Beneath the Spin*Eric L. Wattree
OLD SCHOOL REVISITED
THE FLAWLESS EDUCATION OF A BLACK MAN
THE FLAWLESS EDUCATION OF A BLACK MAN
As I watched the mindless hordes of desperate White folks attack the womb of our democracy, I couldn't help but consider the irony of why it was taking place. There are only two issues in American politics - racism and greed. And the former was directly responsible for what was currently taking place. These motley White folks have become desperate over the non-White demographic. But the irony is, it was their vicious racism over the centuries that's brought the need for their desperation about. The very adversity that they forced the Black community to endure over the centuries has served to make us more rather than less. This is the story of one Black man's life, and the education attendant to his struggle to survive.
.
THE CHILD
That’s me in the photo above, Hopalong Eric. Like every other American child, I was drenched in American folklore. The American media was well into its mission of brainwashing me even at that tender age. My goal even at that early age was to kill all the “bad guys” – all Indians (Native Americans), and anyone who thought they were faster than me with a gun. That was the American way, to worship hatred, and love my guns. But fortunately, due to my passion for thought, I was able to see the folly in that point of view very early in life. Through the study of history in school, by the time I was 9 years old it became clear to me that the cowboys were the real bad guys, not the Indians.
.
Actually, I love people, although you’d never know it. Because I avoid spending a lot of time with them. I’m a loner, though not a hermit. I’m simply in love with solitude. I love listening to the roaring silence of the universe. And while I do enjoy watching people at play, I don't like engaging in it, because having to grin at people for hours on end makes my face hurt. So, unlike most people, I’m my own best friend, and I’ve never been bored, or the least bit lonely. I absolutely love solitude, because it allows me the freedom to think about the world without having to babysit or cater to other people's fragile emotions.
.
So, I’ve always been quite comfortable with my own company. I guess you could say I’m a born intellectual. That doesn't mean that I’m any more intelligent than other people, it’s just that my mind has always been my favorite toy. And while I do believe that I often see things that others may miss, I think that's only because while they're busy living their lives, I spend my time observing it. It's my favorite pastime. I watch life with the same kind of passionate interest that others watch the Super Bowl, which I have no interest in at all.
.
Actually, I love people, although you’d never know it. Because I avoid spending a lot of time with them. I’m a loner, though not a hermit. I’m simply in love with solitude. I love listening to the roaring silence of the universe. And while I do enjoy watching people at play, I don't like engaging in it, because having to grin at people for hours on end makes my face hurt. So, unlike most people, I’m my own best friend, and I’ve never been bored, or the least bit lonely. I absolutely love solitude, because it allows me the freedom to think about the world without having to babysit or cater to other people's fragile emotions.
.
So, I’ve always been quite comfortable with my own company. I guess you could say I’m a born intellectual. That doesn't mean that I’m any more intelligent than other people, it’s just that my mind has always been my favorite toy. And while I do believe that I often see things that others may miss, I think that's only because while they're busy living their lives, I spend my time observing it. It's my favorite pastime. I watch life with the same kind of passionate interest that others watch the Super Bowl, which I have no interest in at all.
.
But my life changed after I got married. I loved my wife, Val, and kids, Kai, and Lil’ Eric, so much that I loved to hangout with them, and I completely forgot what my life had been before they came into it. But after Val died, and the kids moved away and started their own families, I immediately returned to my cocoon. And now, having the time to think and write about it, I began to rediscover that I’ve always been a loner, and the time that I spent with my family, laughing and playing like other people, was simply a beautiful excursion in my life.
But my life changed after I got married. I loved my wife, Val, and kids, Kai, and Lil’ Eric, so much that I loved to hangout with them, and I completely forgot what my life had been before they came into it. But after Val died, and the kids moved away and started their own families, I immediately returned to my cocoon. And now, having the time to think and write about it, I began to rediscover that I’ve always been a loner, and the time that I spent with my family, laughing and playing like other people, was simply a beautiful excursion in my life.
.
Solitude is my natural state. I live with my daughter now, while my home is being refurbished and added to for my adult grandkids to take over (why should they have to pay a stranger $2000 a month rent when they have a family asset of their own?), and it's amazed me how much they're like myself, but unlike me, they see it as normal. Everyone has their own living space, so if a person came in the house, they'd think no one was home, because everyone is in their own space doing their own thing. I've never seen anything like it. We all live in the same house, and sometimes I don't my daughter for two days.
.
I've always loved solitude. Even when I was a teenager I never liked to go to parties. I was into jazz, so there was no reason for me to go, because I didn’t like to boogie. But if I did decide to go for some reason, my reception was like - “Girl, you ain’t gonna believe who just walked through the door!” So I felt like a freak, like all eyes were on me and watching my every move. Because I was out of my element, and everybody knew it. It's not that they didn't like, and welcome me, everybody did. But I was like a jellyfish on a football field, and there was nothing for me to do but stand around and try to look cool, so I felt ridiculous.
.
But even before that, being a loner was just my nature, because the things I liked to do best were things that I could only do alone. That’s why I was worried about getting too close to the Diva (who shall remain nameless).
.
I met Deva a few years after Val, died. I wrote a column about her in the Los Angeles Sentinel, and somehow, she got my number and called me. We immediately became friends, and later, much more. The Diva was, and is, an internationally loved jazz singer who is embraced by people all over the world. She has a voice anointed by God, and a tender essence that can reach out and grab your heart and twist it in a knot. I was once contacted by the renowned former New York police detective, Frank Serpico, about her. He said that he was listening to her sing and had to pull his car to the side of the road because his eyes became moist and he just wanted to listen. And when she appeared in Russia, upon her departure, a crowd of Russians met her at the train station, and didn't want her to leave.
.
Being a musician myself, I cared passionately for this woman. We fit like hand in glove. She was a world-class jazz talent, and I had a knowledge of jazz and music theory that could help to elevate her to even greater heights. I even wrote music for her, and wrote lyrics for instrumental jazz standards for her to sing.
.
But there was a problem - even though Val had been gone for years, I felt a loyalty to her like she was still alive. I still thought of myself as her man. I know it's dysfunctional, my educational background is in psychology, but nevertheless, that's the way it was, and I had no motivation to change it. I had engraved on Val's headstone, "Until death do us part - and beyond", and so far, I've kept that vow. Now, don't get me wrong, I do get involved with other women, but once me and the woman begin to get too close, a little bell seems to go off in my head, and I begin to shut down, and so it went with Diva. But not in my heart. I still think of her with great tenderness, and I'll always love her, in my own way.
.
Val understood me, because she’d known me since she was 14 and I was 16 years old, but Diva didn’t have the benefit of that knowledge. I always worried about that, because my behavior doesn’t always reflect what I’m feeling inside. I loved my mother dearly, but she used to say, “Eric, you were never a normal child. You deprived me of that. When I tried to hug and kiss you, you’d squirm out of my arms and made me feel like you wanted to wipe your face. It’s your father in you. He always seemed to feel like it was unmanly to show emotion, of any kind - he has one expression, and it never changes.” And as a teenager my mother had to make me put down my horn and come out of my room to eat dinner with the rest of the family - and from time to time she would check my arms to make sure I wasn't shootin' dope.
.
I loved my mother, but she had my siblings to hug and cuddle. I just wanted to be left alone, so I felt put upon, and at 16 I finally moved out on my own to escape what I considered a personal intrusion. But that was also the year that my mother introduced Val into my life, so while I didn't know it, my life was about to change forever, because Val was able to do the job that mother couldn't.
.
Before Val came into my life I loved three things, solitude, jazz, and the drug life that seemed to enhance them both. Ironically, my burning need for solitude forced me onto the street to finance that lifestyle.
.
But Val had other ideas, and she began to plot with my mother to bring them about. Val, God bless her, always saw more in me than I ever saw in myself. To this day, I'm still chasing the man that I saw reflected in her eyes. It was Valdie who made this writing, and so many other things in life possible. So, she wasn't just a part of my life, she was my life. That's why I'm so loyal to her, even to this day.
.
I've always loved solitude. Even when I was a teenager I never liked to go to parties. I was into jazz, so there was no reason for me to go, because I didn’t like to boogie. But if I did decide to go for some reason, my reception was like - “Girl, you ain’t gonna believe who just walked through the door!” So I felt like a freak, like all eyes were on me and watching my every move. Because I was out of my element, and everybody knew it. It's not that they didn't like, and welcome me, everybody did. But I was like a jellyfish on a football field, and there was nothing for me to do but stand around and try to look cool, so I felt ridiculous.
.
But even before that, being a loner was just my nature, because the things I liked to do best were things that I could only do alone. That’s why I was worried about getting too close to the Diva (who shall remain nameless).
.
I met Deva a few years after Val, died. I wrote a column about her in the Los Angeles Sentinel, and somehow, she got my number and called me. We immediately became friends, and later, much more. The Diva was, and is, an internationally loved jazz singer who is embraced by people all over the world. She has a voice anointed by God, and a tender essence that can reach out and grab your heart and twist it in a knot. I was once contacted by the renowned former New York police detective, Frank Serpico, about her. He said that he was listening to her sing and had to pull his car to the side of the road because his eyes became moist and he just wanted to listen. And when she appeared in Russia, upon her departure, a crowd of Russians met her at the train station, and didn't want her to leave.
.
Being a musician myself, I cared passionately for this woman. We fit like hand in glove. She was a world-class jazz talent, and I had a knowledge of jazz and music theory that could help to elevate her to even greater heights. I even wrote music for her, and wrote lyrics for instrumental jazz standards for her to sing.
.
But there was a problem - even though Val had been gone for years, I felt a loyalty to her like she was still alive. I still thought of myself as her man. I know it's dysfunctional, my educational background is in psychology, but nevertheless, that's the way it was, and I had no motivation to change it. I had engraved on Val's headstone, "Until death do us part - and beyond", and so far, I've kept that vow. Now, don't get me wrong, I do get involved with other women, but once me and the woman begin to get too close, a little bell seems to go off in my head, and I begin to shut down, and so it went with Diva. But not in my heart. I still think of her with great tenderness, and I'll always love her, in my own way.
.
Val understood me, because she’d known me since she was 14 and I was 16 years old, but Diva didn’t have the benefit of that knowledge. I always worried about that, because my behavior doesn’t always reflect what I’m feeling inside. I loved my mother dearly, but she used to say, “Eric, you were never a normal child. You deprived me of that. When I tried to hug and kiss you, you’d squirm out of my arms and made me feel like you wanted to wipe your face. It’s your father in you. He always seemed to feel like it was unmanly to show emotion, of any kind - he has one expression, and it never changes.” And as a teenager my mother had to make me put down my horn and come out of my room to eat dinner with the rest of the family - and from time to time she would check my arms to make sure I wasn't shootin' dope.
.
I loved my mother, but she had my siblings to hug and cuddle. I just wanted to be left alone, so I felt put upon, and at 16 I finally moved out on my own to escape what I considered a personal intrusion. But that was also the year that my mother introduced Val into my life, so while I didn't know it, my life was about to change forever, because Val was able to do the job that mother couldn't.
.
Before Val came into my life I loved three things, solitude, jazz, and the drug life that seemed to enhance them both. Ironically, my burning need for solitude forced me onto the street to finance that lifestyle.
.
But Val had other ideas, and she began to plot with my mother to bring them about. Val, God bless her, always saw more in me than I ever saw in myself. To this day, I'm still chasing the man that I saw reflected in her eyes. It was Valdie who made this writing, and so many other things in life possible. So, she wasn't just a part of my life, she was my life. That's why I'm so loyal to her, even to this day.
.
THE JAZZ MINDSET
.
When I was a teenage, on two separate occasions, he'd be going with a woman, and I'd be going with her daughter (he and my mother were no longer together). My mother and I were more like brother and sister as well. I overheard my mother tell one of her friends, "I gave birth to a Bohemian in that one - he's just like his damn daddy, cold as ice." I don't think she was actually criticizing me, she was just saying I was different, as all of her friends already knew - I'd had an affair with two of them, and one of them was the woman she was talking to, so her friend knew all too well, exactly what my mother was talking about - more than my mother would ever know.
.
But at the time I loved the relationship that I had with my parents, because it made me feel like a peer. But now that I look back on it, and consider the relationship that I have with my own son and daughter, I often wonder what I missed. But I’ve got to hand it to Mac, he taught me to be a man, and he gave me a no nonsense attitude toward life that I use to live by, and I also utilize in my writings to this day - everything is about the bottom line; you call a hat a hat, and no bullshit tap dancin’ around reality. That, and the love of jazz was his legacy to me. My mother's legacy was teaching me to love, unconditionally.
.
Below was me at about seven years old, and about five years before my father showed up with my first saxophone. The house that I mention was the one that Mac moved Jimmy into to teach me to play.
When I was a teenage, on two separate occasions, he'd be going with a woman, and I'd be going with her daughter (he and my mother were no longer together). My mother and I were more like brother and sister as well. I overheard my mother tell one of her friends, "I gave birth to a Bohemian in that one - he's just like his damn daddy, cold as ice." I don't think she was actually criticizing me, she was just saying I was different, as all of her friends already knew - I'd had an affair with two of them, and one of them was the woman she was talking to, so her friend knew all too well, exactly what my mother was talking about - more than my mother would ever know.
.
But at the time I loved the relationship that I had with my parents, because it made me feel like a peer. But now that I look back on it, and consider the relationship that I have with my own son and daughter, I often wonder what I missed. But I’ve got to hand it to Mac, he taught me to be a man, and he gave me a no nonsense attitude toward life that I use to live by, and I also utilize in my writings to this day - everything is about the bottom line; you call a hat a hat, and no bullshit tap dancin’ around reality. That, and the love of jazz was his legacy to me. My mother's legacy was teaching me to love, unconditionally.
.
Below was me at about seven years old, and about five years before my father showed up with my first saxophone. The house that I mention was the one that Mac moved Jimmy into to teach me to play.
.
SOLITUDE
.
There was a little house in Watts, in the back of my grandparents’ home, that sat totally silent just for me. It sat there in complete obedience to fulfil it’s one and only purpose, to accommodate, and give focus to the thoughts of a young and aimless mind. Totally vacant accept for a sofa and a table, there was no furniture to warm the air. So as I sat in it’s embrace, and quietly drew the thoughts I couldn't express, I could feel the clean, cool air against my face, as it locked the noise and confusion of humanity out of that small niche of the universe that I had claimed as my own.
 |
| Hello, my friend. I'm back. |
.
I loved that house, because it introduced the soul of a child to the beauty of solitude. I would sit there for hours with paper and pencil, trying to bring life to my thoughts. I couldn't write back then, so I would breathe substance into my world by drawing the images of crude little stickmen that I would speak to, then patiently awaited the time when they could speak back. I loved those little sessions with myself. I think that's why I became a writer instead of a working musician, because writing was a psychiatrically approved excuse to talk to myself, and as a working musician I'd be forced to seek approval, and be part of the crowd. That's my curse - I love music, but I hate the music business. But writing is perfect for me, I can do it alone, I can say whatever is on my mind, and I don't have to grin at people until my face hurt.
.
So that little house played a very important role in my life, and all these many years later, I still go there, but only in my mind. I return to escape life’s horrors. I also visit to celebrate life’s triumphs. I go there to commune with those who left me behind. My grandparents are there, my mother is there, and my late wife is there to comfort me when I’m lost. But my manhood is also there to reinforce me, and the depth of my intellect resides there to inform me, and to give flesh to the stickmen I'd left behind.
.
I loved that house, because it introduced the soul of a child to the beauty of solitude. I would sit there for hours with paper and pencil, trying to bring life to my thoughts. I couldn't write back then, so I would breathe substance into my world by drawing the images of crude little stickmen that I would speak to, then patiently awaited the time when they could speak back. I loved those little sessions with myself. I think that's why I became a writer instead of a working musician, because writing was a psychiatrically approved excuse to talk to myself, and as a working musician I'd be forced to seek approval, and be part of the crowd. That's my curse - I love music, but I hate the music business. But writing is perfect for me, I can do it alone, I can say whatever is on my mind, and I don't have to grin at people until my face hurt.
.
So that little house played a very important role in my life, and all these many years later, I still go there, but only in my mind. I return to escape life’s horrors. I also visit to celebrate life’s triumphs. I go there to commune with those who left me behind. My grandparents are there, my mother is there, and my late wife is there to comfort me when I’m lost. But my manhood is also there to reinforce me, and the depth of my intellect resides there to inform me, and to give flesh to the stickmen I'd left behind.
.
So, yes, I love that little house, and the perfect solitude that it made all mine. I also love the cool, clean air, and the crude little stickmen, it always brings to mind
.
THE ADOLESCENT
AND THE
.
The saxophone keeps me connected to my roots, and who I am fundamentally, so it contributes to my writing in that way as well. Sometimes when I get on my high horse and begin to speak the superficial language of the Washington pundits or the mainstream media, I simply have to glance at my horn to remember why I started writing in the first place–to present the views of those who are too often overlooked. In fact, it reminds me that I’m much more of a translator than I am a writer. I seek to translate the emotional truths that Bird, Miles, Trane, and others set forth in their harmonic and melodic constructions into readable prose. As I mentioned above, that’s not always possible, but my horn keeps me in touch with my mission, and it reminds me to remain focused on doing the best I can in that respect.
.
.
I’ll never forget the day he gave me that horn. It was on a Sunday morning. He opened the case, and there it was, smiling at me for the very first time, with its pearly-white keypads and glistening gold body gleaming in the sunlight against the deep blue felt lining of its case. Even now, I can remember my excitement as the newness of it’s smell filled my young nostrils.
.
But to my surprise, he also brought Jimmy home with him - for what, I didn’t know. Jimmy was the neighborhood’s quintessential dope fiend and general substance abuser. So, to my even greater surprise, it turned out that he had brought Jimmy home to teach me to play the saxophone. I was very doubtful that Jimmy could teach anyone to do anything but shoot dope, toss back a pint or two and nod, but I wasn’t worried about that at the time - I just couldn’t wait for him to put that horn together.
.
It seemed like it took Jimmy forever to extract the pad-saver and adjust the reed on the mouthpiece. Then they finally put the strap around my neck. Jimmy showed me where to place my fingers, and then I blew my first official note on the saxophone, and I got one of the most horrifically agonizing sounds out of that horn that ANYONE has ever heard. It made my mother jump up out of bed and run into the living room yelling, "What is going on in here!!!?"
.
I became immediately frustrated, because I just couldn’t figure out how something that was so beautiful could produce such a horrible sound. Then my father said, "Wait a minute, son. Jimmy, show him how this thing is supposed to sound."
.
Jimmy, as I mentioned before, was not only a dope fiend, but over the years he had degenerated into an extremely unkempt drunk as well. He had become the kind of person who was completely dismissed by even the most down-on-their-luck adults, and the kids used to like to play practical jokes on him when we found him nodded-out somewhere in the neighborhood. And I'm now ashamed to say that I was one of the most prolific and abusive of the bunch. But when Jimmy put that horn into his mouth and began to play "Round Midnight," he became a different person. Now he was in his element - Jimmy was in command. All of the disappointments and humiliations in life slipped under his fingers and out the bell of that horn as some of the most beautiful licks that I’d ever heard before or since.
.
Even as a kid I could see the confidence, the focus, and knowledge reflected in his eyes. I could see the young Jimmy. I could see all of his hopes and dreams that seems to have gone astray. And to this day, I have never heard ANYBODY play "Round Midnight" with such passion and ease of facility, and I’ve heard it played by some of the greatest saxophone players who have ever lived. But not one of them has been able to touch me in the spot that Jimmy reached that Sunday morning of my youth. And this was playing cold, on a brand new saxophone, and he probably hadn’t touched a horn in years - and not to mention he was loaded (one of the last times I ever saw him in that condition, by the way).
.
When Jimmy was done, my father told me, in his typically graphic and offhand way, "Now, I want you to hang on to this horn like it’s your momma’s tiddy, and you’ll never be broke or alone." Then he looked over at Jimmy and added, "unless you start shootin’ that shit." I followed my father’s advice, and his words have turned out to be prophetic. But actually, after watching the transformation in Jimmy when he picked up that horn, my father didn’t have to say another word.
.
So even as I respond to this interview, and speak of my love for the written word, a lifelong friend sits in its stand with that same beautiful smile that first greeted me as a child. The beauty of its song is a constant reminder that the written word is only one part of my life. Unlike a corporeal being, its only reason for existence is to carry out the blessing of a long departed father upon his son. But much like a sensuously flawless and indulgent woman, it waits patiently, still gleaming in the sunlight with its glistening keys and curvaceous body, as though longing for my loving and passionate embrace.
.
I’ll never forget the day he gave me that horn. It was on a Sunday morning. He opened the case, and there it was, smiling at me for the very first time, with its pearly-white keypads and glistening gold body gleaming in the sunlight against the deep blue felt lining of its case. Even now, I can remember my excitement as the newness of it’s smell filled my young nostrils.
.
But to my surprise, he also brought Jimmy home with him - for what, I didn’t know. Jimmy was the neighborhood’s quintessential dope fiend and general substance abuser. So, to my even greater surprise, it turned out that he had brought Jimmy home to teach me to play the saxophone. I was very doubtful that Jimmy could teach anyone to do anything but shoot dope, toss back a pint or two and nod, but I wasn’t worried about that at the time - I just couldn’t wait for him to put that horn together.
.
It seemed like it took Jimmy forever to extract the pad-saver and adjust the reed on the mouthpiece. Then they finally put the strap around my neck. Jimmy showed me where to place my fingers, and then I blew my first official note on the saxophone, and I got one of the most horrifically agonizing sounds out of that horn that ANYONE has ever heard. It made my mother jump up out of bed and run into the living room yelling, "What is going on in here!!!?"
.
I became immediately frustrated, because I just couldn’t figure out how something that was so beautiful could produce such a horrible sound. Then my father said, "Wait a minute, son. Jimmy, show him how this thing is supposed to sound."
.
Jimmy, as I mentioned before, was not only a dope fiend, but over the years he had degenerated into an extremely unkempt drunk as well. He had become the kind of person who was completely dismissed by even the most down-on-their-luck adults, and the kids used to like to play practical jokes on him when we found him nodded-out somewhere in the neighborhood. And I'm now ashamed to say that I was one of the most prolific and abusive of the bunch. But when Jimmy put that horn into his mouth and began to play "Round Midnight," he became a different person. Now he was in his element - Jimmy was in command. All of the disappointments and humiliations in life slipped under his fingers and out the bell of that horn as some of the most beautiful licks that I’d ever heard before or since.
.
Even as a kid I could see the confidence, the focus, and knowledge reflected in his eyes. I could see the young Jimmy. I could see all of his hopes and dreams that seems to have gone astray. And to this day, I have never heard ANYBODY play "Round Midnight" with such passion and ease of facility, and I’ve heard it played by some of the greatest saxophone players who have ever lived. But not one of them has been able to touch me in the spot that Jimmy reached that Sunday morning of my youth. And this was playing cold, on a brand new saxophone, and he probably hadn’t touched a horn in years - and not to mention he was loaded (one of the last times I ever saw him in that condition, by the way).
.
When Jimmy was done, my father told me, in his typically graphic and offhand way, "Now, I want you to hang on to this horn like it’s your momma’s tiddy, and you’ll never be broke or alone." Then he looked over at Jimmy and added, "unless you start shootin’ that shit." I followed my father’s advice, and his words have turned out to be prophetic. But actually, after watching the transformation in Jimmy when he picked up that horn, my father didn’t have to say another word.
.
So even as I respond to this interview, and speak of my love for the written word, a lifelong friend sits in its stand with that same beautiful smile that first greeted me as a child. The beauty of its song is a constant reminder that the written word is only one part of my life. Unlike a corporeal being, its only reason for existence is to carry out the blessing of a long departed father upon his son. But much like a sensuously flawless and indulgent woman, it waits patiently, still gleaming in the sunlight with its glistening keys and curvaceous body, as though longing for my loving and passionate embrace.
.
Thank you, Jimmy, for pulling your life together long enough to give me one. This one's for you, my man.
.
I
was told as a child
.
.
A SWINGIN’ AFFAIR
.
was told as a child
Blacks had no worth,
Not a nickel’s worth of dimes.
I believed that myth
‘Til Dex rode in
With his ax
In double time.
Not a nickel’s worth of dimes.
I believed that myth
‘Til Dex rode in
With his ax
In double time.
.
His
horn was soarin’,
The changes flyin’,
His rhythm right on time;
My heart
Beat with the pleasure
Of new found pride,
Knowing
His blood
Flowed through mine.
.
Dex
Took the chords
The keyboard played,
And danced around each note;
Then shuffled ‘em
Like a deck of cards,
And didn’t miss a stroke.
.
.
Dex
Took the chords
The keyboard played,
And danced around each note;
Then shuffled ‘em
Like a deck of cards,
And didn’t miss a stroke.
.
B minor 7 with flatted 5th,
a half diminished chord,
He substituted a lick in D,
Then really began to soar.
.
He tipped his hat
To Charlie Parker,
and quoted
Trane with Miles,
Then paid his homage to
Thelonious Monk,
In Charlie Rouse’s style.
.
He took
a Scrapple From The Apple,
Then went to Billie’s Bounce,
The rhythm section, now on fire,
But he didn’t budge an ounce.
.
He just
dug right in
to shuffle again,
This time
A Royal Flush,
Then lingered a bit
Behind the beat,
Still smokin’
But in no rush.
.
Then he
doubled the time
just like this rhyme,
in fluid 16th notes,
tellin’
Charlie and Lester,
“your baby boy, Dexter’s,
on top of the
bebop you wrote.”
.
Wailin’
like a banshee,
this prince of saxophone,
His ballads dripped of honey,
His Arpeggios were strong.
.
Callin’ on his idles,
Ghost of Pres’
within in the isles,
smiling at his protege,
At the peak of this new style.
.
His tenor
Drenched of Blackness,
And all the things we are–
Of pain, and pleasure,
And creative greatness
Until his final bar.
AND THE FORGING OF A MAN
______________________________
It is not my intent to promote living outside the law. I’m against that - period. But knowledge is power, and the fact is, the hustlers of my youth had a tremendous impact on my life, just as the current wannabes have on the lives of many Black youth today. So I want to do two things in this piece - first, I want to make it clear to the Black youth of today that most of what they think of as "hustlers" were not anything like they're being portrayed in the media; and secondly, I want to give the wider audience a perspective on how these Black "renegades" are perceived by Black youth by allowing them to view these hustlers through the eyes of my youth.
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Many young people in "the hood" are fascinated by the mystique of the hustler. While I see education as the preferred mode of upward mobility, I can understand how the renegade persona of the hustler mystique has captured their imagination. But their idea of a hustler has been forged by the media, where they're portrayed as murderous sociopaths who specialized in victimizing the community.
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As a result of that portrayal, many young wannabes seem to feel that they have to run around ravaging the community to build their "street creds" as a bonafide hustler. But that's not how old-school hustlers were at all. I know, because both me and my late wife, Val, were children of this culture. She was the niece of Big Joe Langford, a well known hustler in Los Angeles, and I was the son of Mac McClain, who was Mr. Drugs in Los Angeles in the fifties and sixties, and they brought Val and I together as teenagers (My mother, and Val's aunt). My maternal grandfather insisted that I wear his sir name so I wouldn't grow up with the unnecessary baggage of my fathers infamy, but that didn't do no good. Both the police, and school administrators, had me tagged before I was even given a chance to define myself, so life was an uphill battle from the start. But there were also benefits.
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| VALDIE WATTREE |
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When Val and I were about to go on our first date, a gigolo by the name of Shelton called me earlier that day from out of the blue and said, "Hey Eric, I hear you and Valdie are hooking up. I was just thinking, man, you know, that's Big Joe's niece, so you're gon' have to come strong. So check this out. Why don't I scrape me up a chauffeur's cap and swing by your pad tonight and we can pick her up in my Bentley? We can give her a night she'll never forget. Just leave it to me" - and that's exactly what happened. We were in good hands with Shelton, because as a male escort, that was what Shelton specialized in, showing women a good time. He did it for the Hollywood studios. My father had given me forty dollars to take Val out, but I didn't have to spend a penny of it. Everything was taken care of.
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The night started with Shelton pulling up to Val's house with me sitting in the backseat, and then he went to Val's door and retrieved her. Thereafter, he escorted her to the Bentley, and as he opened the backdoor to helped her in, he touched the front of his cap - and from that moment on, she got the Cinderella treatment all night long. Essentially, this was Shelton's date, I was just along for the ride, and Val talked about that night until the day she died. She used to say, "That Shelton was the prettiest man I've ever seen in my life!"
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That night, Big Joe made absolutely sure that what I smelled what'n cookin'. I didn't realize that Shelton was actually our chaperone until I was grown. I had been what they called "finessed by the best." But when I looked into Val's eyes, I knew that Big Joe was fighting a losing battle. He might have won that night, but it was just a matter of time - a very short time - because even now, long after her death, I'm still trying to live up to the man I saw reflected in her eyes. That woman was in love with me, and I never could figure out why. I just went with it, and did everything in my power to keep her from ever finding out that I wasn't all that. But to this day, I don't know who manipulated who, because in time, she even had me thinking I was the man, because you see, a man was what she needed to help raise the babies she'd already planned on having. So maybe Big Joe wasn't the only player in her family.
When Val and I were about to go on our first date, a gigolo by the name of Shelton called me earlier that day from out of the blue and said, "Hey Eric, I hear you and Valdie are hooking up. I was just thinking, man, you know, that's Big Joe's niece, so you're gon' have to come strong. So check this out. Why don't I scrape me up a chauffeur's cap and swing by your pad tonight and we can pick her up in my Bentley? We can give her a night she'll never forget. Just leave it to me" - and that's exactly what happened. We were in good hands with Shelton, because as a male escort, that was what Shelton specialized in, showing women a good time. He did it for the Hollywood studios. My father had given me forty dollars to take Val out, but I didn't have to spend a penny of it. Everything was taken care of.
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The night started with Shelton pulling up to Val's house with me sitting in the backseat, and then he went to Val's door and retrieved her. Thereafter, he escorted her to the Bentley, and as he opened the backdoor to helped her in, he touched the front of his cap - and from that moment on, she got the Cinderella treatment all night long. Essentially, this was Shelton's date, I was just along for the ride, and Val talked about that night until the day she died. She used to say, "That Shelton was the prettiest man I've ever seen in my life!"
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That night, Big Joe made absolutely sure that what I smelled what'n cookin'. I didn't realize that Shelton was actually our chaperone until I was grown. I had been what they called "finessed by the best." But when I looked into Val's eyes, I knew that Big Joe was fighting a losing battle. He might have won that night, but it was just a matter of time - a very short time - because even now, long after her death, I'm still trying to live up to the man I saw reflected in her eyes. That woman was in love with me, and I never could figure out why. I just went with it, and did everything in my power to keep her from ever finding out that I wasn't all that. But to this day, I don't know who manipulated who, because in time, she even had me thinking I was the man, because you see, a man was what she needed to help raise the babies she'd already planned on having. So maybe Big Joe wasn't the only player in her family.
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When Val and I got married at 19 and 21 years old, our wedding reception looked like a peacock's parade. Due to Big Joe and Mac, every hustler, musician, and wannabe in town was there. And then when Kai and Eric was born, in spite of our young age - and the fact that I was penniless - we always lived under palm trees and at the edge of swimming pools. We never wanted for a thing. Every time money got tight, something seemed to fall out of the sky. The guy at the liquor would say, "Hey Eric, I need some help around here. How'd you like to come help me out in the evenings after you get off from work?" And I mean, from out of the blue! I had just come to get a drink, not a job, but I sure could use it, because while the price of rent in the "Jungle" was only $165 a month back then, that was twice what most people were paying for rent at the time - and it was considered outrageous for a 22 year-old, because back then, if you made over a hundred dollars a week, you had a pretty good job, but out of a quirk of circumstance, I was making that a day.
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After I started working at the liquor store the local gangsters started coming in and selling me top-of-the-line ten-speed bikes for $15 a piece, which I would turn around and sell for a $100 dollars or more. I never bothered to inquire where they got them, but I knew they weren't being taken from kids, because they were brand spankin' new. At one point they were bringing me between 3 and 5 of them a day. Before long one of the bedrooms in my apartment looked like a 10-speed showroom, and after it overflowed I started paying a friend to let me use his garage. Everybody in Baldwin Hills knew that if they wanted ten-speeds that I was the go-to guy. And again, this just started happening from out of the blue - and I was making a killin'! What my father was to drugs, and Big Joes was with the ladies, I was to 10-speeds - at least in the Baldwin Hills area.
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Also during that time, Big Joe encouraged us to enroll Kai and Eric in Windsor Hills Elementary School. I anticipated districting problems, but when we got there it was like they expected us. They were in school the next day. As a result of that move, Kai and Eric went to school with the children of doctors, lawyers, and politicians. And once they got there, they were assigned a teacher, Ms. Faye Armstrong, who became their PERMANENT teacher. They didn't change teachers every year like most kids. We got so close with Faye that we used to go out to dinner together, and Kai became so close to her that she began to take on Faye's Texas drawl. By the time Kai graduated, Faye had her so sharp that she was doing her class' valedictorian speech.
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So I strongly suspect that something was at work here, because when I look back on it, Kai and Eric grew up like royalty. It seemed like even when I did something wrong, it somehow, miraculously, turned out right. As a young man, I always wanted to think it was about what Val and I were doing right, but was it? Today I'm almost certain invisible hands were at work in the background, because the chances of two kids getting married at 19 and 21 years old and managing to raise two children into adulthood without hitting even ONE bump in the road severely challenges the odds of statistical probability. When we were raising Kai and Eric, we literally, never struggled. Life was one big party. Our home was a house with four kids in it, running itself . . . or so it seemed.
When Val and I got married at 19 and 21 years old, our wedding reception looked like a peacock's parade. Due to Big Joe and Mac, every hustler, musician, and wannabe in town was there. And then when Kai and Eric was born, in spite of our young age - and the fact that I was penniless - we always lived under palm trees and at the edge of swimming pools. We never wanted for a thing. Every time money got tight, something seemed to fall out of the sky. The guy at the liquor would say, "Hey Eric, I need some help around here. How'd you like to come help me out in the evenings after you get off from work?" And I mean, from out of the blue! I had just come to get a drink, not a job, but I sure could use it, because while the price of rent in the "Jungle" was only $165 a month back then, that was twice what most people were paying for rent at the time - and it was considered outrageous for a 22 year-old, because back then, if you made over a hundred dollars a week, you had a pretty good job, but out of a quirk of circumstance, I was making that a day.
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After I started working at the liquor store the local gangsters started coming in and selling me top-of-the-line ten-speed bikes for $15 a piece, which I would turn around and sell for a $100 dollars or more. I never bothered to inquire where they got them, but I knew they weren't being taken from kids, because they were brand spankin' new. At one point they were bringing me between 3 and 5 of them a day. Before long one of the bedrooms in my apartment looked like a 10-speed showroom, and after it overflowed I started paying a friend to let me use his garage. Everybody in Baldwin Hills knew that if they wanted ten-speeds that I was the go-to guy. And again, this just started happening from out of the blue - and I was making a killin'! What my father was to drugs, and Big Joes was with the ladies, I was to 10-speeds - at least in the Baldwin Hills area.
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Also during that time, Big Joe encouraged us to enroll Kai and Eric in Windsor Hills Elementary School. I anticipated districting problems, but when we got there it was like they expected us. They were in school the next day. As a result of that move, Kai and Eric went to school with the children of doctors, lawyers, and politicians. And once they got there, they were assigned a teacher, Ms. Faye Armstrong, who became their PERMANENT teacher. They didn't change teachers every year like most kids. We got so close with Faye that we used to go out to dinner together, and Kai became so close to her that she began to take on Faye's Texas drawl. By the time Kai graduated, Faye had her so sharp that she was doing her class' valedictorian speech.
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So I strongly suspect that something was at work here, because when I look back on it, Kai and Eric grew up like royalty. It seemed like even when I did something wrong, it somehow, miraculously, turned out right. As a young man, I always wanted to think it was about what Val and I were doing right, but was it? Today I'm almost certain invisible hands were at work in the background, because the chances of two kids getting married at 19 and 21 years old and managing to raise two children into adulthood without hitting even ONE bump in the road severely challenges the odds of statistical probability. When we were raising Kai and Eric, we literally, never struggled. Life was one big party. Our home was a house with four kids in it, running itself . . . or so it seemed.
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| Kai Doing The Valedictorian Speech |
So what these hustlers actually were, were flamboyant and bigger-than-life businessmen who didn't pay taxes - and that was during a time when Black people didn't have the opportunities that we have today. But, in spite of the fact they lived slightly outside the law, most were very responsible and caring people in many ways.
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Many of these people had a lot of class, wisdom, and knowledge. When my father was arrested and sent away, they came together and got my mother a job as a greeter at the world renowned Dynamite Jackson’s jazz club, and then, helped send her through nursing school. She later not only became a nurse, but a PA (Physician’s Assistant) - the closest you can come to a doctor without actually becoming one - thanks to her close friend and mentor, Dr. Morris P. Atkins. They opened the 55th St Medical Group together. That's where I met Val. My mother hired her when Val was only 14 years old to send Christmas cards to the patients.
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In return for the assistance that my mother had been given by people in the community, when people in the neighborhood needed medical attention but couldn't afford to pay, my mother would treat them right there in our home - for free. And the community was good to her as well. A multi-faceted hustler by the name of Eddie Carr pulled up one day with a huge box (I'll never forget Big Eddie; he was a very suave and elegant brother who used to always wear cummerbunds. He was also a singer - "It's Hard But It's Fair"). He told my mother, "Hey, Ver, I ran across this the other day and it had Verlee written all over it, so I thought I'd pick it up for you". It was a FUR throw rug. It became one of my mother's prize possessions - not only because it was so beautiful and expensive, but because Big Eddie was thoughtful enough to get it for her. And Buddy Cox, who dealt in clothing, kept me as clean as a young man could be in top-of-line slack suits.
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As early as junior high school I used to go to school dressed like a grown man. I had acquired the hustlers' taste and style, so I used to go to school wearing expensive slack suits, Floresheim's, and jewelry - not gaudy and ostentatious stuff like you see today (quiet style was what it was about back then), but I dressed much too old for my years, and that caused me a few problems. It brought suspicion upon me, and I was looked upon by many of the staff as a bad influence on the "kids." Every time something went wrong at school they would come and pluck me out of class, even though I wouldn't know a thing about what was going on. And the irony was, I was probably one of the few students there that was there for the right reasons. The hustlers taught me to respect knowledge, so I was there trying to soak up everything I could get. But I had been profiled, much like the hustlers themselves. None of the administrators liked my image, and that haunted me. It caused me a lot of trouble, both in, and out of school until I was 19 years old - but it also led to the event that changed my life.
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In return for the assistance that my mother had been given by people in the community, when people in the neighborhood needed medical attention but couldn't afford to pay, my mother would treat them right there in our home - for free. And the community was good to her as well. A multi-faceted hustler by the name of Eddie Carr pulled up one day with a huge box (I'll never forget Big Eddie; he was a very suave and elegant brother who used to always wear cummerbunds. He was also a singer - "It's Hard But It's Fair"). He told my mother, "Hey, Ver, I ran across this the other day and it had Verlee written all over it, so I thought I'd pick it up for you". It was a FUR throw rug. It became one of my mother's prize possessions - not only because it was so beautiful and expensive, but because Big Eddie was thoughtful enough to get it for her. And Buddy Cox, who dealt in clothing, kept me as clean as a young man could be in top-of-line slack suits.
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As early as junior high school I used to go to school dressed like a grown man. I had acquired the hustlers' taste and style, so I used to go to school wearing expensive slack suits, Floresheim's, and jewelry - not gaudy and ostentatious stuff like you see today (quiet style was what it was about back then), but I dressed much too old for my years, and that caused me a few problems. It brought suspicion upon me, and I was looked upon by many of the staff as a bad influence on the "kids." Every time something went wrong at school they would come and pluck me out of class, even though I wouldn't know a thing about what was going on. And the irony was, I was probably one of the few students there that was there for the right reasons. The hustlers taught me to respect knowledge, so I was there trying to soak up everything I could get. But I had been profiled, much like the hustlers themselves. None of the administrators liked my image, and that haunted me. It caused me a lot of trouble, both in, and out of school until I was 19 years old - but it also led to the event that changed my life.
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So while old-school hustlers weren't all angels, and they were capable of emphasizing a point quite brutally when necessary, that was simply a matter of survival, not their preferred method of operation. For the most part, they weren't vultures going around victimizing the community like they're often portrayed in the media. Many contributed to the community in many ways, including participating in assemblies and "May Day" parades that was put on by Holmes Ave. Elementary School. And I personally benefitted greatly from my exposure to them. They taught me a lot, which I try to pass on in my writings today. So I look back upon them with much fondness.
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THIS IS WHAT IT WAS REALLY LIKE
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As I was strollin’ down memory lane, thinking about the old-school hustlers of my youth, I couldn't help but think about how different they were than many of the wannabes that we see around today. First, they weren't in it for show. They were hustling to maintain a lifestyle that society was doing it's very best to deny them. No joggin’ suits, baseball caps and tennis shoes for these brothers, it was Florsheims and very expensive Brooks Bros. suits all the way - and you’d never see ‘em in the same one for weeks. And they weren't loud and crude cutthroats. While they undoubtedly lived outside the law, they reflected a style that was all their own - elegant and laid back, although, with an edge that said to anyone with anything less than the purest of motives, "I not the one."
Billy Dee Williams would have fit right in with these brothers, because he has their persona down to the last digit. Their most pronounced characteristic was class and style, not brutish swagger as they're often portrayed. They were the product of an era where class was everything. These were gentlemen - less than legitimate gentlemen, but gentlemen nevertheless. They were illegitimate businessmen. And again, unlike the young brothers you see today, they weren't in it for show. They were dead serious about what they did..
My father explained it simply - it was all about surviving in a White man's world without having to carry a tin cup. It was about living with dignity. He told me that what he and his friends engaged in was no more criminal than what White business men do every day, within the law. He said, crime is robbery, theft, mayhem, and taking from others what doesn't belong to you. They didn't engage in that kind of activity. What he and his friends did was provide "services" for consenting adults, just like the White man does routinely, and legally, on a daily basis. According to my father, the only difference between what they did, and what the White man does is they don't have politicians in their pockets to sign off on it. So the crime wasn't what they did - their crime was not giving the White man his cut.
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| My Father, Mac McClain, and Brother, Virgil, in 1966. Mac was a good neighbor and loving father, but he wasn't one to toy with. He had one mindset for dealing with his neighbors, and another for dealing with people on the street. |
I remember how Ronnie, who was something of a hustler himself, would open up his barbershop just for them every Monday so they could get their domes laid. Monday was Hustler's Day at Ronnie's barbershop. The shop was closed for everybody else. What was funny about that, and the hustlers used to joke about it inside, was how the up-and-coming wannabes would try to get in there on Monday through hook-or-crook, because just managing to get their hair laid at Ronnie's on a Monday could make their reputation on the street. It would also allow them to rub shoulders with the movers and shakers, and maybe gain the attention of one of them, which meant a tremendous boost in both prestige, and pay grade.
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I recall how one Monday even a preacher tried to get in there. After Ronnie politely turned him away, they waited long enough for him to get out of earshot, then everybody fell-out laughing. Wakeen, who used to run "the book," said, in his slow and draggin' voice, "You should have let 'em in, Ron. He got more game than anybody in buildin' - and his game is Betty Crocker approved." Everybody started laughing. Then the ladies started telling stories about the good reverend. That taught me very early in life that no matter where you go, you just cannot escape politics.
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So every Monday around noon, the whole block would be lined with a row of shiny new hogs, and the beauticians who worked for Ronnie (only on Mondays) were the cream of the crop. They were the most fabulous sisters in the hood, and everyone of them smelled like a freshly picked rose after a Spring rain. I can still smell their aroma to this today. They were absolutely, the cream of the crop - they had to be - because they were servicing the royalty of the Black community.
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| Robert Beck (Iceberg Slim) after he moved to Los Angeles in the 60s. He was a little different - he had an East Coast edge to him . . . a dangerous edge. |
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My father was a part of that lifestyle, but you would never have known it by the way I was treated as a child. When I was a young boy and visiting my dad, the neighbors wouldn't hesitate to whip my butt if they caught me doing something I wasn't suppose to do. I was treated just like the other kids in the neighborhood, because they knew they had nothing to fear from my dad. He reserved his wrath for the people who lived the street life.
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Ronnie was a friend of the family, so during the Summer, every Monday at 11 a.m. I was headed for his shop. That was my hustle. Between working Ronnie's on Monday, and working the candy concession at Mr. Pierce's liquor store after school, I made a young boy’s fortune. At Ronnie's, just going back and forth to the store and taking messages around the corner to the various people who worked for these impressive brothers could fill my pockets up - all the way up - and all four of them. But I didn’t just love the money, it was a thrill just being acknowledged by these bigger-than-life personalities who made such a huge impression on my life, and I'm not the least bit ashamed to admit it. Sometimes in my writings even today, I'll take on the persona of one of them to make a point, because they had a dry, bottom-line wit about them that cut straight through all manner of bullshit. Listening to them taught me to look beneath a person's words and address the motive behind what they were saying. I also learned to never tap dance around the edges of an issue - get to the point. That's why I call my column "Beneath the Spin."
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One of the reasons I could see through Cornel West, and I was so relentless against him in my column is due the words of a friend of my father that they used to call "Sweet Willie." When I was about 16 years old he told me, "Never trust a brother who's always trying to be the coolest thing in the room, because he's using so much of his brain power trying to maintain his image that there's nothing left for him to think with. The primary reason he's trying to be so cool in the first place is because he's insecure, which means that inside, even HE knows he ain't shit, and he's trying his best to hide that fact from the rest of the world. It also means he scary, so if you're ever busted with him, he'll turn out to be a turncoat and a snitch every time." And I began to read "Psych-Cybernetics," and later, majored in psychology in college based on the words of another hustler that they used to call "Genie Boy." He told me, "The human mind was one of the most powerful forces in the known universe, so if you don't control it, it WILL control you." Later, as a student of psychology, I found that the words of both men were valid. Carl Jung, a protégé of Sigmund Freud said, everything we do, short of seeking to satisfy our homeostatic (biological) needs, we do in an attempt to reduce our feelings of insecurity.
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So yes, I really admired these people. I loved just hearing them say my name. It made me feel like I was a part of an inner circle, or a world that others couldn't gain access to - and indeed I was. But I especially loved hearing those gorgeous and pretty-smelling women say my name - "Eric, honey, will you run around to the drug store and ask Mr. Reed to send me a large jar of this?" And then they'd hand me an empty jar of something. "Thank you, baby." How I loved that - especially when Harriett did it, and she'd rubbed her hand against my face or shoulder.
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Harriett was so beautiful that she didn't even look real. She was the finest and most refined of them all. She looked like someone had painted her. And when she moved she was so sensuous that as she walked, I imagined her thighs must've even made one another other feel good as they rubbed up against each other. That's right! That woman was tough. Yet, she didn't even seem to notice how beautiful she was. That's where the class came in. Every man who knew her yearned for her, but they also knew not to cross the line, because Harriett wasn't the kind of woman that a man could just choose - she had to choose him.
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And Harriett was the one I knew best. We had a special relationship, because we had Jimmy in common. She was Jimmy's girlfriend, and how I envied him that accomplishment. But actually, it wasn't an accomplishment on Jimmy's part. Harriett just sort of dropped into his lap. Jimmy was a guy my father hired to teach me to play the saxophone. He had a serious heroin addition at the time, and he used to drink a lot too. So we'd see him nodded out in alleys and behind the pool hall, or getting sick and throwing up in public. So everybody used to look down on him - everybody, that is, accept Harriett. She went to high school with Jimmy, so you'd often see her waking him up, and scooping him up from behind the pool hall. He probably would have died if it weren't for Harriett, because his wife left him for another man, and she and the other dude would walk right past Jimmy nodded out somewhere without even looking down. So he didn't have anyone who gave a damn about him - except Harriett, the finest thing who ever lived. Go figure it.
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So just think about the character of that lady. Harriet was a woman who was so beautiful, sexy, and classy that she could, literally, get any man she wanted, at any station in life - in or out of the hood. Yet, she catered to the needs of a man who had been a dope fiend for years, and had degenerated to the point that he'd become the neighborhood joke. Jimmy wasn't simply at the bottom, the bottom was sitting on him.
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The situation with Jimmy was one of my first big eye-openers in life. Jimmy was a metaphor for the direction that many of our young people are headed for today. But Jimmy turned out to be a guy who had more character, more class, and much more talent than any of us (I tell his story in a link below). But when Jimmy was down and needed us most, we not only stepped over him, but laughed at him as we were doing it - and as young as I was, I was a big part of it. When it came to Jimmy, I was one of the most prolific practical jokers against him. If I found him passed out somewhere, it seemed that I just couldn't get myself to pass by without playing some kind of practical joke on him, like tying his shoes together or something childish like that. To this day I wonder if he knew that. I'll never know, because he had so much class, that even if he did, he would have never let me know it. So as I sit here, I agonize over that decades later, because that miserable dope fiend ended up teaching me about everything I know about the importance of maintaining a sense of humanity, and he nurtured everything that sustains my life today. But Harriett was the only one with the empathy to see the inhumanity in the way we treated Jimmy, and she had the courage of her convictions. She dropped lifelong friends over Jimmy, including Jimmy's wife - and I don't mean temporarily; I mean, permanently! She even got on my ass over him once, but she gave me a pass because I was so young.
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But Harriett had the last laugh, because by the time that's being discussed here, Jimmy had become one of the most impressive and respected personalities in the community. While Jimmy wasn't a hustler, he could walk into Ronnie's any day of the week and command the respect of everybody in the place, and everybody loved seeing him coming - ESPECIALLY, if he had his gig bag slung across his shoulder. Harriett helped to make that happen - and not because she wanted him, but because she was a devoted friend. I think the only reason they ended up together was because Jimmy made such an impressive comeback, and so fast, that it made her fall in love with him, as it did the entire community, including his wayward wife - who USED to be Harriet's best friend, until she deserted Jimmy for another man and left him to die in the street. But when she deserted Jimmy, Harriet immediately dropped her as a friend, and due to Harriet's stature in the community, that meant Wanda also lost a lot of other "friends." She went from the A list to the Z list almost overnight.
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The love between Harriett and Jimmy was one of those rare stories in the hood that had a happy ending. It was clear to everybody who knew them that Jimmy was the man that Harriett had been waiting for. It was also clear that Harriett was the woman who Jimmy needed. They were very happy and devoted to each other, because they DESERVED one another. But that's another story - and a very tender one - but I digress.
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I used to hang on to every word of these ghetto aristocrats. I would listen to their stories, and live a vicarious life through theirs. But what I really loved most was their music. It literally painted a portrait of who they were. They’d fill Ronnie’s juke box up with coins and one monster after another would flow from it’s speakers - Miles, Trane, Bird, and they loved Jimmy Smith. Areatha was the new kid on the block. She hadn’t really established which direction she was going at that time, but everybody assumed that she was going to be a jazz star, because the only thing by her on the juke box was "Sky Lark."
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Yeah, those were the days, but what I remember most was how suave and gracefully those enigmatic products of adversity would glide across the floor. With diamonds gleaming from their manicured fingers gently pinching the seam of their trousers, and the light altering the colors of their sharkskin suits, they seemed to be dancing on a cushion of air as they did the "Soft Shoe" to what they seemed to have adopted as their collective theme song - Killer Joe.
So yes, I really admired these people. I loved just hearing them say my name. It made me feel like I was a part of an inner circle, or a world that others couldn't gain access to - and indeed I was. But I especially loved hearing those gorgeous and pretty-smelling women say my name - "Eric, honey, will you run around to the drug store and ask Mr. Reed to send me a large jar of this?" And then they'd hand me an empty jar of something. "Thank you, baby." How I loved that - especially when Harriett did it, and she'd rubbed her hand against my face or shoulder.
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Harriett was so beautiful that she didn't even look real. She was the finest and most refined of them all. She looked like someone had painted her. And when she moved she was so sensuous that as she walked, I imagined her thighs must've even made one another other feel good as they rubbed up against each other. That's right! That woman was tough. Yet, she didn't even seem to notice how beautiful she was. That's where the class came in. Every man who knew her yearned for her, but they also knew not to cross the line, because Harriett wasn't the kind of woman that a man could just choose - she had to choose him.
.
And Harriett was the one I knew best. We had a special relationship, because we had Jimmy in common. She was Jimmy's girlfriend, and how I envied him that accomplishment. But actually, it wasn't an accomplishment on Jimmy's part. Harriett just sort of dropped into his lap. Jimmy was a guy my father hired to teach me to play the saxophone. He had a serious heroin addition at the time, and he used to drink a lot too. So we'd see him nodded out in alleys and behind the pool hall, or getting sick and throwing up in public. So everybody used to look down on him - everybody, that is, accept Harriett. She went to high school with Jimmy, so you'd often see her waking him up, and scooping him up from behind the pool hall. He probably would have died if it weren't for Harriett, because his wife left him for another man, and she and the other dude would walk right past Jimmy nodded out somewhere without even looking down. So he didn't have anyone who gave a damn about him - except Harriett, the finest thing who ever lived. Go figure it.
.
So just think about the character of that lady. Harriet was a woman who was so beautiful, sexy, and classy that she could, literally, get any man she wanted, at any station in life - in or out of the hood. Yet, she catered to the needs of a man who had been a dope fiend for years, and had degenerated to the point that he'd become the neighborhood joke. Jimmy wasn't simply at the bottom, the bottom was sitting on him.
.
The situation with Jimmy was one of my first big eye-openers in life. Jimmy was a metaphor for the direction that many of our young people are headed for today. But Jimmy turned out to be a guy who had more character, more class, and much more talent than any of us (I tell his story in a link below). But when Jimmy was down and needed us most, we not only stepped over him, but laughed at him as we were doing it - and as young as I was, I was a big part of it. When it came to Jimmy, I was one of the most prolific practical jokers against him. If I found him passed out somewhere, it seemed that I just couldn't get myself to pass by without playing some kind of practical joke on him, like tying his shoes together or something childish like that. To this day I wonder if he knew that. I'll never know, because he had so much class, that even if he did, he would have never let me know it. So as I sit here, I agonize over that decades later, because that miserable dope fiend ended up teaching me about everything I know about the importance of maintaining a sense of humanity, and he nurtured everything that sustains my life today. But Harriett was the only one with the empathy to see the inhumanity in the way we treated Jimmy, and she had the courage of her convictions. She dropped lifelong friends over Jimmy, including Jimmy's wife - and I don't mean temporarily; I mean, permanently! She even got on my ass over him once, but she gave me a pass because I was so young.
.
But Harriett had the last laugh, because by the time that's being discussed here, Jimmy had become one of the most impressive and respected personalities in the community. While Jimmy wasn't a hustler, he could walk into Ronnie's any day of the week and command the respect of everybody in the place, and everybody loved seeing him coming - ESPECIALLY, if he had his gig bag slung across his shoulder. Harriett helped to make that happen - and not because she wanted him, but because she was a devoted friend. I think the only reason they ended up together was because Jimmy made such an impressive comeback, and so fast, that it made her fall in love with him, as it did the entire community, including his wayward wife - who USED to be Harriet's best friend, until she deserted Jimmy for another man and left him to die in the street. But when she deserted Jimmy, Harriet immediately dropped her as a friend, and due to Harriet's stature in the community, that meant Wanda also lost a lot of other "friends." She went from the A list to the Z list almost overnight.
.
The love between Harriett and Jimmy was one of those rare stories in the hood that had a happy ending. It was clear to everybody who knew them that Jimmy was the man that Harriett had been waiting for. It was also clear that Harriett was the woman who Jimmy needed. They were very happy and devoted to each other, because they DESERVED one another. But that's another story - and a very tender one - but I digress.
.
I used to hang on to every word of these ghetto aristocrats. I would listen to their stories, and live a vicarious life through theirs. But what I really loved most was their music. It literally painted a portrait of who they were. They’d fill Ronnie’s juke box up with coins and one monster after another would flow from it’s speakers - Miles, Trane, Bird, and they loved Jimmy Smith. Areatha was the new kid on the block. She hadn’t really established which direction she was going at that time, but everybody assumed that she was going to be a jazz star, because the only thing by her on the juke box was "Sky Lark."
.
Yeah, those were the days, but what I remember most was how suave and gracefully those enigmatic products of adversity would glide across the floor. With diamonds gleaming from their manicured fingers gently pinching the seam of their trousers, and the light altering the colors of their sharkskin suits, they seemed to be dancing on a cushion of air as they did the "Soft Shoe" to what they seemed to have adopted as their collective theme song - Killer Joe.
.
.
No, we don't see nothing like 'em today, and I don't think we ever will again, because they're the product of a bygone era - an era that I miss tremendously, and one that will continue to live, as long as I do.
.
The Eulipians
.
The Eulipians
Some of the greatest minds I've ever known
held court while sitting on empty milk crates
in the parking lot of ghetto liquor stores.
At their feet I embraced the love of knowledge,
And through their tutelage defined self-worth
In my own terms.
.
These were the "Eulipians" — writers, poets,
musicians, hustlers, and uncommon drunks —
those shade-tree philosophers who
contemplate the fungus between the
toes of society;
Who danced with reckless abandon,
unfettered by formal inhibition,
through the presumptuous
speculation of the ages;
Who live in county jails, cardboard boxes,
alley ways, and luxury Apartments.
Insignificant here in Great Bruteland,
but of ultimate significance in the eyes of God.
.
While these obscure intellectuals
stood well outside the mainstream
of academy, I watched
with astonished delight as
they sang, scat, and scribed their various
philosophies into the mainstream of human knowledge.
.
Their philosophy?
knowledge is free, thus,
will transcend attempts
to be contained through barriers
of caste or privilege,
leaving man's innate thirst
for knowledge free to someday
overwhelm his passionate lust for stupidity.
.
held court while sitting on empty milk crates
in the parking lot of ghetto liquor stores.
At their feet I embraced the love of knowledge,
And through their tutelage defined self-worth
In my own terms.
.
These were the "Eulipians" — writers, poets,
musicians, hustlers, and uncommon drunks —
those shade-tree philosophers who
contemplate the fungus between the
toes of society;
Who danced with reckless abandon,
unfettered by formal inhibition,
through the presumptuous
speculation of the ages;
Who live in county jails, cardboard boxes,
alley ways, and luxury Apartments.
Insignificant here in Great Bruteland,
but of ultimate significance in the eyes of God.
.
While these obscure intellectuals
stood well outside the mainstream
of academy, I watched
with astonished delight as
they sang, scat, and scribed their various
philosophies into the mainstream of human knowledge.
.
Their philosophy?
knowledge is free, thus,
will transcend attempts
to be contained through barriers
of caste or privilege,
leaving man's innate thirst
for knowledge free to someday
overwhelm his passionate lust for stupidity.
.
SO, IF YOU'RE A BIGOT WHO'S INTENT ON HOLDING DOWN THE BLACK MAN, YOU CAN FORGET IT. AFTER CENTURIES OF HAVING TO CONTEND WITH YOUR MINDLESS RACISM, WE KNOW YOU MUCH BETTER THAN YOU KNOW US. EVERY THOUGHT YOU THINK, WE'VE ALREADY CONSIDERED. SO, YOU CAN JUST STAND THE FUCK BY.
.
Eric L. Wattree
wattree.blogspot.comEwattree@Gmail.com
Citizens Against Reckless Middle-Class Abuse (CARMA)
.
Religious bigotry: It's not that I hate everyone who doesn't look, think, and act like me - it's just that God does.
Sphere: Related Content
Citizens Against Reckless Middle-Class Abuse (CARMA)
.
Religious bigotry: It's not that I hate everyone who doesn't look, think, and act like me - it's just that God does.
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