020-023 (old book 15-17 Jakobs letter)

Vincents text Norsk oversættelse Min nye bog

In New Orleans I lived with a black murderer named Nell. Like the other murderers I have known or stayed with, he was quite an ordinary person who had only become a murderer by accident or rather because of his social background. Naturally, it took some time before he told me about his past, as he had escaped from a prison in Nevada and was a wanted man; but like other criminals, he had a need to share what was weighing on him with another human being whom he could trust. No one can live alone with such a heavy burden. We lived with some other people out in the eastern part of New Orleans, and Nell tried, as much as circumstances would allow, to lead a normal, respectable life. Since he knew he would be sent back to a life sentence in prison if he got involved in anything, he tried as much as possible to stay away from crime and made a living primarily as a blood donor. I did not think his chances of remaining free for the rest of his life were very great, but I tried hard to make his breathing-space of freedom as happy and encouraging for him as possible. I felt that he had already been punished enough before committing any crime by the poverty and humiliation society had subjected him to in his childhood. It was when I expressed this opinion during one of our nightly conversations that he confided in me about his crime, and afterward we were bound even closer to each other through this secret confidence. We often took walks or went to the blood bank together. Mostly we could survive by selling blood plasma twice a week, as the blood banks in New Orleans at that time were the highest paying in the U.S.: $6.10 a visit. Only rarely was I forced to steal cheese and other small items from supermarkets to get full. I did not want Nell to do it, as he could end up getting a life sentence for it, while I with my white privilege knew that I would be able to talk my way out of such an embarrassing situation with the employees if I got caught. Nell was always pursued by his fate in this way. But never did it strike me so forcefully as on the evening I last saw him. We had made the stupid mistake of walking down the street together in the black neighborhood where we lived, and thereby attracted the attention of the police. It is a mortal sin for a white man and a black man to walk together in a black neighborhood, as they are immediately suspected of being dope dealers. But being deep in conversation when we swung into the neighborhood, we forgot to part. It was not long before a patrol car pulled up alongside us in one of the dimly lit streets in the east ghetto. The cops were the nice jovial type who really only wanted to scare us, and therefore said that we could go free if we just handed over our marijuana cigarettes to them. I have seen the police use this method so many times in black neighborhoods, since they don’t have to report the confiscated grass but can smoke it themselves. I did not carry anything myself, but knew that Nell had one or two joints, like most others. But suddenly Nell was seized by his fate’s paranoia - the paranoia and distrust of his fellow man almost every one of his social background has - and he refused to hand over the joints. For my own part I would not have hesitated a moment. I had complete confidence in the cops. Nell’s distrust of the cops made him jam up like a lock and act irrationally. The police are trained to observe that kind of reaction in criminals and they immediately got out of the car to search him. They only found two small joints and his knife, but since he did not have any I.D. they took him to the station for fingerprinting. I knew right off that I would never see Nell again. He had been tripped up by the paranoia and sense of guilt common to all poor blacks, regardless of whether they have committed a crime or not. It was the same paranoia which had originally made him a murderer. After Nell had gone from “this world,” New Orleans suddenly seemed like a ghost town and I could no longer bear to stay in the same house. I wanted to leave the city, so I tried hitch-hiking in the direction of Baton Rouge. New Orleans is one of the hardest places in America to get a ride, and I waited on the Interstate with my sign for hours, hoping to get picked up before the police came. All of a sudden, the only Rolls Royce I’ve ever gotten a lift with stopped in the middle of the three-lane highway to pick me up. It was right in the middle of rush hour and we immediately created a big traffic jam of honking cars. Just as I had gotten into the car, the police came wailing up behind us to give us a ticket for having stopped illegally. The man who had picked me up said he would take care of it, went back to the cops and without a word gave them his card. When the police saw his name, they became all smiles and friendliness and followed him back to his Rolls Royce, clapping him on the shoulder while assuring him that it was only a trifle and that we shouldn’t worry about it anymore. I naturally wondered who this guy could be who got off so lightly without even a ticket. He told me that his name was Wayne A. Karmgard, and that he had picked me up because I was standing with my sign, “Touring USA from Denmark.” He had never picked up a hitchhiker before, but he suddenly thought it might be fun since he himself was of Danish descent. Normally this information makes me clam up instantly and get out of the car as fast as possible. I have long ago lost any desire to be with Danish-Americans, who all too often give me only one feeling: a sense of shame at being a Dane. To Danes visiting America I give this advice: if you want to get a good impression of the country, stay away from this population group, which often represents one of the most racist and reactionary white groups in the United States. 80 percent of them vote Republican I have heard. All they can talk about is how wonderful it is to be rid of the high taxes back in Denmark. They are fleeing from any human responsibility in order to have their taxes lowered. I have met Danish-Americans who were “red-hot” Social Democrats back home in Denmark, but who in just 5 years had been transformed into the darkest reactionaries. Danish-Americans stand in glaring contrast to American Jews, who are the only white group with whom I feel a strong harmony. This group has a very deep understanding of the conditions of the blacks and of the social mechanisms that in the same way made them Europe’s “negroes” for so many centuries. Well, all the same, I could not say no to a Danish-American in a Rolls Royce. I started entertaining him right away with travel stories so that he would invite me home. I especially emphasized my experiences with Rockefeller and Kennedy, since all little millionaires look up to the big millionaires. I knew he would ask me home feeling that this brought him a little closer to the Rockefellers. It worked, and I ended up heading back toward New Orleans. He owned the city’s finest and most expensive hotel, right in the heart of the French Quarter. Everyone in town knew him, and later I was told that he owned a large part of the French Quarter and was a housing speculator (slumlord). A fabulous suite in his hotel, “Maison de Ville”, was put at my disposal and I was told to just ring the bell whenever I wanted anything. Black waiters in freshly pressed uniforms served everything to me on silver trays, with excessive servility. I sat out in the garden of the hotel and let a black waiter bring me one thing after another in an attempt to get him to open up, but it was impossible. He probably felt his whole existence threatened when I addressed him as a normal human being. I sat pondering how strange it was that at this moment Nell was being “served” by white prison guards in hell, while I was being served by black waiters in heaven. It was as if everything in our lives had, in a natural way, brought us each to his own place, and our short friendship had only been a glimpse of utopia. But it struck me that Nell, as a black, had actually come further, for wasn’t he more free than this broken servant who was only able to hold his head up by learning to enjoy his own oppression here in this rich Dane’s sadomasochistic universe? Wasn’t Karmgard a powerful oppressor while at the same time seemingly a tender, quiet and unhappy human being who had learned to exploit to the utmost the mechanisms given him in this society? Furthermore, people said he was the richest homosexual in town, which meant he himself was part of an oppressed minority group. Was it not the same insecurity as the vulnerable minority that had driven him into this unfortunate position as had driven many Jews in Europe into similar economic security through the ages? The security in these surroundings was nauseating. I felt restless and lonesome. It was a favorite hotel of the richest and most glamorous film stars, but there was no human contact. Should I go out in the street and find a poor person with whom to share my luxurious suite and a bottle of wine? No, one should not buy friendship with wealth, I thought. Not even borrowed wealth. I only stayed there one night, a terribly lonely night. For years I had shared homes and beds with people, and it came as a shock to suddenly be lying there all alone. After my silver-tray breakfast the next day, I rushed headlong back to freedom, determined to find some people to live with. On Bourbon Street two young girls came running up to me to get my autograph. Being tourists, they had gone into the famous hotel out of curiosity and had seen me sitting there at breakfast under the palm trees and therefore assumed I was a movie star. For a moment I felt tempted to play “movie star” and maybe get to stay with them, but then chose to tell the truth. Then they lost all interest in me, and I realized that I was back down to earth again. Due to the many tourists, it is impossible for a vagabond to find a place to stay in New Orleans. Towards evening I was very hungry and recalled Bonnie’s Grill on Decatur Street, which Nell had once shown me. Bonnie was an enormously fat white woman who ran a dingy little coffee bar. Bonnie was the type who could only speak to people in coarse, bad-tempered words and was always bawling them out, but the more harshly she talked to people, the more she loved them. She could easily have made good money from the cafe, but instead she was always broke because the place was frequented by the poorest street-people, and Bonnie gave free meals all day long to people who had no money. Bonnie remembered me all right, and knew I had no money, so right away she shoved a big bowl of grits in front of me, and later hamburgers and other goodies. She stood there in all her immensity with her hands on her hips and watched me without a word, but I knew she liked me because I had known Nell. Without mentioning Nell, she said after a long silence: “You can come and live with me now.” So, I moved into Bonnie’s tacky and cluttered apartment. There were lice and fleas and several inches of dust everywhere. What happened in the next few days was peculiar, for although we could barely communicate with each other and did not have a sexual relationship we quickly became closer than I have been to any other person on my journey. When we realized that we were probably the only ones Nell had confided his past to, we became inseparably bound to one another. Living with Bonnie was like living on a volcano of human warmth. She is the only one I know of who is still running the “under-ground railroad”. To live with her was to be woken up almost every night by some black man on the run from the law. Here they all found a place of refuge. Bonnie loved black men, especially those who in one way or another had revolted against the master-slave relationship. She had always been that way. Earlier, she had lived in Jacksonville, Florida, but had been beaten up and driven out of town by the whites. She had gone to New Orleans, which is considered a freer Southern town. Actually, her own two children were neglected and needed clothes, healthy food, and vitamins; but on the other hand they had, through their mother’s actions, been brought up not to hate, and were far healthier in their own way than most white children. Throughout their childhood they had seen murderers, thieves, rapists, junkies, and other felons take the place of their father in their mother’s bed, but they had experienced them all as human beings because they saw them through the eyes of their mother. Bonnie refused to accept and see only their oppressed identities and through this deeper faith in human beings, actually created human beings. For these children terms such as “murderer” and “nigger” had no meaning, since in Bonnie’s home the men all behaved as their “Daddy,” and this was how the children saw them. There was always rejoicing when a “Daddy” got out of prison. Bonnie sighed a bit because they would never see Nell again, but she was already prepared to take in a new Nell. Bonnie and I developed a quiet understanding and affection for each other which over the years grew into such a strong love-relationship that time and again I returned to New Orleans to live with her. Bonnie does not know if she is Jewish or Danish or Irish or Polish. She is just American, she says. Excerpts of original letters in my early primitive style

I New Orleans boede jeg hos en sort morder, der hed Nell. Ligesom de andre mordere, jeg har kendt eller boet hos, var han et ganske almindeligt gennemsnitsmenneske, som blot var blevet morder ved en tilfældighed – eller rettere på grund af sin sociale baggrund. Det tog naturligvis nogen tid, før han fortalte mig om sin fortid, idet han var flygtet fra et fængsel i Nevada og var eftersøgt, men ligesom andre kriminelle havde han en trang til at dele det, der tyngede ham, med et andet menneske, som han kunne stole på. Ingen kan leve alene med så tung en skæbne. Vi boede sammen med nogle andre mennesker ude i den østlige del af New Orleans, og Nell prøvede ihærdigt, så godt omstændighederne nu tillod det, at leve et normalt borgerligt liv. Da han vidste, at han ville blive sendt tilbage til livsvarigt fængsel, hvis han blev indblandet i noget, prøvede han så vidt muligt at holde sig væk fra kriminalitet og levede hovedsageligt af at være bloddonor. Jeg mente ikke, at hans chancer for at forblive på fri fod resten af livet var særlig store; men jeg forsøgte så godt, jeg kunne, at gøre dette frihedens pusterum så glædeligt og opmuntrende for ham som muligt. Jeg følte, at han var straffet nok, allerede før han begik sin forbrydelse, med den fattigdom og ydmygelse, samfundet havde udsat ham for i barndommen. Da jeg under en af vore natlige samtaler havde givet udtryk for denne opfattelse, var det, at han betroede mig sin forbrydelse, og siden blev vi knyttet endnu stærkere til hinanden gennem denne hemmelige fortrolighed. Vi fulgtes tit rundt i gaderne eller i blodbanken. For det meste kunne vi ernære os udelukkende ved at sælge blodplasma to gange om ugen, da blodbankerne på det tidspunkt i New Orleans var de højest betalende i USA med 6 dollars og 10 cents pr. gang. Kun en sjælden gang var jeg nødt tit at stjæle ost o. lign. små ting i supermarkederne, for at blive mæt. Jeg ville ikke have, at Nell gjorde det, da han jo risikerede at få livsvarigt fængsel, mens jeg vidste, at jeg selv kunne snakke mig ud af denne pinlige situation med personalet, hvis jeg skulle blive snuppet. Således var Nell altid forfulgt af sin skæbne. Men aldrig gik dette op for mig i så høj grad som den aften, jeg sidst så ham. Vi havde begået den dumhed at komme gående sammen ned ad gaden i det sorte kvarter, hvor vi boede og derved påkaldt os politiets opmærksomhed. Det er en dødssynd for en hvid og en sort mand at færdes sammen i et sort kvarter, da man så straks bliver opfattet som narkotikasælgere. Men vi var i ivrig snak da vi svingede ind i kvarteret og glemte at skilles. Der gik ikke tang tid, før en politibil standsede op ved siden af os i mørket, i en af de dunkelt oplyste gader i østghettoen. Betjentene var af den flinke joviale type, der egentlig blot ville skræmme os, og derfor sagde, at vi ville gå fri, hvis vi straks afleverede vores marihuanacigaretter tit dem. Jeg havde så ofte før set, at politiet brugte denne metode i sorte kvarterer, da de så ikke behøvede at skrive rapport om det beslaglagte ”ugræs, men selv kunne ryge det. Næsten alle unge amerikanere ryger ”græs”, selv om det officielt er ulovligt. Jeg havde ikke selv noget på mig, men vidste, at Nell havde en enkelt eller to ”joints” som alle andre. Men pludselig blev Nell grebet af sin skæbnes paranoia – den paranoia og mistillid til medmennesket, næsten alle med hans sociale baggrund har – og han nægtede at udlevere sine ”joints”. Jeg selv ville ikke have betænkt mig et øjeblik. Jeg havde fuld tillid til betjentene. Nells mistillid til politiet fik ham til at gå fuldstændig i baglås og handle irrationelt. Politiet er trænet til at registrere den stags reaktioner hos kriminelle og steg straks ud og kropsvisiterede ham. De fandt kun to små joints, og hans kniv, men da han ikke havde noget identitetskort, tog de ham med på stationen til en fingeraftryksprøve. Jeg vidste straks, at jeg aldrig ville få Nell at se igen. Han var blevet fældet af den ulykkelige paranoia og skyldfølelse, som alle fattige (amerikanske) sorte har, uanset om de har begået en forbrydelse eller ej. Det var den samme paranoia, som i sin tid gjorde ham til morder. Da Nell var væk fra ”denne verden”, virkede New Orleans pludselig som en spøgelsesby, og jeg kunne heller ikke blive boende i huset. Jeg ville væk fra byen og blaffede ud af motorvejen i retning af Baton Rouge. Det er et af de sværeste steder at blaffe i USA, og jeg forsøgte forgæves i lang tid at blaffe på selve motorvejen med mit skilt i håb om at få et lift, før politiet kom. Pludselig standsede den eneste Rolls Royce, jeg nogensinde er kommet op med, midt på motorvejen for at samle mig op. Det var lige i myldretiden, og vi lavede omgående en større trafikprop af tudende biler. Straks da jeg var kommet ind i bilen, kom politiet hylende op bag os for at give os en bøde for denne ulovlige standsning. Manden, der havde taget mig op, sagde, at han nok skulle ordne det, gik hen til betjentene og rakte dem uden et ord sit visitkort. Da politiet så hans navn, blev de lutter venlighed og smil og fulgte ham tilbage til hans Rolls Royce, ivrigt klappende ham på skulderen, og sagde, at det jo blot var en bagatel, og at det skulle vi ikke tænke mere på. Jeg blev naturligvis forundret over, hvem denne fyr mon kunne være, som slap så billigt uden så meget som en bøde, og han fortalte mig, at hans navn var Wayne A. Karmgard. Han havde samlet mig op, fordi jeg stod med mit ”Touring USA from Denmark”-skilt. Han havde aldrig nogensinde før samlet en blaffer op, men syntes pludselig det kunne være sjovt, eftersom han selv var af dansk afstamning. Normalt får denne oplysning mig straks til at klappe i og hurtigst muligt stige ud af bilen. Jeg har for længst mistet enhver lyst til at være sammen med dansk-amerikanere, som næsten hver gang kun giver mig en følelse: skamfølelse over at være dansker. Til danskere på besøg i USA, vil jeg give et råd: hvis I vil have et godt indtryk af USA, så hold jer fra denne befolkningsgruppe, som repræsenterer en af de mest racistiske og reaktionære hvide grupper. 80 % af dem stemmer republikansk. Alt, hvad de kan snakke om, er, hvor dejligt det er at slippe for de høje skatter hjemme i Danmark. De flygter fra ethvert medmenneskeligt ansvar for at få sænket deres skatter. Jeg har mødt dansk-amerikanere, som var ”rødglødende” socialdemokrater hjemme i Danmark, men som i løbet af blot 5 år var blevet forvandlede til den sorteste reaktion. Dansk-amerikanerne står i en skærende kontrast til jøderne, som er den eneste hvide gruppe, jeg føler mig i stærk harmoni med. Denne gruppe har en meget dyb forståelse for de sortes forhold og for de sociale mekanismer, som på samme måde gjorde dem selv til Europas ”negre” i så mange århundreder. Nå, men en dansk-amerikaner i Rolls Royce kunne jeg alligevel ikke sige nej til, og straks begyndte jeg at underholde ham med rejsehistorier, for at han skulle invitere mig hjem. Især lagde jeg vægt på mine oplevelser med Rockefeller, Kennedy osv., da alle småmillionærer snobber for stor-millionærerne, og jeg derfor vidste, at han ville invitere mig hjem med en følelse af således at være kommet på lidt nærmere hold af Rockefeller. Det slog da heller ikke fejl, og jeg endte med at vende næsen om mod New Orleans. Han ejede byens dyreste og fineste hotel midt i det franske kvarter. Alle i byen kendte ham og fortalte mig siden, at han ejede en stor del af det franske kvarter og var boligspekulant. Jeg kom til at bo i en lækker suite i hans hotel ”Maison de Ville” og fik at vide, at jeg bare skulle ringe på klokken, når som helst jeg ønskede noget. Sorte tjenere i nypressede uniformer serverede alt for mig på sølvbakker med utrolig servilitet. Jeg sad ude i hotellets have og lod en sort tjener bringe mig det ene efter det andet i et forsøg på at få ham til at åbne sig, men umuligt. Han følte sikkert hele sin eksistens truet, når jeg tiltalte ham som et almindeligt menneske. Jeg sad og tænkte over det mærkelige i, at Neil nu måtte lade sig ”opvarte” af hvide fangevogtere i helvede, mens jeg selv blev opvartet af sorte tjenere i himmerige. Det var som om alt tidligere i vores liv på en naturlig måde havde ført os til hvert sit sted, mens vores korte venskab blot havde været en utopi. Men det slog mig, at Nell jo egentlig som sort var kommet længere, for var han ikke mere fri end denne knuste tjener, der kun var i stand til at holde sig oppe, fordi han havde lært at nyde sin egen undertrykkelse her i denne rige danskers sadomasochistiske univers? Var Karmgard ikke også en morder og menneskeudsletter, samtidig med at han tilsyneladende var et blidt, stilfærdigt og ulykkeligt menneske, som havde lært at udnytte de mekanismer, der var givet ham i dette samfund, til den yderste grænse. Tilmed var han, sagde folk, byens rigeste homoseksuelle, hvilket jo gjorde ham selv til en del af en undertrykt minoritetsgruppe. Var det ikke den samme usikkerhed som udsat minoritet, der havde drevet ham op i denne ulykkelige position, som havde drevet mange jøder i Europa op i tilsvarende økonomisk tryghed gennem tiderne? Trygheden i disse omgivelser var kvalmende. Jeg følte mig rastløs og ensom. Det var et foretrukket hotel for de rigeste og fineste filmstjerner i USA, men der var ingen menneskelig kontakt. Skulle jeg gå ud på gaden og møde en fattig og dele mit luksuriøse hotelværelse og en flaske vin med? Nej, man skal ikke købe sig venskab ved hjælp af rigdom, tænkte jeg. Heller ikke lånt rigdom. Jeg boede der kun en nat, en frygtelig ensom nat. Gennem år og dag havde jeg delt seng og hus med mennesker, og det var en rystende fornemmelse pludselig at ligge alene. Efter min sølvbakkemorgenmad næste dag styrtede jeg hovedkulds ud i friheden igen, fast besluttet på at finde nogle mennesker at bo hos. 17 Et sted på Bourbon Street kom to unge piger farende hen til mig for at få min autograf. De var, som turister, af nysgerrighed gået ind for at se dette berømte hotel og havde set mig sidde der over morgenmaden under palmerne og gik derfor ud fra, at jeg var en berømt filmstjerne. Et øjeblik følte jeg mig fristet til at spille ”filmstjerne” for måske at komme til at bo hos dem, men valgte så at fortælle sandheden. Så mistede de interessen for mig, og jeg indså, at jeg nu var nede på jorden igen. Som følge af de mange turister er det umuligt i New Orleans at finde et sted at bo som vagabond. Hen imod aften var jeg meget sulten og kom i tanker om Bonnies Grill på Decatur Street, som Nell engang havde vist mig. Bonnie var en kæmpefed stor hvid pige, som her havde en lille snusket kaffebar. Bonnie var af den type, der kun kan tale til mennesker i grove, arrige sætninger ved at skælde dem ud, men jo værre kun talte til folk, jo mere elskede hun dem. Hun kunne sagtens have hentet en god dagløn hjem fra denne kaffebar, men hun var alligevel ludfattig. Stedet var nemlig opsøgt af det fattigste gadeproletariat, og Bonnie gav gratis måltider dagen igennem til folk, som ikke havde penge. Bonnie kunne godt huske mig og vidste, at jeg ingen penge havde, så hun skubbede straks en stor skål majsgrød hen til mig og senere hamburgere og andet godt. Hun stod i hele sin kæmpeskikkelse med hænderne i siden og betragtede mig uden et ord, men jeg vidste, at hun kunne lide mig, fordi jeg havde kendt Nell. Uden at nævne Nell sagde hun efter lang tavshed: ”Du kan komme og bo hos mig nu ”. Jeg flyttede så ind i Bonnies tarvelige og rodede lejlighed. Der var lus og lopper og flere centimeter støv overalt. Hvad der skete i de næste dage var mærkeligt, for skønt vi knapt kunne kommunikere med hinanden og ikke havde noget seksuelt forhold, blev vi hurtigt knyttet nærmere til hinanden, end jeg er blevet det med noget menneske på rejsen. Da vi erkendte, at vi vist var de eneste, Nell havde betroet sin fortid til, blev vi straks uløseligt bundet sammen. At leve med Bonnie var som at bo på en vulkan af menneskelig varme. Hun er den eneste, jeg kender, som stadig praktiserer ”the underground railroad”. At bo hos hende var ensbetydende med næsten hver nat at blive banket op af en eller anden sort mand på flugt fra loven. Alle fandt de her et fristed. Bonnie elskede sorte mænd og især dem, som på en eller anden måde havde gjort oprør mod herre-slaveforholdet. Sådan havde hun altid været. Tidligere havde hun boet i Jacksonville, Florida, men var blevet fordrevet fra byen af de hvide, som havde gennembanket hende. Hun var taget til New Orleans, som regnes for en lidt friere sydlig by. Hendes to børn var egentlig forsømte og manglede både tøj og sund mad og vitaminer, men til gengæld var de gennem moderens handlinger blevet opdraget til ikke at hade og var således på deres vis langt sundere end de fleste hvide børn. De havde hele barndommen igennem oplevet mordere og tyveknægte, voldtægtsforbrydere, narkomaner og andre voldsmænd indtage deres fars plads i moderens seng, men de havde oplevet dem alle som mennesker, fordi de så dem med moderens øjne, som nægtede at tro på, at dette var deres virkelige identitet og som således ved denne tro på mennesket i virkeligheden skabte mennesket. For disse børn havde begreber som ”morder” og ”nigger” ingen mening. I Bonnies hus opførte de sig nemlig alle som deres ”far”, og sådan så børnene dem. Der var altid glæde, når en ”far” var kommet ud af fængsel. Bonnie sukkede lidt over, at de aldrig ville få Nell at se igen, men var allerede straks parat til at modtage en ny Nell. Bonnie og jeg fik en stille forståelse og hengivenhed for hinanden, der med tiden udvikledes til et så stærkt kærlighedsforhold, at jeg gang på gang vender tilbage til New Orleans for at bo hos hende. Bonnie ved ikke, om hun er jøde eller dansker eller irer eller polak. Hun er blot amerikaner, siger hun. Sammendrag af breve Ps. Jeg har her ladet mine stereotype tidsprægede generaliseringer om visse minoriteter stå netop som modvægt til Bonnies ægte amerikanske holdning, der var en direkte forløber for den mere inkluderende tidsånd i dag.