrika Bambaataa, Sun Ra, Mos Def, Zoot Sims, Memphis Slim, Memphis Bleek, Crazy Legs, Professor Longhair, Queen Latifah, Lovebug Starski, Bo Diddley, Busta Rhymes, Duke Ellington, Mr. Wiggles, Grandmaster Flash, Common Sense, Ghostface Killa, Black Thought, Half-Man Half-Amazing, Fab Five Freddie, Flavor Flav.

  Our names: Tyrone, Yolanda, Jermaine, Aaliyah, Freeman, Ayesha, Vernon, Ayannah, Leroy, Monifah, Malik, Melba, Jabari, Jada, Levar, Laila, Rashaan, Rasheeda, Tamika, Touré, Thomasina, Cedric, Sade, Chauncey, Sadie, Kwame, Kenya, Kareem, Keisha, Kamal, Shakara, Akeem, Sheniqua, Rufus, Fatima, Clyde, Chanda, Percy, Ebony.

  Dreadlocks. Special citations: Bob Marley, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Tracy Chapman, Busta Rhymes, Lauryn Hill, Mumia Abu-Jamal, Flavor Flav.

  The male perm.

  The conk.

  The jheri curl.

  The baldie.

  The pineapple hair wave.

  The fingerwave.

  The hot comb.

  The headwrap.

  The kufi.

  The cornrow.

  The weave. Special citations: Naomi Campbell, Whitney Houston, Robin Givens, Oprah.

  Proline hair grease.

  The bodacious, predatorily sexual lick lip. Special citation: D’Angelo.

  Trash-talkin. Special citation: Muhammad Ali.

  The dozens.

  CPT.

  Graffiti art, aka aerosol art.

  The b-boy stance.

  The moonwalk.

  The souped-up Caddy.

  The barely driveable, still beloved, hooptie.

  Under-car neon lights.

  The hand greeting, including hi-fives, lo-fives, fist pounds, tight clasps, and finger snaps.

  The theatrical shoe shine.

  The Baptist sermon.

  The black-power fist.

  The wop.

  The headspin.

  Ghetto fabulousness in all its manifestations and emanations as evidenced by Big Willies from coast to coast.

  Omega Psi Phi, Alpha Phi Alpha, Delta Sigma Theta, Alpha Kappa Alpha, and all the other Black Greek organizations. Especially the stepping.

  Newports and that ultratheatrical way of coppin a smoke on the corner.

  The shout-out.

  Pimpin in all forms.

  The nigga-pursed, puffed-out, don’t-test-me lip pose. Often bolstered by the toothpick.

  The talk-to-the-hand hand.

  The church hand fan, especially with a picture of Martin Luther King.

  “Amazing Grace.”

  The talking drum. Special citations: the African hollowed log, Art Blakey, James Brown’s “The Funky Drummer,” the sampled drum beat.

  The bare-legs switch whuppin (switch picked out by the tearful switchee).

  Fried chicken, corn bread, black-eyed peas, chitlins, sweet-potato pie.

  Granmama-made flaky butter-baked-in biscuits.

  The backyard BBQ. An institution, an imperative, a whole lotta fun. Needed: a weekend / holiday afternoon, a grill, chicken, burger meat, buns, corn on the cob, collards, tin-foil, hot sauce, paper cups, a backyard, the sun.

  The Black strut, aka the lazy amble, the bounce-step, the pimply peacock, or as Albert Murray said, the sporty-blue limp-walk that told the whole world that you were ready for something because at worst you had only been ever-so-slightly sprained and bruised by
all the terrible situations you had been through.

  The big butt. Special citations: Saartjie Baartman, aka the Hottentot Venus, Pam Grier, Janet Jackson, Serena Williams.

  The cocked hat, whether turned backwards or perched precariously on the head as if a moment from falling off. Special citations: Cab Calloway, Zaire’s ex-president Mobuto Sese Seko, Walt Clyde Frazier, Flavor Flav.

  Staying sane in a world designed to make you insane.

  Vaseline.

  Spades.

  Rhythm.

  Survival.

  Soul.

  Genius.

  SOLOMON’S BIG DAY

  A Children’s Story

  Solomon Fishkin’s morning was going very well. He cleaned up his cubby, enjoyed two squares of graham crackers and a cup of apple juice, showed his turtle Spike in show and tell, listened to his teacher Miss Birdsong read his favorite story, Where the Wild Things Are, and not once all morning long did he talk without first raising his hand. That’s because Solomon couldn’t wait for art class. Today he would do his painting for Parents’ Day. Today he would paint his masterpiece.

  He’d been thinking about the painting he would make since the moment he woke up. Solomon lived with his father on the top floor of a giant building that stood right beside Central Park. His father was very tall and always wore dark suits with pin-stripes and suspenders. That morning Solomon and his father ate breakfast on the terrace, where they could see the entire city.

  “Look, Solly,” his father said, pointing. “See those buildings there? Those are crumbling tenements. People live in them.”

  His father spotted a woman jogging in the park. “Look at her, Solly. She has a can of Mace in each hand.”

  Then his father yelled, “Solly! Look quick!” Two speeding cars were about to crash. They screeched, they skidded, they missed. Then they collided with other cars. Soon there was honking and yelling and bad words.

  “I used to love this city, Solly,” his father said, as wailing police sirens approached. “Now I see buildings I wouldn’t have been allowed into when I was your age and I know the men who own them. But,” and he laughed a dry, self-deprecating laugh, “I have to do everything those men say. They own me. This city is a crucible of corruption filled with predators and prey and if you slow down for a moment, you’re someone else’s lunch. Ya can’t get a cab without being white, ya can’t get good Knicks seats without being a celebrity, and ya can’t get a decent blow job without going all the way down to Chinatown!”

  He stopped sharply. “Isn’t it time for you to get to school? Your driver must be waiting. And when you pass Mariana, tell her to bring Daddy another Johnny Walker.”

  Solomon had his own eyes. He loved the city. The city to him was a party, an all-day every-day carnival, where people slept or stood on the street playing drums and horns, and doing dances, and telling jokes, and the big, green daddy trees of Central Park stood watch over the baby trees and all the cars seemed like animals — there were fast, yellow cheetahs, and sputtering, clunking beetles, and double-decker giraffes, and big hulking elephants, and rhinos his father called esyuvees— and all the people and cars and buildings and birds in the city were dancing and singing and playing on a big concrete island that was really a giant theater stage.

  The night before making his masterpiece, Solomon had studied his favorite big art history book more closely than ever, staring long and hard at pictures by Picasso and Pollock, Johns and Cézanne, Twombly, Warhol, and Wegman, losing himself in the pictures. Then he turned to his favorite painting, Romare Bearden’s The Block. It was a vision of Harlem street life, buildings standing side by side, people walking, driving, communing with angels, sitting alone, deep in thought. It seemed like a painting he might be able to do. It was just a collage of cut and pasted pictures from magazines and colored construction paper. But Bearden had found a way of making those pieces of paper come to life. They seemed still and at the same time moving, as if the people made by the paper were alive and you could speak to them if you only knew how.

  After a long time Solomon fell asleep right on the floor of his father’s study. It was a hot night and when he fell onto his big art history book his sweaty little face melted into Bearden’s painting. When Mariana came to put him to bed she could not pull his face from the book, so she opened the window, put a blanket over him, and left him there on the floor until the cool night winds came and loosened his paper chains. But before she pulled him free the Bearden painting seeped into Solomon and in his dream he morphed into a two-dimensional Bearden cutout, each eye pulled from a different photograph, his legs a different size than his torso, and he moved through The Block, bouncing up and down as a cutout would, admiring the Beardenized barbershop, Baptist church, and liquor store, until he came to a dark man standing by himself on the corner of the street at the far edge of the painting, inside of a shadow.

  “Solomon,” the stranger said in a deep and raspy cigarette-ruined rumble of a voice, “do you know that strangers can teach you a lot?”

  “What?”

  “Think about this,” the stranger said as cut-out cars passed on the pasted-together street behind them, “sometimes there is more truth in a lie than there is in the truth.”

  He didn’t understand.

  “If you want to mirror reality, get a camera. If you want to make someone understand reality, then you have to lie a little. You have to distort things, to exaggerate in a way that reveals the way you see things. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “You must give your paintings your way of seeing. Don’t tell it as it is. Tell it as it is for you and you alone.”

  Then the dream faded out.

  When it was finally time for art class, Miss Birdsong laid out brushes, water, and lots of little cups of color, and said, “Remember everyone, the paintings you make today will be on the walls for Parents’ Day tomorrow!”

  Solomon was seated at a table in between Jessica Wolcott and Henry Hopkins. Both of them had jagged spaced-out teeth that turned all sorts of ways, and raggedy hair, and sagging, mismatched socks. They began drawing happy faces and rainbows and nuclear bombs. Solomon began trying to bring the piece of paper in front of him to life. He fell into a trance. He was so alone he could hear nothing but his brush meeting the paper, and from those quiet parents sprang a city with hundreds of small but distinct people of varying sizes and colors. He went through every color on the table and still had more to say. In his mind he saw an exact shade of green and needed that green like he needed breath. It was nowhere on the table. He screamed out, “I need green!” Miss Birdsong came quickly.

  “Wow, Solomon,” she said. “You’re working hard on that.” She was impressed. But she really had no idea what she was looking at. She was not an art person. Not the sort to pay ten dollars to see an old colored canvas. Not one who could see lines and colors morph into life. “Did you put your name on it?”

  Solomon had little patience for her. She was the one who enforced all these rules — don’t talk unless it’s your turn, walk in a line, color inside the lines. He was the sort to live outside the lines. She was interrupting him, tugging him back down to earth. He had to get back to painting. He begrudingly accepted the limitations of her small world, a world that lacked the green he saw in his mind, and roared back into giving life to a world of people and streets and buildings and trees, all of them bending and twisting in rhythm. His city was dancing, and in the middle of the city was a little square with neon lights like frozen fire-works, and in the very top right corner was a man leaning out a window waving a baton, like the men he saw when his father took him to the opera.

  Wrapped up in his growing world, he kept on painting as art class ended, kept on right through recess, and probably would’ve kept on working all day long, but Miss Birdsong finally said, “Either go to dance class with everyone else, or sit on the pink bench for an hour.” The pink bench was the bench for those who’d been bad. The bench of shame. And if you
sat on the pink bench they called your parents. The worst fate possible. The artist found himself stymied by the child. He had to relent. If only she knew what I could do with this page, he thought. He took a moment to pity her in silence, then trudged off to dance. At the end of the day, after the masterpiece was completed, after most of the other children had gone home, Solomon sat in the corner reading Charlotte’s Web, waiting for Mariana to come. He heard two adults using some of the terms he’d seen in his art history book.

  “It’s metaphor on top of metaphor!”

  “Yes, yes, and it’s a naïf ’s style mixed with an extremely sophisticated perspective of civic organization!”

  It was Xander’s father, Jack Hotchkiss, a member of the board of the Whitney Museum, and Tiffany’s mother, Rita Nakouzi, owner of an important art gallery in Soho.

  “Is the artist saying that everyone is happily marching to the same tune, dancing together in a gigantic chorus, or that a central mechanism controls us all and we don’t even notice it? Or both?”

  “It’s lovely! It’s visually alluring and unsettling. By mixing a benign medium like watercolor with the subtle everyday violence of New York, a collision between innocence and anger is suggested. And yet, there’s so much joy in it! It’s brilliant!”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Where’s that Birdsong? This must be the work of her aide. You know they have students from the colleges come in to help.”

  Miss Birdsong joined the pair. “Jack, Rita,” she said, “please lower your voices.”

  For a few moments Solomon could not hear their conversation, but after a moment Tiffany’s mother yelled out, “Jack, you bastard! You know I saw it first!”

  “The hell you did!”

  “People, people!” Miss Birdsong said, “you are in an institution of learning!”

  “I don’t care!” Xander’s father said. “I must have this painting! I must meet the person who did this piece now!” He was pointing right at Solomon’s painting.

  Solomon walked over to the adults. His eyebrows were the same height as their belts. His blue collared shirt had three different stains. His shoelaces were untied. His left knee had a cut that was open and oozing.