Black Ink Read online

  There was no greater delight conducting a photo shoot than at the Cincinnati home of Nikki Giovanni, and noticing her wall-to-wall bookshelves had been personally organized according to the Dewey decimal system. When Alice Walker became the first Black woman to win a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and also to grace the cover of Essence in dreadlocks—on a September fashion issue, no less—it was a great moment for the magazine. James Baldwin was still highly regarded in 1987, and showed his love for the magazine, writing an original piece for Essence at the time of his untimely passing that remains unpublished to this day. In 1992, when Terry McMillan drew crowds of Black women readers that formed lines around the block of bookstores at which she read from Waiting to Exhale, she made publishing history. The next year, when Toni Morrison became the first African American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, it was a triumph for the world of letters and the literary aspirations and achievements of a people. I recall a lovely party thrown in her honor at the Gracie Mansion home of the first Black mayor of New York City, David Dinkins, Morrison’s Howard University classmate.

  Black Ink endeavors to replicate the feeling of being in the room with them and others. Many of the authors are novelists. Their award-winning and bestselling books are works of fiction from the brilliant imaginations and shared memories of genius minds. In curating the anthology, I attempted to discover their interior worlds. What personal, real-life experiences informed their work? As a journalist, I wanted to know what drove the early authors to learn to read, then what motivated the later ones to break down barriers to be published. I wondered what made it possible to overcome the seemingly impossible racism to evolve from what Langston Hughes biographer Arnold Rampersad describes as the “literature of necessity to the inclusion of leisure.”

  Zora Neale Hurston wrote novels, but in her autobiography, Dust Tracks on a Road, excerpted here, she lamented that “Negroes were supposed to write about the Race Problem.” Novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie warned almost seventy years later in a TED Talk speech that gained international attention, about the danger of the benign neglect of diversity and the feigned privilege of the literary lie of the “single story.” The strength of Black Ink is in the common knowledge among the writers of the power of inserting our diverse experiences into the “mainstream” and the courage to make change with words.

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  This collection of essays has been carefully curated from memoirs, book introductions, newspaper articles, speeches, and media interviews. Some of the selections from book-length works were meticulously condensed. Reprint permissions were painstakingly obtained from the authors, agents, and publishers. Black Ink is presented in three parts: “The Peril,” “The Power,” and “The Pleasure.” The order of the pieces is chronological from the birth of each writer, with the exception of Frederick Douglass, who was born after Solomon Northup, but because his memoir was published first, and exposes the danger of “reading while Black” when it was illegal, we have put his story as the lead. The last section, “Pleasure,” is called that because this generation does enjoy a degree of being able to read and write what they please, as Roxane Gay’s delightful story expresses, and Colson Whitehead’s humorous take on “How to Write” offers. However, the seriousness of the essays of Junot Díaz, Edwidge Danticat, and Marlon James could also fall under the heading of “Purpose.”

  Life has progressed for the better for African Americans since the founding of the United States of America. These two dozen of our top, most elite writers across that time share from the heart their personal stories of inspiration and motivation in literacy and literature. Their cumulative freedom of expression, literary achievements, Nobel Prizes, Pulitzer Prizes, National Book Awards, NAACP Image Awards, and even Presidential Summer Reading Lists exemplify what poet Maya Angelou describes in her poem “Still I Rise” as “the hope and the dream of the slave.”

  The presidency of Barack Hussein Obama gave us a glimpse of the manifestation of that hope and dream. In 2008, the United States elected not only the first African American president, but also a most prolific author in chief. Like Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, published in 1845, Dreams from My Father is President Obama’s excellent coming-of-age memoir. Released exactly 150 years later when Obama was just thirty-four years old and embarking on his political life, Dreams goes into great detail about the importance of books in developing his Black identity. New York Times book critic Michiko Kakutani described Dreams from My Father as surely the most “evocative, lyrical, and candid autobiography written by a future president.” Her 2009 essay “From Books, New President Found Voice” went on to state it “suggests that throughout his life he has turned to books as a way of acquiring insights and information from others—as a means of breaking out of the bubble of self-hood and, more recently, the bubble of power and fame. He recalls that he read James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, and W. E. B. Du Bois when he was an adolescent in an effort to come to terms with his racial identity …” Of all the books Obama read that helped shape him, he wrote in his memoir, “Only Malcolm X’s autobiography seemed to offer something different. His repeated acts of self-creation spoke to me; the blunt poetry of his words, his unadorned insistence on respect, promised a new and uncompromising order, martial in its discipline, forged through sheer force of will.”

  Years later, near the end of his second term in office, the president spoke of how his love of literacy and his international upbringing allowed him to find common ground with world leaders. In 2016, at the funeral of former Israeli president and prime minister Shimon Peres, President Obama said that he and Peres “shared a love of words and books and history. And, perhaps like most politicians, we shared too great a joy in hearing ourselves talk… . But beyond that, I think our friendship was rooted in the fact that I could somehow see myself in his story and maybe he could see himself in mine.”

  That, I feel, is a most important part literature plays in our lives. In print books, we can study and cultivate greatness. We can learn about one another in the safety of our own homes and the privacy of our electronic devices, without concern over saying the wrong thing or being politically incorrect. With audiobooks, we can listen in on great storytelling, sans the current intrusion of the arguing and rancor of media talking heads. Reading gives us knowledge and wisdom that can bring us together to make change for the better in our lives, our communities, our countries, and our world.

  Reading matters. Writing matters. Enjoy.

  THE PERIL

  *

  1800–1900

  There was a time in our country when it was illegal for enslaved people to learn to read and write, yet the power of the human spirit prevailed.

  Suspected of Having a Book

  *

  FREDERICK DOUGLASS

  It was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave to read.

  Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey Douglass (1818–1895), the most prominent leader in the antislavery abolitionist movement, was also a women’s rights advocate, a US diplomat, and a bestselling author of two autobiographies.

  In this passage from Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, Written by Himself, originally published in 1845 and excerpted here from the 2010 edition featuring an introductory essay by Angela Y. Davis, Douglass tells the powerful story of his enslaved childhood and his awakening to disobey his White slave masters by secretly teaching himself to read, resist, escape, and ultimately achieve his freedom.

  My new mistress proved to be all she appeared when I first met her at the door—a woman of the kindest heart and finest feelings. She had never had a slave under her control previously to myself, and prior to her marriage she had been dependent upon her own industry for a living. She was by trade a weaver; and by constant application to her business she had been in a good degree preserved from the blighting and dehumanizing effects of slavery. I was utterly astonished at her goodness. I scarcely knew how to behave towards h
er. She was entirely unlike any other white woman I had ever seen. I could not approach her as I was accustomed to approach other white ladies. My early instruction was all out of place. The crouching servility, usually so acceptable a quality in a slave, did not answer when manifested toward her. Her favor was not gained by it; she seemed to be disturbed by it. She did not deem it impudent or unmannerly for a slave to look her in the face. The meanest slave was put fully at ease in her presence, and none left without feeling better for having seen her. Her face was made of heavenly smiles, and her voice of tranquil music.

  But alas! this kind heart had but a short time to remain such. The fatal poison of irresponsible power was already in her hands, and soon commenced its infernal work. That cheerful eye, under the influence of slavery, soon became red with rage; that voice, made all of sweet accord, changed to one of harsh and horrid discord; and that angelic face gave place to that of a demon.

  Very soon after I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Auld, she very kindly commenced to teach me the A, B, C. After I had learned this, she assisted me in learning to spell words of three or four letters. Just at this point of my progress, Mr. Auld found out what was going on, and at once forbade Mrs. Auld to instruct me further, telling her, among other things, that it was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave to read. To use his own words, further, he said, “If you give a nigger an inch, he will take an ell. A nigger should know nothing but to obey his master—to do as he is told to do. Learning would spoil the best nigger in the world. Now,” said he, “if you teach that nigger (speaking of myself) how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would forever unfit him to be a slave. He would at once become unmanageable, and of no value to his master. As to himself, it could do him no good, but a great deal of harm. It would make him discontented and unhappy.” These words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay slumbering, and called into existence an entirely new train of thought. It was a new and special revelation, explaining dark and mysterious things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but struggled in vain. I now understood what had been to me a most perplexing difficulty—to wit, the white man’s power to enslave the black man. It was a grand achievement, and I prized it highly. From that moment, I understood the pathway from slavery to freedom. It was just what I wanted, and I got it at a time when I the least expected it. Whilst I was saddened by the thought of losing the aid of my kind mistress, I was gladdened by the invaluable instruction which, by the merest accident, I had gained from my master. Though conscious of the difficulty of learning without a teacher, I set out with high hope, and a fixed purpose, at whatever cost of trouble, to learn how to read. The very decided manner with which he spoke, and strove to impress his wife with the evil consequences of giving me instruction, served to convince me that he was deeply sensible of the truths he was uttering. It gave me the best assurance that I might rely with the utmost confidence on the results which, he said, would flow from teaching me to read. What he most dreaded, that I most desired. What he most loved, that I most hated. That which to him was a great evil, to be carefully shunned, was to me a great good, to be diligently sought; and the argument which he so warmly urged, against my learning to read, only served to inspire me with a desire and determination to learn. In learning to read, I owe almost as much to the bitter opposition of my master, as to the kindly aid of my mistress. I acknowledge the benefit of both.

  I had resided but a short time in Baltimore before I observed a marked difference, in the treatment of slaves, from that which I had witnessed in the country. A city slave is almost a freeman, compared with a slave on the plantation. He is much better fed and clothed, and enjoys privileges altogether unknown to the slave on the plantation. There is a vestige of decency, a sense of shame, that does much to curb and check those outbreaks of atrocious cruelty so commonly enacted upon the plantation. He is a desperate slaveholder, who will shock the humanity of his non-slaveholding neighbors with the cries of his lacerated slave. Few are willing to incur the odium attaching to the reputation of being a cruel master; and above all things, they would not be known as not giving a slave enough to eat. Every city slaveholder is anxious to have it known of him, that he feeds his slaves well; and it is due to them to say, that most of them do give their slaves enough to eat. There are, however, some painful exceptions to this rule. Directly opposite to us, on Philpot Street, lived Mr. Thomas Hamilton. He owned two slaves. Their names were Henrietta and Mary. Henrietta was about twenty-two years of age, Mary was about fourteen; and of all the mangled and emaciated creatures I ever looked upon, these two were the most so. His heart must be harder than stone, that could look upon these unmoved. The head, neck, and shoulders of Mary were literally cut to pieces. I have frequently felt her head, and found it nearly covered with festering sores, caused by the lash of her cruel mistress. I do not know that her master ever whipped her, but I have been an eye-witness to the cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton. I used to be in Mr. Hamilton’s house nearly every day. Mrs. Hamilton used to sit in a large chair in the middle of the room, with a heavy cowskin always by her side, and scarce an hour passed during the day but was marked by the blood of one of these slaves. The girls seldom passed her without her saying, “Move faster, you black gip!” at the same time giving them a blow with the cowskin over the head or shoulders, often drawing the blood. She would then say, “Take that, you black gip!”—continuing, “If you don’t move faster, I’ll move you!” Added to the cruel lashings to which these slaves were subjected, they were kept nearly half-starved. They seldom knew what it was to eat a full meal. I have seen Mary contending with the pigs for the offal thrown into the street. So much was Mary kicked and cut to pieces, that she was oftener called “pecked” than by her name.

  ——

  I lived in Master Hugh’s family about seven years. During this time, I succeeded in learning to read and write. In accomplishing this, I was compelled to resort to various stratagems. I had no regular teacher. My mistress, who had kindly commenced to instruct me, had, in compliance with the advice and direction of her husband, not only ceased to instruct, but had set her face against my being instructed by any one else. It is due, however, to my mistress to say of her, that she did not adopt this course of treatment immediately. She at first lacked the depravity indispensable to shutting me up in mental darkness. It was at least necessary for her to have some training in the exercise of irresponsible power, to make her equal to the task of treating me as though I were a brute.

  My mistress was, as I have said, a kind and tender-hearted woman; and in the simplicity of her soul she commenced, when I first went to live with her, to treat me as she supposed one human being ought to treat another. In entering upon the duties of a slaveholder, she did not seem to perceive that I sustained to her the relation of a mere chattel, and that for her to treat me as a human being was not only wrong, but dangerously so. Slavery proved as injurious to her as it did to me. When I went there, she was a pious, warm, and tender-hearted woman. There was no sorrow or suffering for which she had not a tear. She had bread for the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every mourner that came within her reach. Slavery soon proved its ability to divest her of these heavenly qualities. Under its influence, the tender heart became stone, and the lamblike disposition gave way to one of tiger-like fierceness. The first step in her downward course was in her ceasing to instruct me. She now commenced to practise her husband’s precepts. She finally became even more violent in her opposition than her husband himself. She was not satisfied with simply doing as well as he had commanded; she seemed anxious to do better. Nothing seemed to make her more angry than to see me with a newspaper. She seemed to think that here lay the danger. I have had her rush at me with a face made all up of fury, and snatch from me a newspaper, in a manner that fully revealed her apprehension. She was an apt woman; and a little experience soon demonstrated, to her satisfaction, that education and slavery were incompatible with each other.

  From this
time I was most narrowly watched. If I was in a separate room any considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected of having a book, and was at once called to give an account of myself. All this, however, was too late. The first step had been taken. Mistress, in teaching me the alphabet, had given me the inch, and no precaution could prevent me from taking the ell.

  The plan which I adopted, and the one by which I was most successful, was that of making friends of all the little white boys whom I met in the street. As many of these as I could, I converted into teachers. With their kindly aid, obtained at different times and in different places, I finally succeeded in learning to read. When I was sent of errands, I always took my book with me, and by going one part of my errand quickly, I found time to get a lesson before my return. I used also to carry bread with me, enough of which was always in the house, and to which I was always welcome; for I was much better off in this regard than many of the poor white children in our neighborhood. This bread I used to bestow upon the hungry little urchins, who, in return, would give me that more valuable bread of knowledge. I am strongly tempted to give the names of two or three of those little boys, as a testimonial of the gratitude and affection I bear them; but prudence forbids;—not that it would injure me, but it might embarrass them; for it is almost an unpardonable offence to teach slaves to read in this Christian country. It is enough to say of the dear little fellows, that they lived on Philpot Street, very near Durgin and Bailey’s shipyard. I used to talk this matter of slavery over with them. I would sometimes say to them, I wished I could be as free as they would be when they got to be men. “You will be free as soon as you are twenty-one, but I am a slave for life! Have not I as good a right to be free as you have?” These words used to trouble them; they would express for me the liveliest sympathy, and console me with the hope that something would occur by which I might be free.