089 – 095 Credo (old book 77-83)
Vincents text
Norsk oversættelse Ny
dansk bog
|
Dear Edwina. I’ve finally gotten to a home with a typewriter, which gives me a
chance to tell you a little bit about what has happened since we were
together last. I have ended up living with two young white women here in
Greensboro. They are treating me as if I had gone to heaven, which has an
overwhelming effect on me after the last couple of weeks of a helter-skelter
existence. One of them, Diane, is a model and a criminologist of the leftist kind, and likes my pictures so much that she will do
everything in her power to get me money to buy more film. I’ll have to wait
at least half a year, but she has promised that by then she will collect some
money for me by telling people that it is to be used for a home for
handicapped children or something. I think it sounds a little unsavory, but
she says that may be it will teach them that it is
the government’s job to provide such human rights, and not something which
should be left to private charity. Well, I doubt that she will really be able
to collect anything for me. Every time I have had that kind of small hope I have been disappointed. I guess I still have to be content with selling blood and with the small
gifts of money I get on the road by entertaining people with my pictures and
experiences. Last week I had an income of nine dollars, which is the best ever: five dollars from an interested salesman who
picked me up, two dollars from a black woman in Tony’s father’s grill, and
two dollars from a guy in West Virginia who found my picture of the junkies
with the Capital in the background interesting and bought it. Included in the
deal was his lunch bag which contained three chicken legs. Now, since I have had my photobooks made, it makes me so happy every
time I experience that kind of positive reaction. But it also scares me a
little sometimes. In one place a woman started crying when she saw my
pictures, and I didn’t know what in the world to do. It is strange with
Americans. They have lived in the midst of this
suffering all their lives without giving it a thought, and then suddenly,
when they see it frozen in a photograph, they can begin crying. Some accuse
me of beautifying the black, I just don’t understand it; I photograph them
exactly the way I see them, and a photograph doesn’t lie, does it? But the more I ponder over it, the more I come to realize that this
parallax shift in the way we see blacks must be due to the
fact that they have lived in this master-slave relationship for such a
long time that they simply are not capable of seeing blacks as human beings. But when Southern whites nevertheless react positively to my pictures,
I believe it is because in reality they are unhappy
about seeing with these “master”-eyes. They are longing to become human, and
the moment I can “prove” to them that blacks are human and not slaves,
eternal children, or subhuman this makes them themselves human and no longer
masters or super-humans or whatever. If I don’t interpret it this way, how
then should I explain that even the worst racists down here give me money once in a while, although mumbling something or other
about how they think “it is funny how I run around photographing niggers.” I have to admit that it often seems difficult when I try to
depict the master-slave relationship as an institution not to end up
depicting it as if people in this system really have this “nature.” Often I feel that my own view becomes
contaminated by this sneaking poison in the South, because I put great
emphasis on respecting the dignity of these people, especially the older
people. They have lived in this master-slave tradition all their lives, and
both for the blacks and for the whites I feel that it would do violence to
them to try to tear them out of this tradition (though the coming generations
absolutely must avoid this crippling of the mind). I, therefore, never try to
impose my views on them, but try to understand theirs and to learn from them.
Precisely because from the beginning I respect their dignity, I often build
up such strong friendships with them that through these friendships I can get
them to respect and to learn from my point of view. As a vagabond in the South it is absolutely essential to be able to communicate
through friendship instead of inciting hostility and confrontation.
This gap between my utopian reality (the love of people by envisioning
them as people in a free society) and my actual reality (loving people as
they are in their present unfree condition) is just as difficult to bridge as
a river that constantly grows wider and wider, so that you slowly lose sight
of the other utopian bank, while you little by little drown in mud on your
own bank. However, it seems that if you interpret “the mud” (the actual
reality) on this side of the river correctly (that is, if you dig down to
people’s deepest longings, even if they still do not see the connections
between it all), then they give you the material which will allow you to
build an ivory tower so tall and beautiful that you can sit up there and tell
people down on the bank below you how nice the other bank looks. But since you yourself do not have any personal contact with the other
shore - a contact which could have changed your own character and entire soul
- there is no way you can communicate your vision to the people below, since
they see no evidence that you yourself have actually been
“touched” or changed. For visionary ideas do not necessarily make you more
loving and compassionate than those struggling to help each other keep their
heads above the mud (the challenge for most Americans today). They therefore
soon forget the message of your story, but find the
story of my un-American pictures itself so interesting, that they allow you
to build the ivory tower even higher and to reinforce it and beautify it. In
frustration and depression at not being able to communicate your message down
to them, you get more and more insecure and have a greater need for
recognition and admiration of the ivory tower you have built - even more than
for their recognition of why you originally wanted to build it. Finally you become so confused and insecure that only
their recognition of the tower itself, its beauty and form, counts for you.
And you build it higher and higher, until you get up to those cynical heights
where you can no longer really see either your own or the opposite bank, and
they begin to look alike. Moreover, you have now reached such a height that you lose touch with
the people on your own bank as well and decide to send your ivory tower out
in book form so people have something to entertain
themselves with there in the mud. Though what you really started out to do
was build a bridge to the opposite utopian bank, you end up building a tower
on your own bank. Instead of helping people out of the mud, you are in reality
making their situation worse in that you have now given them something either
to be happy about or to cry over right where they are
and you are thus reinforcing this muddy river bank. Moreover, your ivory tower is morally reprehensible precisely because
it is built on a foundation of mud: your artwork is the direct result of the
exploitation of the people you originally had it in mind to help, and the
higher your tower becomes, the further you remove yourself from their
suffering. It is thoughts like these which have made me increasingly
depressed in the last months. I constantly hear people saying, “How I envy
you that you can travel among the blacks like that,” or the like, and I
realize that I have already distanced myself so far from the mud. And it is
when I realize, in spite of this yearning, the
impossibility of fashioning a bridge, that I can become so desperate that I
feel that the gun ought to be my real weapon rather than the camera. But
immediately then the question arises as to in which direction I would shoot,
since I - as you know - feel that everyone is equally mired in this river bank – and thus both guilty and innocent at the same
time. Where is the rainmaker who created the mud puddle? And therefore I keep on wading here in the
mud, trying only to keep my camera clean enough that it can register the
victims - without really believing myself that it will ever be of any use.
From Philadelphia I then went to Norfolk to stay overnight on my way
south. I walked around the ghetto looking for a place to stay and talked with
some of the old women who were going around with their little handcarts to
collect firewood in the ghetto’s ruins. One of them told me that she could
now afford only four pig’s tails a day instead of five because of inflation.
It was strange to hear that in the shadow of the world’s largest naval base.
I ended up staying with a 32-year-old single black mother. She was not the
type who normally invites me in, but her uncle had taken me to her apartment
to show me how her ceiling was leaking, in the hope that I was a journalist
who could get the city to repair it. When he left, I got on with the woman so well that she let me stay.
She had just had her first child and it was a wonderful experience to see her
spend almost every minute tending it. I sat for hours watching. She was also
deeply religious, and when the baby was sleeping, we sat praying together or
she would read aloud to me from the Bible while she held my hand. She would
sit there for a long time staring up at a picture of Jesus right under the
dripping ceiling with a look so intense and full of love that I was very
moved. After a couple of days in town, I went down to Washington, North
Carolina, arriving just after nightfall. I walked around all evening looking
for shelter for the night, but everyone was scared of
me, thinking that I was a “bustman” (plainclothes
cop). First a man said I could stay in his uncle’s house on the sofa. He took
me to an old red-painted shack which was filthy and
without light. His uncle came out with an oil lamp in his hand and was extremely
angry and used his stick to demonstrate it, but we managed to get in and I
got some old chicken legs on a dirty plate in that corner of the shack which
served as the kitchen, although there was no running water. But the old man
was still mad and it got worse and worse, and
finally he threw me out with his stick. He wasn’t going to have any whites in
his house, he thundered. Then he took big boards and planks and nailed them
up in front of the windows and doors for fear that I would break in, and walked
off into the darkness, still screaming and yelling. He had no trust in
whites. Further down the street a woman called from a porch, offering to
share a can of beer. Later, while I was sitting trying to converse with her
sick husband, who was in a wheelchair and was not able to talk, I noticed her
gazing at a picture of Christ on the wall. A while later she indicated that I
should come into the incredibly messy bedroom in the back. I wondered what
the husband was thinking about that, unable to make a move. In there she
first embraced me, staring at me with big watery eyes. Then suddenly she fell down at my feet, and while she held my ankles she
kissed my dirty shoes, whispering, “Jesus, Jesus.” I have, as you know, often been “mistaken” for Jesus among Southern
blacks because of my hair (which is one reason I keep my silly braided
beard), but in most cases their sense of humor allows us to laugh together at
their Jesus-identification. You will probably see it as yet
another example of the “slave’s” identification with or even direct
infatuation with the “master.” Whatever is behind it, it is probably of some
help to me in breaking through the race barrier. But in such a shocking
situation as this, I simply had no idea of what to say, as I didn’t know if it
would be wrong to shake her out of her religious experience. I searched for a
fitting Bible quote... the futility of the Samaritan woman drinking from
Jacob’s well... but I couldn’t get a word to my lips. I stood there for more
than an hour before I had the courage (cruelty) to break her trance. It was
such a strong experience that I didn’t feel I could stay there for the night. As I wandered around the streets again, at around ten o’clock I met a
young black woman who must have been a little drunk, for she asked right off
if we couldn’t be friends (unusual from my experience of black women in the
South). She said that if I could find a place to stay that evening, she would
come stay with me. I doubted it would work, but we walked into one of those
Southern “joints” (speakeasies) and talked to her cousin about possible
places. All of a sudden she started kissing me
wildly all over and asked sweetly, “Are you a hippie?” I said no, but she
didn’t get it. Actually this joint was not the
safest place to hang out. Around us in the dark we could dimly see 15 to 20
“superflies.” A couple of them came over and warned me in a friendly tone
that it was a dangerous place, but I answered with conviction, “I ain’t scared of nothing,” which usually impresses them,
since they themselves are scared of their own shadow
in these joints. But then all hell broke loose. Someone must have told the guy the
woman was “shacked up with” about me, for suddenly he came running in with a
big knife and went first for his woman. Luckily he
didn’t use the knife, but he beat the poor woman to pieces, hit her in the
face and gave her a real beating, worse than I have seen in months. I must
have been pretty cold-blooded that evening, now that I think of it, because I
immediately pulled out my camera and tried to attach the flash, but just then
two guys came running over and grabbed me: “You better get the hell out of
here. When he’s done with her, he’s gonna go after
you.” And they practically carried me out of the place. I never saw the woman
again. Though I have seen this kind of thing so often, I was more upset,
because in some way I myself had been the cause of
it. With my perceived oppressor status, it is if I can’t attain deeper human
relationships without becoming either victim or executioner. For the most
part I am of course a victim (of understandable rejection), but since I
always try to go all out with people, it happens now and then that I cross
the invisible line separating the victim from the executioner. This I hate,
because I am then forced to take matters into my own hands instead of letting
other people direct things. I didn’t get that far on this night, though, and
I’m beginning to fear that I have gradually become so hardened that I have
lost my own will power. Perhaps it was this thought that nagged me and made
me react differently than usual later that night. For when I had walked
around for yet another couple of hours, I finally managed to get a roof over
my head with two old bums. They were drunk as hell, and there was an incredible
mess. They couldn’t even afford kerosene, so there was no light. We were all
three supposed to sleep in one bed. There were inches of dirt underneath it
and every 25 minutes one of us had to get up to put wood on the stove, since
it was very cold. At first I was sleeping between
them, but then I realized they were both homosexual. So
I moved over next to the wall so I would only have one to fight off, but he
turned out to be the most horny. In that kind of situation
I usually resign myself to whatever happens, but this night I didn’t feel
like it, perhaps because of the earlier experience in that joint. He was what
you might call a “dirty old man” with stubble and slobber, but that was not
the reason. I have been through far worse things than that. I had probably
just gotten to the point where I was tired of being used by homosexual men. I
hate to hurt people, but I suppose that this night I was trying to prove to
myself that I had at least some willpower left. So I
lay on my side with my face to the wall. But he was clawing and tearing so
hard at my pants that I was afraid they were going to rip, and since it is
the only pair I have, I couldn’t afford to sacrifice them. So
I turned around with my face toward him, but he kept at it and pressed his
big hard-on against my ribs and began to kiss me all over – kisses that stunk
of Boone’s Farm apple wine. The worst was that he kept whispering things in
my ear like, “I love you. I love you. Oh, how I love you.” Well
that was maybe true enough at that moment, but it drove me crazy to listen to
it. As you know, I feel that especially among black men this word has been
overused. I don’t think it is something you can say the first night you go to
bed with someone. The only thing missing was him saying, “Oh, you just don’t
like me because I am black.” But luckily I was
spared that one. Well, he finally got his pacifier, but that did not satisfy
him, as he was the kind of homosexual who goes for the stern. He just became
more and more excited and finally became so horny that I felt really guilty,
but still I didn’t give another inch. He tried and
tried. Finally he destroyed the beautiful leather
belt you gave me that time when I couldn’t keep my pants up anymore. It made
me so damned mad that I grabbed his big cannon with
both hands and turned it hard toward the other guy who was snoring like a
steamship. “Why don’t you two have fun with each other and leave me in peace.
I want to sleep.” But it didn’t help, so the struggle continued all night
with me every five minutes turning the cannon in the other direction (about
four times between each new load of firewood). Finally the guy left around
eight o’clock and I got a couple of hours of sleep. Later in the day I met
him in the local coffee bar. He came over and asked if I was mad at him. I
said, “Of course not, we are still good friends. I was just so damn tired last night.” He was so glad that he began to
dance around, making everybody there laugh at him. He was one of those who
are outcast among both blacks and whites. I was very sad, because I felt that
I had destroyed something inside myself. I felt a deep irritation that I had
not been able to give him love. In his eyes, I was a kind of big-shot and it
would have made him happy if I had given myself fully. There was just
something or other inside me that went “click” that night, so the whole next
day I felt a deep loathing of myself. I am constantly finding many
shortcomings in my relationships with people, but the worst thing is when my
shortcomings hurt such people, who are already hurt and destroyed in every
possible way by the society surrounding them. If I could not constantly give such losers a little love, I simply
would not be able to stand traveling as long as I
have. The only thing that has any meaning for me in my journey is being
together with these lonesome and ship-wrecked souls. My photographic hobby is
really, when all is said and done, nothing more than an exploitation of the
suffering, which will probably never come to contribute to an alleviation of
it. But still I can’t stop registering it, because
in some way or another it must get out to the outside world. That strength I get by being together with these extreme losers, and
the love I often receive from them, is what in spite of
everything gives me a slender hope that my pictures will be able to speak
even to society’s winners. That I nevertheless reacted so negatively that
night may also stem from the fact that I recently had a similar experience
which hurt me deeply. It was the same day that I left you in Plainfield. One
of the first ones who picked me up on the road in New Jersey was a white guy
in his fifties or sixties. He immediately began talking about how he had
always been the black sheep in the family and even used the expression “dirty
old man” about himself. I often see this self-hatred among older homosexuals
and resonate with that feeling, having been the black sheep in my own family
for other reasons. He asked me to go home with him and talk with him, and I couldn’t say
no, although I did have in mind to get to North Carolina the same day. After
we had talked all day, he took me in the evening to the movie theater where
he was the projectionist. He was running a John Wayne movie of the usual
kind. In the middle of the film he began to stroke
my thighs. It didn’t really surprise me, but I found it so ironic that the
whole time he stood there commenting on the film, especially the two-fisted
scenes, cheering John Wayne on: “Give it to ’em,
knock ’em out” etc. How could he identify to such a
degree with John Wayne’s frightening universe of male chauvinism and macho
oppression, which more than anything else had oppressed him throughout his
life and given him this violent self-hatred? During the intermission I walked
around in the large shopping center where the cinema was located. No matter
where I went, sales-stimulating plastic music from the loudspeakers followed
me, and I suddenly felt a terrible disgust with America, which I erroneously
equated with my John Wayne experience. But in the midst of this disgust I felt that even though these people are to such
an extent their own oppressors, it had to be possible to get through to them
and tear them loose from this sadomasochistic pattern. In the evening, when I
came home to him, I tried to see all the beauty in him. It was not easy, for
he was indeed of that type whom society has condemned as repulsive and
obscene, but with all the energy I had just received from my stay with you, I
had such a surplus that night, that I really believe that I felt glimmerings
of love for him. But then the thing happened which was to defeat me. In the heat of the
night in bed my wig slipped off, and out fell my long hair. I could clearly
see his astonishment and distaste, but he tried to hold it back and mumbled
something in the way of: “Well, at least you aren’t a dirty hippie.” (When
hitchhiking and to survive among conservative whites I usually wore a short
hair wig and rolled up my 17-inch-long beard). But from that moment our
relationship was smashed to pieces, and I was not able to get him to open up again. He would probably have preferred to kick me
out right there and then, but I was allowed to stay since it was pouring that
night. Although he was short and had short, stumpy legs, he was so fat that I
had to sleep all the way out on the edge of the bed and could only keep from
falling off by supporting myself all night with one hand on the floor. I
therefore couldn’t sleep, but just lay there thinking about how strange it is
that people can have such strong prejudices that they even take them to bed
with them. Since it was still pouring the next morning, I wondered if I
should stay another day and try to break through the ice, but that was
obviously not what he had in mind. Almost without mumbling a word he drove me
out to the main road near Milltown, where I stood in the pouring rain for the
next seven hours, since, as you know, people will never pick you up when you
need it most. You must be crazy standing out in the rain, they think. It was
then that the Jewish businessman at long last fished me up. As you can
understand, I was almost as far down as he was, though I didn’t tell him
about my depressing experience. Well, I will tell you more about Washington, N.C., in a later letter
and just finish off by saying that I am now on the way out of the depression
I was in over you back then, though the memory of you still hangs like a
heavy dark cloud over my journey. It is still a mystery to me how I could be
so hurt by our relationship, and why it took the direction it did. Although
you are younger than me, it nevertheless developed into something of a
mother-son relationship, which I in no way could have imagined at the
beginning of my love for you. Your strength and wisdom did not let you be
seduced into a relationship as unrealistic as ours would have become. You
belong to the black bourgeoisie, and though I loved to fling myself in your
luxurious upholstered furniture, I ought to have realized right away that it
wasn’t my world. You were fascinated by my vagabond life and supported me in
my project with your feeling of black pride, but your pride was nevertheless
threatened by the world I represented. Right back from when your ancestors
were given an education by the slave master, your family has kept up this
class difference, and I can’t help feeling that this mile-wide psychological
gap you have been brought up to feel between yourself and that ghetto I
normally move around in, was what actually destroyed
our relationship. But no matter how I analyze it and try to understand it, it
is hard for me to accept that it should end like that between us. The
suffering I went through in your house, I never wish to experience again, but
as a vagabond, I have nevertheless become so much of a fatalist that I
believe it has been good for something, and that it will make it easier for
me to identify with and become one with other people’s suffering, though of
course the suffering I see around me in this society is of a far more violent
nature than what I experienced with you. Even so, I will still use the word
“suffering” to describe the process I went through with you. Without this
suffering you couldn’t have knocked me so much off balance. From the moment
you realized that we weren’t right for each other, and your love cooled down
to a certain aloofness, I experienced a growing desperation in myself. I am
by nature not very aggressive, as you know, and not even very
self-protective, but confronted with your beginning rejection, I experienced
an increasing aggression which became more and more unbearable. With all your
psychological insight, you probably sensed it. At any rate, it blazed up that
night when I moved into your bed without being invited, thereby breaking my
fixed principle of traveling: never violate people’s hospitality. But if I am really to illustrate the psychological desperation I felt
over you in my love, a desperation stronger than any I have ever felt toward
a woman, then I can’t do it better than by letting W.E.B. Dubois’ well-known
quotation describe my frame of mind: “It is difficult to let others see the full psychological meaning of
caste segregation. It is as though one, looking out from a dark cave in a
side of an impending mountain, sees the world passing and speaks to it;
speaks courteously and persuasively, showing them how these entombed souls
are hindered in their natural movement, expression, and development; and how
their loosening from prison would be a matter not simply of courtesy,
sympathy, and help to them, but aid to all the world. One talks on evenly and
logically in this way but notices that the passing throng does not even turn
its head, or if it does, glances curiously and walks on. It gradually
penetrates the minds of the prisoners that the people passing do not hear;
that some thick sheet of invisible but horribly tangible plate glass is
between them and the world. They get excited; they talk louder; they
gesticulate. Some of the passing world stop in curiosity; these
gesticulations seem so pointless; they laugh and pass on. They still either
do not hear at all, or hear but dimly, and even what they hear, they do not
understand. Then the people within may become hysterical. They may scream and
hurl themselves against the barriers, hardly realizing in their bewilderment
that they are screaming in a vacuum unheard and that their antics may actually seem funny to those outside looking in. They may
even, here and there, break through in blood and
disfigurement, and find themselves faced by a horrified, implacable, and
quite overwhelming mob of people frightened for their own very existence.” I don’t think that this picture of my state of mind during those days
is very much exaggerated, so insane was my infatuation. But it amazes me that
at such an early stage you could see how lopsided our relationship was. A
marriage between us, when all is said and done, would have had this invisible
glass barrier between us, with me inside the cave, which I have devoted so
much of my life to, and with you on the outside. With all your upper-class
nature you could never have lived the life I lead in the cave, and which I
try to show to the outside world with my pictures. I know that in my mind in
one way or another I will always be inside the cave, while you know as well
as I do that you will always be on the outside in spite of
a certain insight into the cave. Every time I dug myself too deeply into the
cave and felt lost, you could always with your wisdom and deep human insight
explain it to me and put everything into perspective. It was therefore not
surprising that you more and more became a kind of mother for me in spite of all my resistance. The thing I am afraid of is
that in spite of your understanding of the cave you
have still been so marked by your class that at the critical point when the
glass barrier is broken, when all is said and done, you will be found among
the horrified and implacable mob. To avoid that, we have to
keep working together. If a marriage between us was unrealistic, and for me
in the cave inevitably destructive, it is at any rate not unrealistic that
there be a deep friendship between us. If you will continue to support and
advise me, we can in such a friendship gradually break down that glass
barrier and build up a relationship of such strength and value as our two
races will have in post-racial America, when our common struggle is over.
Through our continued friendship I can thus build the bridge over the river,
so that my work will not just become one white man’s ivory tower. My love for
you still has the character of infatuation more than of friendship. Your beauty
and soft, big afro, your gentle deep (and motherly) voice and your sweet lips
that used to kiss me awake in the morning still torment me in my thoughts.
But as soon as I am out of this cave-like state of mind, perhaps in only a
few months, I will be back in Plainfield, and we can begin to build up our
friendship - a friendship without which we will never succeed in breaking
down the glass barriers and building a bridge to a new and beautiful America.
Until then, you remain my beloved, but distant and unattainable, Edwina. With love, Jacob. |
Denne kløft mellem min utopiske virkelighed
(kærligheden til mennesker ved at forestille mig dem som mennesker i et frit
samfund) og min faktiske virkelighed (kærligheden til mennesker, som de er i
deres nuværende ufrie tilstand) er lige så vanskelig at overvinde som en flod,
der hele tiden bliver bredere og bredere, så man langsomt mister den anden
utopiske bred af syne, mens man lidt efter lidt drukner i mudderet på sin
egen bred. Men det ser ud til, at hvis man fortolker "mudderet"
(den faktiske virkelighed) på denne side af floden korrekt (dvs. hvis man
graver ned til folks dybeste længsler, selv om de stadig ikke ser
sammenhængen mellem det hele), så giver de dig det materiale, som gør det
muligt for dig at bygge et elfenbenstårn så højt og smukt, at man kan sidde
deroppe og fortælle folk nede på bredden under sig, hvor flot den anden bred
ser ud. Men da du ikke selv har nogen personlig
kontakt med den anden side - en kontakt, som kunne have ændret din egen
karakter og hele din sjæl - er der ingen måde, hvorpå du kan formidle din
vision til menneskene nedenunder, da de ikke kan se noget bevis for, at du
selv er blevet "rørt" eller ændret. For visionære ideer gør ikke
nødvendigvis en mere kærlig og medfølende end dem, der kæmper for at hjælpe
hinanden med at holde hovedet over mudderet (udfordringen for de fleste
amerikanere i dag). |
89 Credo Omsider er jeg kommet til et hjem med en skrivemaskine, hvilket
foranlediger mig til at fortælle dig lidt om, hvad der er sket, siden vi
sidst sås. Jeg er kommet til at bo hos to hvide piger her i Greensboro. De
behandler mig, som var jeg kommet i himmerige, hvilket virker overvældende på
mig efter de sidste par ugers hulter til bulter tilværelse. Den ene af dem,
Diane, er fotomodel og kriminolog af den venstreorienterede slags og holder
så meget af mine billeder, at hun vil gøre alt muligt for at skaffe mig penge
til film. Der skal helst gå et halvt års tid, men til den tid har hun lovet
at samle nogle penge ind til mig ved at fortælle folk, at de skal bruges til
et hjem for handicappede børn eller lignende. Jeg synes det lyder lidt
usmageligt, men hun siger, at det måske vil lære dem en dag, at det er
statens opgave at bygge den slags menneskerettigheder og ikke noget der skal
overlades til privat velgørenhed. Jeg tvivler nu på, at hun vil få samlet
noget ind til mig. Hver gang, jeg har haft den slags små håb, er jeg blevet
skuffet. Jeg må nok stadig slå mig til tåls med at sælge blodplasma og med de
små pengegaver, jeg får på landevejen ved at underholde folk med mine
billeder og rejseoplevelser. I sidste uge havde jeg en indkomst på 9 dollars,
hvilket er det bedste nogensinde: 5 dollars fra en interesseret salgsagent,
som samlede mig op, 2 dollars fra en sort pige i Tonys grill og 2 dollars fra
en fyr i West Virginia, som fandt mit billede af narkomanerne med kongressen
i baggrunden interessant og købte det. Med i handelen fulgte hans
frokostpose, der indeholdt tre kyllingelår. Denne kløft mellem min utopiske virkelighed
(kærligheden til mennesker ved at forestille mig dem som mennesker i et frit
samfund) og min faktiske virkelighed (kærligheden til mennesker, som de er i
deres nuværende ufrie tilstand) er lige så vanskelig at overvinde som en
flod, der hele tiden bliver bredere og bredere, så man langsomt mister den
anden utopiske bred af syne, mens man lidt efter lidt drukner i mudderet på
sin egen bred. Men det ser ud til, at hvis man fortolker "mudderet"
(den faktiske virkelighed) på denne side af floden korrekt (dvs. hvis man
graver ned til folks dybeste længsler, selv om de stadig ikke ser
sammenhængen mellem det hele), så giver de dig det materiale, som gør det
muligt for dig at bygge et elfenbenstårn så højt og smukt, at man kan sidde deroppe
og fortælle folk nede på bredden under sig, hvor flot den anden bred ser ud.
Det er tanker som disse, der
i stigende grad har gjort mig deprimeret i de sidste måneder. Ustandseligt
hører jeg folk sige ting som: ”Hvor jeg misunder dig, at du sådan kan rejse
blandt negrene”, og jeg indser, at jeg allerede har distanceret mig et godt
stykke fra mudderpølen. Og når jeg trods denne længsel alligevel indser
umuligheden af at danne bro, er det, at jeg kan blive så desperat, at jeg
føler, at geværet burde være mit virkelige våben frem for kameraet. Men
straks melder så spørgsmålet sig i hvilken retning jeg skal skyde, da jeg jo
føler, at alle er lige tilmudrede på denne
flodbred. Hvor findes regnmageren, som skabte mudderpølen? – Og derfor vader
jeg videre her i mudderpølen og prøver blot på at holde mit kamera så rent,
at det kan registrere ofrene uden egentlig at tro på, at det er til nogen
nytte. Nå, men jeg ville egentlig
fortælle dig lidt om, hvad der er sket, siden vi skiltes. En af de første,
der samlede mig op, var en velhavende jødisk forretningsmand (jøderne samler
mig jo hele tiden op for at takke mig for at Danmark reddede et antal jøder
under krigen, skønt jeg ikke engang var født på det tidspunkt, og skønt jeg
efterhånden føler mig lige så meget amerikaner som dansker). Han havde
egentlig ikke lyst til at tage mig med hjem, da han var helt slået ud, dels
fordi forretningen gik dårligt, og dels fordi hans bror lå for døden af
kræft. Han var derfor stærkt påvirket af nervepiller, men indså, at han
trængte til nogen at snakke med og tog mig derfor med hjem til konen. Det
blev en meget stærk oplevelse for mig. Helt oprevede
ventede de hvert øjeblik en opringning fra hospitalet om, at broderen var
død, og på denne dystre baggrund virkede mine billeder enormt stærkt på dem.
Da jeg næste morgen tog af sted, takkede de mig meget, og han prøvede at give
udtryk for oplevelsen ved at citere ”I used to cry because I had no shoes until I saw a man that had no legs” med
tårerne løbende ned ad kinderne. Inden jeg tog af sted, gav han mig en pose
med 15 film. Fra Philadelphia tog jeg så til Norfolk for at overnatte på vej
sydpå. Jeg gik rundt inde i ghettoen for at finde et sted at bo og snakkede
med nogle af de gamle kvinder, som gik omkring med deres trækvogne for at
samle brænde i ghettoens ruiner. En af dem fortalte mig, at hun nu kun kunne
få råd til fire svinehaler om dagen i stedet for fem på grund af inflationen.
Det var et mærkeligt syn her midt på verdens største flådebase. Jeg kom til
at bo hos en 32-årig enlig sort mor. Hun var ikke den type, der normalt ville
invitere mig ind, men hendes onkel havde taget mig med til hendes lejlighed
for at vise mig, hvordan loftet var utæt, i håb om at jeg var en journalist,
der kunne få kommunen til at sætte det i stand. Da han var gået, kom jeg så
godt ud af det med kvinden, at hun lod mig blive. Hun havde lige fået sit
første barn, og det var en vidunderlig oplevelse at se hende bruge næsten
hvert eneste minut på at pusle om det. Jeg sad i timevis og så på dem. Hun
var også stærkt religiøs og når barnet sov, sad vi og bad sammen, eller hun
læste op for mig af Bibelen, mens hun holdt mig i hånden. Hun kunne sidde
længe og stirre op på et Kristusbillede lige under det regndryppende
loft med et blik så intenst og kærlighedsfyldt, at
jeg blev meget bevæget. Efter et par dage i byen tog jeg ned til Washington
N.C. og ankom lige efter, mørket var faldet på. Jeg gik rundt hele aftenen
for at få nattely, men alle var bange for mig, da de troede jeg var ”bustman”
(hemmeligt politi). Først sagde en mand, at jeg kunne bo i hans onkels hus på
en sofa. Han tog mig med til en gammel rødmalet shack, der var meget beskidt
og uden lys. Hans onkel kom ud med en olielampe i hånden og var frygtelig gal
og brugte en stok til at demonstrere det med, men det lykkedes os at komme
ind, og jeg fik nogle gamle kyllingeben i en snavset tallerken i det hjørne
af skuret, der fungerede som køkken, skønt der ikke var vand. Men den gamle
mand var stadig gal, og det blev værre og værre, og til sidst smed han mig ud
med sin stok. Han skulle ikke have nogen hvide i huset, tordnede han. Så tog
han store brædder og lægter og hamrede dem op for vinduer og døre af angst
for, at jeg skulle bryde ind, og vandrede derefter af sted i mørket, stadig skrigende
og råbende. Han havde ingen tillid til hvide. Længere nede ad gaden kaldte
en kvinde fra en veranda og spurgte, om vi skulle dele en dåse øl. Senere,
mens jeg prøvede at konversere med hendes syge mand, som sad i rullestol og
ikke var i stand til at tale, så jeg hende stirre på et billede af Kristus på
væggen. Lidt senere gjorde hun tegn til, at jeg skulle komme ind i det
utroligt rodede soveværelse bag i huset. Jeg spekulerede over, hvad hendes
mand ville tænke om det, ude af stand til at bevæge sig, som han var. Derinde
omfavnede hun mig først, idet hun stirrede på mig med store våde øjne. Så
pludseligt faldt hun ned foran mine fødder, og mens hun holdt om mine ankler,
kyssede hun mine snavsede sko og hviskede, ”Jesus, Jesus”. Jeg er, som du ved, ofte
blevet ”forvekslet” med Jesus blandt Sydens sorte på grund af mit hår
(hvilket er en af grundene til, at jeg beholder mit fjollede, flettede skæg),
men i de fleste tilfælde tillader deres humor os at le sammen ad denne
Jesus-identifikation. Du vil sandsynligvis se det som endnu et eksempel på ”slavens” identifikation med eller
direkte forgabelse i ”herren”. Hvad der end ligger bag det, hjælper det mig
formentlig med at bryde igennem racebarrieren. Men i så chokerende en
situation som denne havde jeg simpelthen ingen anelse om, hvad jeg skulle
sige, da jeg ikke vidste, om det ville være forkert at ryste hende ud af
hendes religiøse oplevelse. Jeg ledte efter et passende bibelcitat... det
unyttige i, at en samaritansk kvinde drikker af Jacobs brønd... men jeg kunne
ikke få et ord over mine læber. Jeg stod der i mere end en time, før jeg
havde mod (grusomhed) til at bryde hendes trance. Det var så stærk en
oplevelse, at jeg ikke følte jeg kunne blive boende om natten. Da jeg vandrede videre i
gaderne for at finde nattely, mødte jeg ved 10-tiden en sort pige, som må
have været lidt fuld, for hun spurgte straks, om vi ikke skulle være venner
(usædvanligt for sorte piger i Syden). Hun sagde, at hvis jeg kunne finde et
sted at bo den aften, ville hun komme og bo hos mig. Jeg tvivlede på, at det
ville lykkes, men vi gik ind i en af disse sydlige smugkroer og snakkede med
hendes fætter om mulige steder. Pludselig begyndte hun at kysse mig vildt
over det hele og spurgte sødt: ”Er du en hippie?” Jeg
sagde nej, men det forstod hun ikke. Egentlig var det ikke det sikreste sted
at opholde sig i denne smugkro, hvor vi rundt i mørket derinde kunne skimte
ca. 15-20 ”superflies” (moderigtige kriminelle). Et par af dem kom hen og
advarede mig i en venlig tone om, at det var et farligt sted; men jeg svarede
overbevisende ”I ain’t scared
of nothing”, hvilket i reglen imponerer dem, da de
selv er bange for deres egen skygge i disse ”joints”. Men så pludselig brød
helvede løs. En eller anden må have fortalt fyren, som pigen ”shackede sammen med” (bo i shack med, dvs. sort papirløst
ægteskab) om vort forehavende, for pludselig kom han løbende ind med en stor
kniv og gik først løs på sin pige. Heldigvis brugte han ikke kniven, men han
bankede den stakkels pige sønder og sammen, slog hende i ansigtet og gav
hende en gang prygl værre end jeg har set det i flere måneder. Jeg må have
været ret koldblodig den aften, når jeg nu tænker over det, for jeg hev
straks mit kamera op og prøvede at sætte blitz på. I det samme kom to fyre
løbende over og greb mig: ”You better
get the hell out of here!
Når han er færdig med hende, vil han gå i lag med dig”, og de næsten løftede
mig ud fra stedet. Jeg så aldrig pigen igen. Skønt jeg har set den slags så
ofte, var jeg lidt chokeret, fordi jeg på en måde selv havde været skyld i
det. Det er, som om man ikke kan opnå dybe menneskelige kontakter uden hele
tiden at blive enten offer eller bøddel. For det meste er jeg naturligvis
offer, men da jeg hele tiden prøver at løbe linen helt ud med folk, sker det
af og til, at jeg overskrider den usynlige linie,
der adskiller ofret fra bødlen. Det hader jeg, fordi jeg så er nødt til at
tage skæbnen i min egen hånd i stedet for at lade andre mennesker dirigere
den. Så langt nåede jeg dog ikke den aften, og jeg begynder at frygte, at jeg
efterhånden er blevet så hærdet, at jeg har mistet min egen viljestyrke.
Måske det var denne tanke, som plagede mig og fik mig til at reagere
anderledes end normalt senere på aftenen. Da jeg nemlig var gået rundt endnu
nogle timer, lykkedes det mig endelig ved 4-tiden om morgenen at få tag over
hovedet hos to gamle bumser. De var meget fulde, og der var et utroligt rod.
De havde ikke engang råd til petroleum, så der var intet lys. Vi skulle alle
tre sove sammen i en seng. Der var ti centimeter skidt under den, og hvert
25. minut skulle en af os op for at lægge brænde på ovnen, da det var meget
koldt. Til at begynde med sov jeg imellem dem, men så gik det op for mig, at
de begge var homoseksuelle. Så flyttede jeg hen til væggen, så jeg kun havde
en at kæmpe med, men han viste sig at være den mest brunstige. I den slags
situationer affinder jeg mig sædvanligvis med, hvad der sker, men den nat var
jeg ikke i det humør, måske på grund af den tidligere oplevelse i smugkroen.
Han var, hvad man nok kunne kalde en ”dirty old man”
med skægstubbe og savl, men det var ikke årsagen. Jeg har været gennem værre
ting end det. Jeg var nok bare kommet til det punkt, hvor jeg var træt af at
blive brugt af homoseksuelle. Jeg hader at såre folk, men den nat forsøgte
jeg nok at demonstrere over for mig selv, at jeg dog havde nogen viljestyrke
tilbage. Så jeg lagde mig på siden med ansigtet mod muren. Men han rev og
flåede så kraftigt i mine bukser, at jeg var bange for, at de ville gå itu,
og da det er det eneste par jeg har, havde jeg ikke råd til at ofre dem. Så
jeg vendte mig om med ansigtet imod ham, men han blev ved og pressede nu sit
store jern imod mine ribben og begyndte at kysse mig alle vegne – kys der
stank af Boones æblevin. Det værste var, at han hele tiden hviskede mig ting
ind i øret som: ”Jeg elsker dig. Jeg elsker dig. Åh, jeg elsker dig.” Well, det var måske rigtigt nok i det øjeblik, men jeg
blev tosset af at høre på det. Som du ved, synes jeg, at der især hos sorte
mænd er gået inflation i dette ord. Jeg synes ikke, det er noget, man kan
sige den første nat, man er i seng med en. Det eneste, der manglede var, at
han begyndte at sige: ”Åh, du kan ikke lide mig, bare fordi jeg er sort”. Men
den blev jeg heldigvis sparet for. Jeg lod ham kysse mig, men det
tilfredsstillede ham ikke, da han var af den slags homoseksuelle, der styrer
mod agterspejlet. Han blev blot mere og mere ophidset og blev til sidst så
brunstig, at jeg følte mig virkelig skyldig. Men alligevel gav jeg mig ikke
en tomme mere. Han arbejdede og arbejdede. Til sidst ødelagde han det smukke
læderbælte du gav mig, dengang jeg ikke kunne holde bukserne oppe mere. Det
gjorde mig så rasende, at jeg greb hans store kanon med begge hænder og
drejede den hårdt den anden vej hen imod den anden fyr, der snorkede som en
damper. ”Hvorfor muntrer I to jer ikke med hinanden og lader mig i fred. Jeg
vil sove.” Men det hjalp ikke, så kampen fortsatte hele natten med, at jeg
hvert femte minut drejede kanonen i den anden retning (ca. fire gange mellem
hver brændepåfyldning). Endelig gik fyren ved 8-tiden, og jeg fik et par
timers søvn. Op på formiddagen mødte jeg ham i den lokale kaffebar. Han kom
over og spurgte, om jeg var gal på ham. Jeg sagde: ”Selvfølgelig ikke, vi er
stadig gode venner. Jeg var bare så pokkers træt i nat.” Han blev så glad, at
han begyndte at danse rundt til grin for alle derinde. Han hørte til den
slags, der er udskudt blandt både hvide og sorte. Jeg var meget ked af det,
for jeg følte, at jeg havde ødelagt noget i mig selv. Jeg følte en dyb
irritation over, at jeg ikke havde været i stand til at give ham kærlighed. I
hans øjne var jeg en slags helt, og det ville have gjort ham lykkelig, hvis
jeg havde givet mig fuldt ud. Der var blot et eller andet inde i mig, som
sagde klik den nat, så hele den næste dag følte jeg en dyb lede ved mig selv.
Jeg finder konstant mange fejl i mit forhold til andre mennesker, men det
værste er, når mine fejl går ud over dem, som allerede er sårede og ødelagte
på enhver mulig måde af samfundet, der omgiver dem. Hvis jeg ikke konstant kunne
give sådanne tabere lidt kærlighed, kunne jeg simpelthen ikke holde ud at
rejse så længe, som jeg har gjort det. Det eneste, der betyder noget for mig
på rejsen, er mit samvær med disse ensomme og forliste skæbner. Min fotografiske
hobby er jo, når alt kommer til alt, ikke andet end en udbytning af lidelsen,
der vel aldrig vil komme til at medvirke til en lindring af den. Men jeg kan
alligevel ikke holde op med at registrere den, fordi den på en eller anden
måde må ud til omverdenen. Den styrke, jeg får gennem samværet med disse
ekstreme tabere, og den kærlighed, jeg ofte får fra dem, er det, som trods
alt giver mig et spinkelt håb om, at mine billeder vil kunne tale selv til
samfundets vindere. Når jeg alligevel reagerede så negativt den nat, kan det
også skyldes, at jeg for nylig havde en tilsvarende oplevelse, som sårede mig
dybt. Det var samme dag, hvor jeg forlod dig i Rahway.
En af de første, der samlede mig op på vejen i New Jersey, var en hvid fyr,
der også var i halvtredsårsalderen. Han begyndte straks at snakke om, hvordan
han altid havde været det sorte får i familien og
brugte endda udtrykket ”dirty old man” om sig selv.
Et sådant selvhad møder jeg så tit hos de ældre homoseksuelle. Han bad mig om
at tage med hjem og snakke med ham, og jeg kunne ikke lade være, skønt jeg
egentlig havde haft i sinde at nå North Carolina samme dag. Da vi havde
snakket hele dagen, tog han mig om aftenen med i biografen, hvor han var
operatør. Han kørte en John Wayne-film af den sædvanlige slags. Midt under
filmen begyndte han at tage mig på lårene. Det undrede mig egentlig ikke, men
jeg fandt det så ironisk, at han hele tiden stod og kommenterede filmen, især
de mere slagkraftige afsnit, med stærke tilråb til John Wayne: ”Gi dem nu en
på skrinet, tvær dem ud” osv. Hvordan kunne han i den grad identificere sig
med John Waynes uhyggelige univers af mandschauvinisme, som jo mere end noget
andet havde undertrykt ham gennem hele hans liv og givet ham dette voldsomme
selvhad. I pausen gik jeg rundt i det store shopping center,
hvor biografen lå. Lige meget hvor jeg gik, fulgte den købevenlige
plastik-musik mig fra højttalerne, og jeg fik pludselig en frygtelig lede ved
Amerika, som jeg fejlagtigt sidestillede med min John Wayne-oplevelse. Men
midt i leden følte jeg, at selv om disse mennesker i den grad er deres egne
undertrykkere, måtte det være muligt at trænge ind til dem og løsrive dem fra
dette sadomasochistiske mønster. Da jeg om aftenen kom hjem til ham, prøvede
jeg at se alt det smukke i ham. Det var ikke let, for han var vitterligt af
den type, som samfundet har dømt som ulækker og forargelig, men med al den
energi, jeg netop havde fået fra mit ophold hos dig, havde jeg et sådant
overskud den nat, at jeg virkelig tror, at jeg glimtvis elskede ham. Men så
skete det, som var med til at slå mig ud. Midt i nattens hede i sengen gled
min paryk af og ud faldt mit lange hår. Jeg kunne tydeligt se hans
forbløffelse og ubehag, men han prøvede at holde det tilbage og mumlede noget
i retning af: ”Nå, men i det mindste er du da ikke en beskidt hippie.” Men
fra det øjeblik var vores forhold slået i stykker, og det lykkedes mig ikke
at få ham til at åbne sig igen. Helst ville han sikkert have smidt mig ud med
det samme, men jeg fik lov at blive, da det øsregnede ude i natten. Skønt han
var lille og havde små stumpede ben, var han så tyk, at jeg måtte sove helt
ude på kanten af sengen og kun kunne holde mig oppe ved at støtte mig på
gulvet hele natten med den ene hånd. Jeg kunne derfor ikke sove, men lå blot
og tænkte på, hvor mærkeligt det er, at folk kan have så stærke fordomme, at
de tager dem med sig endog i sengen. Da det stadig øste ned næste morgen,
spekulerede jeg på, om jeg skulle blive endnu en dag for at prøve at trænge
gennem isen, men det var åbenbart ikke hans opfattelse af tingene. Uden
næsten at mumle et ord kørte han mig ud til hovedvejen nær Milltown, hvor jeg stod i øsende regn de næste syv timer,
da folk jo aldrig vil samle en op, når man har mest brug for det. Man må være
tosset, hvis man står ude i regnen, tænker de. Langt om længe var det så, at
den jødiske forretningsmand fiskede mig op. Som du kan forstå, var jeg næsten
lige så langt nede som han, men fortalte ham dog ikke om min deprimerende
oplevelse. Nå, men jeg vil fortælle dig
mere om Washington i et senere brev og blot slutte af med at fortælle, at jeg
nu er ved at komme ud af den depression, du bragte mig i dengang, skønt
mindet om dig stadig hænger som en tung, mørk sky over min rejse. Det er
stadig et mysterium for mig, hvordan jeg kunne blive så såret over vores
forhold, og hvorfor det tog den retning, det gjorde. Skønt du er yngre end
jeg, udviklede det sig alligevel til noget i retning af et mor/søn
forhold, hvilket jeg ikke på nogen måde kunne have forestillet mig i
min første forelskelse. Din styrke og visdom lod dig ikke forføre ind i et så
urealistisk forhold, som vores ville være blevet. Du tilhører det sorte
bourgeoisi, og skønt jeg elskede at slænge mig i dine luksuriøse, polstrede
møbler, burde jeg alligevel med det samme have indset, at det ikke var min
verden. Du var fascineret af mit vagabondliv og støtter mig i mit projekt ud
fra en følelse af sort stolthed; men din stolthed blev alligevel truet af den
verden, jeg repræsenterede. Lige fra dine forfædre, der fik en uddannelse af
slaveherren, har din slægt holdt denne klasseforskel i live. Jeg kan ikke
undgå at føle, at den milevide, psykologiske kløft, du er blevet opdraget til
føle mellem dig og den ghetto, jeg normalt færdes i,
i virkeligheden var det, der ødelagde vores forhold. Men ligegyldigt hvordan
jeg analyserer det og prøver at forstå det, har jeg svært ved at acceptere,
at det skulle gå sådan imellem os. Den lidelse, jeg gik igennem i dit hus,
ønsker jeg aldrig at opleve igen. Alligevel er jeg blevet så meget fatalist
som vagabond, at jeg tror, den har været god for noget, og at den vil gøre
det lettere for mig at identificere mig med andre menneskers lidelse, skønt
den lidelse, jeg normalt ser omkring i samfundet, jo naturligvis er af langt
voldsommere styrke. Men med denne modifikation vil jeg alligevel bruge ordet
til at beskrive den proces, jeg gik igennem hos dig. Uden denne lidelse kunne
du ikke have slået mig så meget ud af balance. Lige fra det øjeblik, hvor det
gik op for dig pr. intuition eller intellekt, at vi ikke passede sammen, og
din forelskelse kølnedes til en vis afstandtagen, oplevede jeg en stigende
desperation i mig selv. Jeg er af natur meget lidt aggressiv, som du ved, og
tilmed ikke-defensiv, men konfronteret med din begyndende afvisning, oplevede
jeg en stigende aggression, der blev mere og mere uudholdelig. Med al din
psykologiske indsigt har du sikkert anet den, men under alle omstændigheder
brød den ud i lys lue den nat, hvor jeg flyttede ind i din seng uden at være
blevet inviteret og dermed brød mit faste princip på rejsen: aldrig at krænke
folks gæstfrihed. Men skulle jeg virkelig illustrere den psykologiske
desperation, jeg følte over for dig i min forelskelse, en desperation,
stærkere end nogen, jeg tidligere har følt over for en anden kvinde, kan jeg
ikke gøre det bedre end, ved at lade W.E.B. DuBois’
velkendte citat fra selvbiografien ”Dusk of Dawn” beskrive min stemning: ”Det
er svært at illustrere kaste-adskillelsens fulde, psykologiske betydning for
andre. Det er, som ser man ud fra en mørk hule i en stejl bjergside, ser ud
på folk, der passerer forbi, og taler til dem; taler elskværdigt og
indtrængende og fortæller dem, hvordan disse begravede sjæle er forhindret i
at bevæge sig frit, at udtrykke sig og udfolde sig frit; og hvordan deres
løsladelse fra fængslet ikke blot er et spørgsmål om velvilje, medfølelse
eller hjælp til dem, men at det ville være en hjælp for alverden. Man bliver
ved med at tale, roligt og fornuftigt, men man ser, at de forbipasserende end
ikke drejer hovedet, og hvis de gør, kaster de blot et nysgerrigt blik på een og går videre. Efterhånden trænger det ind i
fangernes sind, at menneskene, som går forbi, ikke hører dem; at der er en
slags tyk usynlig men i allerhøjeste grad håndgribelig glasbarriere mellem
dem og omverden. De bliver ophidsede, de taler højere, de gestikulerer. Nogle
af de forbipasserende standser nysgerrigt op; denne gestikuleren synes så
meningsløs; de ler og går videre. Enten hører de stadig væk intet, eller også
hører de kun svagt, og hvis de hører noget, så forstår de det ikke.
Menneskene, der er spærret inde, bliver hysteriske. De skriger op og kaster
sig mod glasbarrieren, og i deres fortvivlelse opfatter de knapt nok, at
deres skrig drukner i et tomrum, og at deres fagter måske blot virker komiske
på dem, der betragter dem udefra. – Måske er der hist og her nogen, som
bryder igennem blødende og vansirede, og de opdager, at de står ansigt til
ansigt med en skrækslagen, utilnærmelig menneskehob, der frygter for deres
egen eksistens. ” Jeg tror ikke, dette billede
af min sindstilstand i de dage er ret meget overdrevet, så vanvittig var min
forelskelse. Men det undrer mig, at du på så tidligt et tidspunkt kunne
indse, hvor skævt vort forhold var. Et ægteskab imellem os ville, når alt kommer
til alt, have haft denne usynlige glasbarriere imellem os med mig inde i
hulen, som jeg har viet så meget af mit liv til, og dig udenfor. Med din
overklassenatur kunne du aldrig have levet det liv, jeg fører i hulen, og som
jeg prøver på at vise omverdenen med mine billeder. Jeg ved, at jeg altid i
mit sind på en eller anden måde vil være at finde i den hule, mens du ligesom
jeg ved, at du altid vil være udenfor på trods af en vis indsigt i hulen.
Hver gang, jeg begravede mig for dybt i hulen og følte mig fortabt, kunne du
straks med din visdom og dybe menneskelige indsigt forklare det for mig og
sætte det hele på plads. Det var derfor ikke underligt, at du mere og mere
blev en slags mor for mig på trods af al min modstand. Hvad jeg blot frygter,
er, at du til trods for din forståelse af hulen, alligevel er blevet præget
så meget af din klasse, at du, når det kritiske punkt kommer, hvor
glasbarrieren vil blive brudt, til syvende og sidst vil være at finde ude
blandt den skrækslagne og fjendtlige menneskehob. Skal vi undgå dette, må vi
stadig arbejde sammen. Hvis det var urealistisk med et ægteskab imellem os,
der for mig i hulen uundgåeligt var blevet destruktivt, så er det i al fald
ikke urealistisk med et dybt venskab imellem os. Hvis du fortsat vil støtte
og råde mig, kan vi i et sådant venskab efterhånden nedbryde denne
glasbarriere og opbygge et forhold af samme styrke og værdi, som det forhold
vore to racer vil have i det post-raciale Amerika,
når vores fælles kamp er overstået. Gennem vort fortsatte venskab kan jeg
således bygge den bro over floden, så mit værk ikke blot bliver en enkelt
hvid mands elfenbenstårn. Min kærlighed til dig har stadig mere karakter af
forelskelse end af venskab. Din skønhed og bløde store afro, din blide dybe
(og moderlige) stemme og dine søde læber, som plejede at kysse mig vågen om
morgenen, piner mig stadig i tankerne. Men så snart jeg er ude af denne
sindets huletilstand, måske allerede om et par måneder, vil jeg være tilbage
i Rahway, og vi kan begynde at opbygge vort venskab
– et venskab, uden hvilket det aldrig vil lykkes os at nedbryde
glasbarriererne og bytte bro til et nyt og smukt Amerika. Indtil da forbliver
du min elskede, men fjerne og uopnåelige Edwina. With love, Jacob. |