264 – 297 NYC Harlem (old book 160-181)
Vincents text
Norsk
Ny dansk bog
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Christmas in New York New York is an inhuman, cold city. You have to live with the
alienation, or be destroyed. In my journey I always try to go the whole way
with people I get attached to, but in New York again and again I must break
off with people prematurely and thus abandon the human connection that has
arisen between us. I have experienced it most strongly this Christmas, which
was even more intense than last year when I was held up by three Puerto
Ricans on Fourth Street on Christmas Eve. This year I had just hitch-hiked in from Alabama, but couldn’t find
any of my friends and ended up on the street down in the Bowery on Christmas
Eve. I got to talking with a bum who had lighted a fire to keep warm. He must
have been a bum for a long time, for his curly hair was all in knots which
could not possibly be combed out. We soon became good friends. He was one of
those bums who can talk; the worst are the bums who can only communicate
through the eyes. As we were sitting there talking, it naturally occurred to us that it
was Christmas Eve, and we became more and more sentimental, and when we
exchanged memories of our childhood Christmas Eves it wasn’t just the smoke
from the fire which brought tears to our eyes. He had been married, had
children, and had actually been quite happy, he thought now, but had suddenly
become unemployed, after which his family started to disintegrate and he
became an alcoholic. We sat and shared a flask and gradually became rather
drunk. A crazy guy started throwing bottles at us which smashed against the
wall next to us. At last it became too much for my friend and he took a piece
of burning wood and beat the guy until he disappeared. This happened around Delancey Street, where there is always a bunch of
prostitutes standing on the corner. Bums, just like other people, have a
desire to find somebody lower than themselves, and so during the course of
our conversation he kept returning to his indignation over these prostitutes
who were out even on Christmas Eve. Whenever I have drunk heavily with bums
they have fallen asleep first, even though we have been drinking the same
amount. And he, too, fell asleep, around ten or eleven p.m.. I wondered a bit whether I should stay and keep watch over him, since
we had become good friends. I have so often seen poor black and Puerto Rican
housewives with children and shopping bags walk over and trample on
dead-drunk bums or kick them and afterwards quickly continue home to the pots
and pans – a manifestation of their own self-hatred or lack of self-esteem.
(In the same way I have often seen rich blacks of the “nouveau-riche” type –
that frightening phenomenon we see everywhere in the Third World trample
spiritually on the poor blacks left behind in the’ ghetto.) But since the
streets were rather empty that night I decided to leave him after having put
a good load of scrap wood on the fire. I wandered down to my favorite area around Avenue B (the “free-fire
zone”), where there are always fights between the Puerto Ricans and the
blacks, but which I like a lot because there is an almost even racial balance
among whites, browns, and blacks. Here I saw Larry standing in a doorway. We
started talking and he told me that he had just been thrown out by his white
wife. When we realized we were in the same boat, we decided to go together to
find a place to stay. First we bought a bottle of wine. Then we promised each
other that if one of us found a place, he wouldn’t take it without taking the
other one with him. Larry was more extroverted and eloquent, but I was white,
so we figured that what one of us didn’t have, the other could make up for. But Larry was the type who had to rap with everybody in the street, no
matter who they were. He had been in a respectable marriage for four years,
but confided in me that the whole time he had really been a street person at
heart. So we had not walked far before we had a whole flock of street people
with us; most of them were bums. At one time there were five whom Larry had
promised that he would surely find them a place to stay and a bottle of wine
on top of that. Two of them walked on crutches. A third went around flailing
the air as if he were swatting mosquitoes. I was absolutely convinced that we could never find a place to sleep
for this whole crowd, but since something unexpected always turned up in such
crazy situations, I didn’t say anything about it to Larry. We asked the few
people we met if they knew of a place we could stay, but concentrated first
and foremost on the Jews, as the others were celebrating Christmas, you see,
and we therefore assumed that they did not have room in their hearts. Since I
was the only white, it was up to me to handle this, while the others kept a
bit in the background. But all efforts were in vain. One person said that if
it really was true that I was a foreigner he would be glad to take me home,
but he dared not, so instead he gave me six dollars for the YMCA. Naturally
we rushed off and bought a few bottles of apple wine with the money, and from
then on things looked a bit brighter. But we were still unable to find any
place to sleep, and the wine made the bums loud and aggressive and the man
swatting mosquitoes began shadowboxing at people, so that they fled in all
directions. It was close to two o’clock when I was sent into the Broome Street Bar
to find new “victims.” As I checked out the crowd, a dark-haired woman came
over to me and stood for a long time staring into my eyes in a strange way.
Then she said very slowly: “You have fish eyes.” I thought that she was on
some drug and tried to keep from looking at her. Then she said, “I want you
to come and live with me.” I pulled myself together and asked if I could
bring a couple of my friends with me. She said no. I said that then I
couldn’t come, but she nevertheless gave me her address. I then went on with the others for another couple of hours, but I
couldn’t get her out of my thoughts. The situation now looked completely
hopeless for us. We were really plastered by this time. Over in the piles of
corrugated cardboard on Mercer Street we had lost one of the guys on
crutches, who had fallen asleep. As it was now raining heavily and I was
almost unconscious, I slipped away from the others around five o’clock. I was
very embarrassed about it and during the next couple of days I felt very
ashamed. But a week later I was lucky enough to run into Larry on Washington
Square, and he told me that he, too, had left the others in the lurch and had
found a huge fat white woman over in the West Village, where he lived now.
That comforted me and we continued being good friends. I myself had gone back to that strange woman. It turned out that she
lived in a huge loft on Greene Street and had a studio on Broadway as big as
a football field. Her bathtub was a little palette-shaped swimming pool. All
she wanted from me was that I should keep her company. For three days we sat
from dawn to dusk staring into each other’s eyes. Everywhere there were huge
plaster fish; they hung on the walls and gaped foolishly down at us. But
there was certainly more life in them than there was in her. For three days I
tried desperately to talk with her. All I managed to get out of her was that
she felt very lonely and that she had never lived with a man before. She was
forty years old, born in the ocean, and could only communicate with fish. She
had nothing else to say. I was curious to find out who she was, so one night
while she was asleep I searched through some of her papers and found out that
she was the world-famous artist Marisol Escobar, who had twice been on the
cover of Time Magazine and once on Look; but her last exhibition of fish
sculptures had gotten bad reviews. It turned out that she was swimming in money. One day I had to sign as
a witness on a contract for several thousand dollars. Half the year she spent
in the Gulf of Mexico diving down to her little friends. Nevertheless, she
never gave me so much as a piece of bread, and I was getting more and more
desperate from hunger. Morning and night I had to follow her to restaurants
and sit across from her while she ate. The thought of giving me food never
occurred to her. As I never ask people for food, I one day came out with an
indirect hint. “Did it ever occur to you that all your art is entirely for the rich
folks, and isn’t benefiting the poor people at all?” No answer. And still no
food. She had a refrigerator, so at one point while she was asleep I took the
liberty of checking to see if there was any food in it. I got a bit of a
shock when several big cod-like frozen fish came tumbling out - and nothing
else. If I had not been so hungry, I would probably have had a bit more
patience with her. Then suddenly came my rescuer wandering into this silence. It was
Erica, who had previously helped Marisol polish the fish sculptures. She was
laughing and happy, and it was fantastic to hear a human being again. She
perceived my situation quick as lightning, and as elegantly as a fish, seven
dollars slipped into my hand under the table. Later she whispered to me that
I could move in with her. When Marisol fell asleep that evening, I fled over
to Erica, who lives in a tiny miserable fire-escape apartment on 11th Street. Erica, whom I am now living with, is quite simply a find. She is a lesbian
but does not have the feelings of hatred toward men that characterize so many
New York lesbians. It always makes me so happy when I can have a good
relationship with a lesbian woman. Erica, like me, can’t understand the
necessity of hating men. It’s certainly true that both heterosexual and
homosexual American men are alarmingly aggressive, but one must still try to
understand the oppression and the society which created this John Wayne
culture. Black men, especially, suffer from this culture, partly because their
mothers bring them up to it. (I always automatically wash the dishes in
people’s homes, but I have come to the point where I have stopped doing it in
underclass homes because it usually embarrasses the women: they simply do not
know what to do with a man who washes dishes. Is it not, then, wrong of me to
try to change their culture when they will still have to live with the
oppression?). And ultimately white women have much the same attitude. Time and again
I am invited home by single white women, who unlike single women in Europe
almost always have a double bed and therefore put me at their side. But what
is shocking to see is how they are usually totally unable to deal with a
non-aggressive man. After two or three days they will often say something
like, “Have you always been homosexual?” to bring out some male
aggressiveness in me, or more often, “Let’s go out and get drunk.” No doubt
they would be a bit uncomfortable if a new guest went right to their
refrigerator and ate all the meat. Yet American women seemingly feel
uncomfortable if a man does not walk right into their own flesh. With black
women I sometimes find it necessary to modify my passive rule about not
violating people’s hospitality with some “affirmative action.” They often do
everything in their power to humiliate a “soft” or non-aggressive man, which
nips in the bud any chance of building a more meaningful relationship with
them. Erica is a different woman. She has made me into the epitome of male
chauvinism: my function in her home is, in fact, to be a pimp. Erica is a
stylish prostitute - a call-girl - and it has now become my job to answer the
telephone, sort out the obscene calls and ask the nice ones to call again at
5 p.m. for a second sorting. She has an ad in the sex magazine Screw, which
apparently all businessmen read, for the telephone rings nonstop. The finals
start around 6 p.m. when I have to choose the very nicest voice and arrange a
meeting in a hotel for 7 p.m. We then take a taxi up to the hotel, which
usually is on the East Side, as we stick to nice businessmen. My job is to
sit in the lobby drinking Coke for about an hour, and if she has not come
down by then, I have to go up and knock at the door. On the way home we usually walk and eat Italian ice cream, which Erica
loves. But the most fantastic thing about her is that she is not an average
hooker. She just loves to help people and give them warmth in the midst of
this coldness. She says that most of her customers are extremely lonely and
have a need not so much for sex as for warmth. In fact, seen with typical
male eyes, she is no physical beauty - abnormally thin, flat-chested, with
curly red hair - but she has such charm and beauty inside, that these men
can’t resist her at all. Almost everyone gives her a hundred dollars,
although we have only agreed on seventy-five, and only one has ever called
and complained. She says that most often she doesn’t even go to bed with
them, but only gives them physical and especially spiritual massage. She has
bought me many rolls of film, but for good reasons I have said no to money. In the daytime she goes to singing lessons and dance classes or sits
for hours making coffee services out of foam rubber. Every single cup,
saucer, and spoon is perfect down to the smallest detail. She has several
glass cupboards filled with foam rubber china, as
in the most respectable bourgeois homes. She is a fantastic inspiration for
me. One day when a man had been mugged outside on the street and had been
left lying there for a long time, Erica was the only one who bothered to call
an ambulance. But no ambulance came and people were just standing staring
stupidly at the half-dead man. She kept telephoning. The thing is that there
are only Puerto Ricans living there, so it usually takes up to an hour before
police or ambulances arrive. Then she got the bright idea of calling the
police and asking them to hurry over because there was a white man being
attacked by several blacks and Puerto Ricans right outside; two police cars
and an ambulance came immediately. This trick is common in New York, but it
seems to work every time. I have often seen Erica give a whole day’s wages to people in need.
She would bring it directly from the rich businessmen in the hotels to some
beggar on the street. Another night she was even more fantastic. We were on
our way to a movie when we saw a bum in his fifties sitting there asking for
help to buy a bottle of wine, and for somebody to talk to. We sat and talked
with him for a couple of hours over the wine, and he said that he was about
to have delirium tremens and was afraid he would die. Erica immediately said
that we would go with him to the hospital, and he cried for joy. He had been
waiting for this moment for ten years. He had never himself had the courage
to go to the hospital. We took him in a taxi to St. Vincent’s Hospital. We
sat in the waiting room for two hours. He cried the whole time. Then we were
told that they would not accept him. He had been sitting there drinking and
got absolutely impossible, screaming and yelling. I, too, shouted something
about being from a civilized country with free hospital and health care for
everybody. Then the police were called and we were thrown out in great style. We took a cab to the emergency room at Bellevue Hospital and sat there
with the strangest people: screaming, hysterical, suicidal, and God knows
what. We sat there until six o’clock in the morning, but nothing happened.
Meanwhile the man drank his entire bottle and sat on the floor and cried with
his head in Erica’s lap, while begging us not to leave him. Several times he
urinated in his pants, and a pool formed around him as he took his penis out
and let it hang there. Erica kept tucking it back in, but it kept coming out.
Most of the patients had by then fled out of the room. Then he began to vomit
all over the place, the most peculiar slimy and stinking puke I have seen in
a long time. At that point, even the two nurses fled. We tried to wipe it up.
Around six o’clock we were totally exhausted, and since the nurses solemnly
promised that he would be admitted to the hospital, we went home and slept. Two days later I went to Bellevue to visit him and give him some cigarettes.
I was told that no one had been admitted under that name. I was furious and
sad and dared not tell Erica about it at all. New York is a city which simply
does not permit any human being to be human. If you are to survive here you
must learn to leave other people to their fates. Erica, of course, is not
from New York, so I will keep living with her for a while longer. But soon I
will go back to the warmth of the South. New York’s cold does me in every
time. Letter to an American friend When love is made into a sales item and the humanity in us is sold
out, one begins to sense the dark side of our minds that created the ghetto. Our disposable society, with its backyard dumping, of both things and
human beings, has killed love by isolating and alienating huge sections of
the population. But it can’t strangle the scream of pain and emptiness from
those we disposed of—as can be discerned everywhere in the ghetto and the
underground. I am, I said, to no one there. And no one heard at all... I am, I cried! And I am lost and I can’t even say why ... leaving me lonely still... I’ve got an emptiness deep inside, and I tried, but it won’t let me go. And I’m not a man who likes to swear, but I’ve never cared for the sound of being alone... I AM, I CRIED! I AM, SAID I! And I am lost and can’t even say why... Leaving me lonely still... The system—or, the sum total of our daily repressive thinking—uses
repressive tolerance to deal with the pushback from our victims, mouth gaging
the scream from the underground by acknowledging its artistic value, by
exalting it. Such people exist in all societies, squawking about the necessity for
change in order to help ghettos and underdeveloped countries “up.” But when
election day comes, all their promises wind up in the status quo wastebasket
with votes for the Democrats (or, in Europe, various social democratic
parties). Therefore, I can’t avoid feeling that I too exploited the victims, for
I know all too well that these pictures won’t benefit them at all. We’ll feel
a little sentimental, realizing that our underclass suffers like this, but we
won’t do anything to change our lifestyle. We won’t give up our
climate-destroying motorhomes, SUVs, central air-conditioning, charter trips,
and distant private schools to redistribute the goods of the earth. And so my
pictures will only be a catharsis. Although I knew this and was often told so
by underclass blacks who had no illusions about trying to talk to the “inner
goodness” in their white oppressors, I persisted and have thus betrayed both
blacks and the Third World, making this page the only one in the book almost
all African Americans can agree with. I’ve created an entertaining emotional
release, thereby strengthening an unjust system. I’m just as hypocritical as
these art snobs because I’m playing by their rules. When my critique became
too “radical,” they turned their backs on me. I’m therefore forced to water
it down so that it risks becoming a teary condescending “paternalistic” naïve
vagabond adventure story about the suffering in the ghetto and our
unfortunate shadow sides—such as the following sentimental journey into
Harlem, not far from the stronghold of these liberals, the Museum of Modern
Art. If you take the train with me uptown through the misery of ghetto streets in morning light where it is always night: Take a window seat, put down your Times you can read between the lines, just read the faces that you meet beyond the windowpane: And it might begin to teach you how to give a damn about your fellow man! Everything in Harlem is black except for the stores, which are owned
by white and Arab immigrants (in the past they were owned by Jews). The only
stores that aren’t owned by these outsiders, the street people will tell you,
are the omnipresent funeral homes since white undertakers will have nothing
to do with black bodies. Being an undertaker is one of the surest ways of
reaching middleclass status. For death is as ubiquitous in Harlem as the fear
haunting everyone beneath sporadic uneasy laughter. Yet I feel safer as a
member of the ever-present invisible “Whitey” in Harlem than most blacks do,
for as always, aggression is aimed at fellow victims rather than at the hated
oppressor. This funeral home next to a drug rehabilitation center illustrates the
choices in Harlem—between death or an enslaved life under The Man. Thousands
of addicts choose the door on the left. They know all too well that if they
choose the door on the right, they’ll either become re-habilitated, which
means a return to the previous condition in which they couldn’t survive
without using drugs, or they become “up-habilitated” by learning how to live
in the ghetto jungle through deadened sensitivity or some other form of
mind-crippling. They subjugate themselves to The Man’s blame-the-victim brand
of slavery, which changes the victims rather than their oppressive
environment. This woman is a living illustration of the typical choices in Harlem.
An attacker broke into her apartment and tried to kill her with a knife. She
survived by jumping out a window on the third floor—and is crippled for life.
The Americans I have the strongest feelings for are the addicts,
who’ve been too sensitive and human to survive the brutal American drive for
success. They’re not only victims of that violence but are capable of hitting
back with all the viciousness injected into them by the “American way of
life.” Often, on the roofs of New York, I helped tie up these bound souls.
Daily, on certain street corners in Harlem, you see thousands of addicts
waiting for heroin. At night not even the police brave these neighborhoods,
from whose “shooting galleries” we sometimes enjoyed an incredible view of
the Empire State Building’s “big needle.” The shooting galleries are condemned buildings taken over by junkies
who are “shooting up” and “shooting down” anyone suspected of being a cop or
a “bustman.” Since the penalty for being an addict
and a criminal, which is what it leads to—in other words, for being a
victim—is the same for being a murderer, they have no real choice. They get a
mandatory life sentence whether they act as victims or executioners. The
shooting galleries are therefore extremely dangerous. This man, who’d been an addict for 16 years, suffered from
malnutrition and running sores all over his body. He was unable to find any
better spots to shoot up and had to take the foul-smelling bandage off his
leg to find a vein. He suffered terribly and knew all too well he had less
than two years to live. He had nothing to lose and urged me to publicize
these pictures to frighten young people, hoping they’d never have to suffer
like he did.
Many of my best friends succumbed
to crack. I’d known Robert Yard for years, but shortly after his wedding in
Harlem, his wife fell victim to crack. I saw him desperately try to save her
and their marriage while her life spiraled into an abyss of crime,
prostitution, and prisons until her untimely death.
Come and see how well despair is seasoned by the stifling air. See your ghetto in the good old sizzling summer time. Suppose the streets were all on fire, the flames like tempers leaping higher, suppose you’d lived there all your life, do you think that you would mind? “I think everybody was born naked, so we’re all human beings. Until I
find someone that was born with clothes on, I’m not going to think they’re
any more than me. That’s the way I feel about it.” And it might begin to reach you Why I give a damn about my fellow man, And it might begin to teach you How to give a damn about your fellow man. This type of “give a damn about your fellow man” journey through
Harlem illustrates, in all its saccharine sentimentality, the white liberal
way of seeing the ghetto. From the paternal almost loving care of the
Southern plantation aristocracy, there’s a direct link to the endless talk
about helping one’s fellow man among Northern liberals. Many liberals do
great and exhausting work in the ghettos, but whether we breastfeed or bottle
feed our outcasts, the result is the same: we’re blaming the victims by
trying to accustom them to their unjust outcast fate instead of changing
ourselves. Liberals don’t consider blacks or browns inherently inferior as do
conservatives. Instead, we see them as functionally inferior as a result of
the injustice, slavery, and discrimination of a distant past. After having
experienced this book, they’ll ask in despair: “What can we do?” But we don’t
have the courage, or are paralyzed by the fear of looking into the soul to
get in touch with our abyss of pain—the pain that makes us such powerless but
effective oppressors. Thus, we liberals, in fact, are one of the most important tools of
continued oppression. We help the outcasts adapt to an oppression that
renders them functionally inferior enough to satisfy our own liberal needs to
administer paternalistic care to the “untermensch”
(subhuman). The black or brown in the ghetto has no time left for the
condescending attitude of the liberals and is constantly trying to provoke
our true racist/Islamophobic face. They refuse to see as progress the knife
in their back pulled from four inches to two inches. They’d rather stab us
back into our age-old “white backlash” with these words: First of all I want to be loved... If I can’t be loved, I want to be respected If I can’t be respected, I want to be recognized If I can’t be recognized, I want to be accepted If I can’t be accepted, I want to be noticed If I can’t be noticed, I want to be feared If I can’t be feared, I want to be hated Blacks’ own view of Harlem invalidates our need to see a victim since
they can’t see only the worst in the ghetto without going insane. For
instance, they won’t emphasize that 10% of Harlem’s youth are violent
criminals terrorizing the streets. They’ll turn it upside down, encouraged by
the incredible fact that, despite this criminal environment, 90% of the youth
have never been in conflict with the law. They’ll look at the culture thriving amid the oppression and be
heartened by the fact that most of Harlem’s population are surviving. They’ll
see the many roses that manage to grow up in this jungle. There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, a rose in black and Spanish
Harlem. It is a special one, it never sees the sun it only comes out when the moon is on the run and all the stars are gleaming. It’s growing in the street right up through the concrete soft, sweet and dreaming. With eyes as black as coal they look down in my soul and start a fire there and then I lose control I want to beg her pardon I’m going to pick that rose and watch her as she grows in my garden. For me, such a rose was Merrilyn. When I first met her, she was a
heroin addict shooting up a couple of times a week. Her situation in the
little apartment was desperate, and I admired her for being able to get out
of it—I myself sank deeper and deeper into despair while I lived with her.
Never in my life have I lived in such oppressive and soul-annihilating
conditions. I was able neither to think nor write in the apartment. It’s
wasn’t only the constant break-ins; it was the fear of them, the fear of what
might happen next time as well as the fear of walking into the hallway or the
street, where you could be attacked with a knife or gun. Narrowness you can
become accustomed to. You can get used to a dinner table that also functions
as a bathtub in the kitchen. You can get used to having a wire fence between
the kitchen and the bedroom so that the rats won’t get in and bite your face.
And it soon becomes a morning habit to brush the dead cockroaches, on which
you’ve slept all night, out of the bed. Even the shootings and police sirens
on America’s violent TV shows knocking through the walls can be a pleasant
relief from similar sounds coming from the street. But the persistent fear of that moment when you yourself might get
stabbed in the stomach—that you can never get used to. I was attacked even on
Christmas Eve. By three gunmen. How I survived living with Merrilyn you must not ask me. It’s a
paradox that, in the richest country in the world, the word “survival,” which
I’d never even heard before coming to America except in connection with
Darwin, has become an everyday concept. But ask rather how Merrilyn survived
it—not only in body but also in mind. Not only did she survive, but she was
even able to wrench herself out of the ghetto and become an actress in San
Francisco. Yes, she was a rose who managed to spring up through the asphalt. All over the world we oppressors love to use such encouraging
exceptions to further oppress our victims with. We constantly assure each other—with rosy stories of individuals or a
black middleclass or an Obama having made it—that we’re not only fair but
virtually saints. It is a mean-spirited and calculated effort to show that there’s
something wrong with all those not making it, again blaming our captives for
their own captivity. But Harlem was far from being the worst ghetto in New York. In the
South Bronx, where European film crews often shot their footage on the
wartime destruction of Germany, there were districts where nine out of ten
people died an unnatural death—murder, hunger, overdose, rat bites, etc. In
the Brownsville ghetto, I saw two murders and heard of four others the same
day. That the ghetto is not anything
concrete, like the broken bottles and litter, I saw in Detroit, where housing
was far better than in Harlem. Here I was fortunate enough to get to live on
both sides of the dividing line between the ghetto and the white areas – all
the way out there where every white house is up for sale. |
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Det foregik omkring Delancey Street, hvor der altid står en flok
prostituerede på hjørnet. Bumser har ligesom andre mennesker en trang til at
finde nogen, som står lavere end dem selv, og han blev da også ved med i
vores samtale at vende tilbage til sin forargelse over, at disse
prostituerede var ude på selve juleaften. Hver eneste gang jeg har drukket
tæt med bumser, er de faldet i søvn først, selv om vi har drukket lige meget.
Og han faldt da også i søvn før midnat. Jeg spekulerede lidt på, om jeg
skulle blive og holde vagt over ham, da vi jo nu var blevet gode venner. Jeg
har så ofte set fattige sorte og puertoricanske husmødre med børn og
indkøbstaske gå hen og trampe på døddrukne bumser eller sparke dem og
derefter hastigt gå videre hjem til kødgryderne – et typisk udslag af deres
selvhad. (På samme måde har jeg ofte set nyrige sorte trampe åndeligt på de
fattige sorte, som blev tilbage i ghettoen). Men da gaderne var ret tomme
denne aften, besluttede jeg mig alligevel til at forlade ham efter at have
lagt godt med brænde på bålet. Jeg strejfede så rundt nede i mit foretrukne
kvarter omkring Avenue B, hvor der altid er slagsmål mellem puertoricanerne
og de sorte, men som jeg holder meget af, fordi der næsten er racemæssig
balance mellem hvide, brune og sorte. Her stod Larry i en døråbning. Vi kom i
snak, og han fortalte, at han lige var blevet smidt ud af sin hvide kone. Da
vi fandt ud af, at vi var i samme båd, besluttede vi os til sammen at finde
et sted at bo. Først købte vi en flaske vin. Derefter lovede vi hinanden, at
hvis den ene fandt et sted, måtte han ikke tage det, uden at tage den anden
med. Larry var den mest udadvendte og veltalende, men jeg var hvid, så vi
regnede med, at hvad den ene ikke havde, kunne den anden levere. Men Larry
var af den type, der absolut skal snakke med alle i gaden uden skelen til
rang eller stand. Han havde været pænt borgerligt gift i fire år, men
betroede mig, at han hele tiden inderst inde havde været en ”strejfer” i sit
hjerte. Så vi havde ikke gået langt, før vi havde en hel flok ”strejfere” med os; de fleste af dem var bumser. På et
tidspunkt var der fem, som Larry havde lovet, at han nok skulle finde et sted
at bo til og en flaske vin ovenikøbet. To af dem gik på krykker. En tredje
gik og fægtede vildt med armene i luften, som slog han efter myg. Jeg var fuldstændig
overbevist om, at vi aldrig kunne finde et sted at sove til hele denne flok,
men da der altid dukkede noget uventet op i den slags vanvittige situationer,
sagde jeg ikke noget om det til Larry. Vi spurgte de få folk, vi mødte, om de
kendte et sted, hvor vi kunne bo, men satsede dog først og fremmest på
jøderne, da de andre jo fejrede juleaften, og vi derfor automatisk gik ud
fra, at de ikke havde hjerterum. Desuden er jøderne jo traditionelt de mest
gæstfrie. Eftersom jeg var den eneste hvide, var det mig, der skulle klare
alle jøderne, mens de andre holdt sig lidt i baggrunden. Men alle forsøg var
forgæves. En enkelt sagde, at hvis det var rigtigt, at jeg var udlænding,
ville han da gerne tage mig med hjem, men han turde ikke, så han gav mig 6 dollars
til et hotelværelse. Vi strøg naturligvis hen og købte nogle flasker æblevin
for pengene, og derefter så det hele lidt lysere ud. Men vi kunne stadig ikke
finde noget sted at sove, og vinen gjorde bumserne højrøstede og aggressive,
og manden, der fægtede efter myg, begyndte at skyggebokse efter folk med det
resultat, at alle flygtede over hals og hoved. Henad ved 2-tiden var det
så, jeg blev sendt ind i Broome Street-baren for at
finde nye ”ofre”. Da jeg stod og spejdede rundt i mængden, kom en mørkhåret
kvinde hen til mig og stod i lang tid og stirrede mig ind i øjnene på en
mærkværdig måde. Så sagde hun meget langsomt: ”Du har fiskeøjne”. Jeg troede,
at hun havde taget narkotika, og prøvede at tage øjnene væk fra hende. Så
sagde hun: ”Jeg ønsker, at du skal komme og bo hos mig”. Derefter tog jeg mig
sammen og spurgte, om jeg måtte tage et par af mine venner med. Hun sagde
nej. Jeg sagde, at så kunne jeg
ikke komme, men hun gav mig alligevel sin adresse. Jeg fortsatte derefter med
de andre endnu et par timer, men jeg kunne ikke få hende ud af tankerne.
Situationen så nu helt håbløs ud for os. Vi var plakatfulde efterhånden.
Henne i bølgepapbunkerne på Mercer Street havde vi
tabt den ene af krykkemændene, som var faldet i søvn. Da det nu regnede
stærkt, og jeg var næsten sanseløs, stak jeg ved 5-tiden af fra de andre. Jeg
var meget flov over det, og i det næste par dage gik jeg og skammede mig. Men
en uge efter mødte jeg til alt held Larry på Washington Square, og han
fortalte mig, at han også havde ladt de andre i stikken og havde fundet en
stor, fed, hvid pige ovre i The West Village, som han nu boede hos. Det
trøstede mig naturligvis, og vi fortsatte med at være gode venner. Jeg var selv gået tilbage
til den mærkelige kvinde. Det viste sig, at hun boede i en kæmpelejlighed på
Greene Street og havde et atelier på Broadway så stort som en håndboldbane.
Hendes badekar var en lille paletformet swimmingpool. Det eneste, hun ønskede
af mig, var, at jeg skulle være sammen med hende. I tre dage sad vi fra
morgen til aften og stirrede ind i hinandens øjne. Overalt var der kæmpestore
gipsfisk; de hang på væggene og gloede dumt ned på os. Men der var absolut
mere liv i dem, end der var i hende. I tre dage søgte jeg desperat at snakke
med hende. Alt, hvad jeg fik ud af hende, var, at hun følte sig meget ensom,
og at hun aldrig havde levet sammen med en mand. Hun var 40 år, født i havet
og kunne kun kommunikere med fisk. Intet andet havde hun at sige. Jeg var
nysgerrig efter at vide, hvem hun var, så en nat, mens hun sov, rodede jeg
rundt i hendes papirer og fandt ud af, at hun var den verdensberømte kunstner
Marisol Escobar og to gange havde været på forsiden
af Time Magazine og en gang på Look; men hendes sidste store udstilling med
fiskeskulpturer havde fået dårlige anmeldelser. Det viste sig, at hun
svømmede i penge. Engang måtte jeg skrive under som vidne på kontrakter på
flere tusinde dollars. Halvdelen af året tilbragte hun i Den Mexicanske Golf
med at dykke ned til sine små venner. Ikke desto mindre gav hun mig aldrig så
meget som et stykke brød, og jeg blev mere og mere desperat af sult. Morgen
og aften skulle jeg følge med hende på restaurant og sidde over for hende,
mens hun spiste. Hun var uhyre selvoptaget, tænkte overhovedet ikke på at
give mig mad. Da jeg aldrig selv beder folk om mad, kom jeg en dag med en
indirekte hentydning. ”Har du nogensinde tænkt over, at al din kunst går til
de rige, men overhovedet ikke kommer de fattige til gavn?” Intet svar. Og
stadig ingen mad. Hun havde et køleskab, så da hun på et tidspunkt lå og sov,
tog jeg mig den frihed at undersøge, om der var mad i det. Jeg fik et mindre
chok, da det væltede ud med store frosne fisk, der lignede torsk – og intet
andet. Hvis jeg ikke havde været så sulten, ville jeg sikkert have haft lidt
mere tålmodighed med hende. Så pludselig kom min
redningsmand vandrende ind i stilheden. Det var Erica, som tidligere havde
hjulpet Marisol med at afpudse fiskeskulpturerne. Hun lo og var glad, og det
var fantastisk at høre et menneske igen. Hun opfattede lynhurtigt min
situation og lod så elegant som en fisk syv dollars glide over i mine hænder
under bordet. Senere hviskede hun til mig, at jeg kunne flytte over til
hende. Da Marisol faldt i søvn om aftenen flygtede jeg over til Erica, som
bor i en kummerlig brandtrappelejlighed på 11th Street. Erica, som jeg nu bor
hos, er simpelthen et fund. Hun er lesbisk, men nærer ikke de hadske følelser
mod mænd, som præger de fleste af New Yorks lesbiske. Det gør mig altid glad,
når jeg får et godt forhold til en lesbisk pige. Erica kan ligesom jeg ikke
forstå nødvendigheden af at hade mænd. Ganske vist er såvel hetero- som
homoseksuelle amerikanske mænd uhyggeligt sexuelt aggressive, men man må da
prøve at forstå den undertrykkelse, som har skabt denne John Wayne-kultur.
Specielt sorte mænd lider under denne kultur, fordi deres mødre har opdraget
dem til den (jeg vasker altid automatisk op i folks hjem; men jeg er kommet
til det punkt, hvor jeg er holdt op med at gøre det i sorte hjem, fordi det
altid sætter kvinderne i forlegenhed: de ved simpelthen ikke, hvad de skal
stille op med en mand, som vasker op. Er det så ikke lumpent af mig at prøve
at ændre deres kultur, når de alligevel fortsat skal leve med
undertrykkelsen?) Og når det kommer til stykket har hvide kvinder samme
holdning. Atter og atter bliver jeg inviteret hjem af enlige hvide kvinder,
som modsat enlige kvinder i Europa næsten altid har en dobbeltseng og derfor
placerer mig ved deres side. Men det er chokerende at se, hvordan de i reglen
er fuldstændig ude af stand til at håndtere en ikke-agressiv
mand. Efter to-tre dage siger de normalt noget i retning af ”Har du altid
været homoseksuel?” for at frembringe lidt mandlige aggressioner i mig, eller
oftere, ”La’ os gå ud og drikke os fulde.” Uden tvivl ville de blive lidt
ilde til mode, hvis en ny gæst gik lige til køleskabet og spiste al kødet.
Alligevel synes amerikanske kvinder at føle sig utilpasse, hvis en mand ikke
går lige i deres eget kød og blod. Med sorte kvinder finder jeg det
undertiden nødvendigt at modificere min passive regel om ikke at krænke folks
gæstfrihed med lidt ”positiv særbehandling”. De gør nemlig ofte alt, hvad der
står i deres magt for at ydmyge en ”blød” eller ikke-agressiv
mand, hvilket kvæler enhver chance i fødslen for at opbygge et mere
meningsfyldt forhold til dem. Erica er en anderledes pige.
Hun har gjort mig til alle tiders mandschauvinist. Min funktion i hendes hjem
er nemlig at være alfons. Erica er prostitueret af den fine type, man kalder call-girl, og det er nu blevet min opgave at være
telefonvagt, sortere de sjofle opkald fra og bede de pæne om at ringe igen
kl. 17 til en hurtig anden sortering. Derefter går slutspurten ind ved
18-tiden, hvor jeg skal vælge den allerpæneste stemme og aftale møde på et
hotel kl. 19. Vi tager en taxa til hotellet, som i reglen ligger på Østsiden,
da vi holder os til pæne forretningsfolk. Her er det nu min opgave at sidde
og drikke Cola i foyeren i en time, og hvis hun til den tid ikke er kommet
ned, skal jeg gå op og banke på døren. På vejen hjem går vi i reglen hen og
spiser italiensk is, som Erica elsker. Men det fantastiske ved hende er, at
hun ikke er nogen almindelig luder. Hun har en annonce i sexmagasinet Screw, som alle forretningsmænd åbenbart læser, for
telefonen kimer ustandseligt. Hun elsker simpelthen at hjælpe mennesker og at
give dem varme midt i denne kulde. Hun siger, at de fleste af hendes kunder
er enormt ensomme og ikke så meget har brug for sex som for varme. Hun er
nemlig set med sådanne mandsøjne ikke nogen fysisk skønhed: enormt tynd,
fladbrystet og med krøllet rødt hår, men hun har en sådan charme og skønhed i
sig, at disse mænd slet ikke kan stå for hende. Næsten alle giver hende 100
dollars, skønt vi kun har aftalt 75, og kun en enkelt har ringet og klaget.
Hun siger, at hun normalt ikke engang går i seng med dem, men blot giver dem
fysisk og især åndelig massage. Hun har købt mange film til mig, men jeg har
af gode grunde sagt nej til penge. Om dagen går hun til sang og dans eller
sidder i timevis og laver kaffestel af skumgummi. Hver eneste kop, tallerken
og ske er lavet perfekt ned til mindste detalje. Hun har flere glasskabe
fulde af skumgummiporcelæn som i de pæneste borgerlige hjem. Hun er en
fantastisk inspiration for mig. En dag, da en mand blev slået ned udenfor på
gaden og blev liggende i lang tid, var Erica den eneste, som gad ringe efter
en ambulance. Men der kom ingen ambulance, og folk stod blot og gloede dumt
på den halvdøde mand. Hun blev ved med at ringe. Der bor nemlig kun
puertoricanere her, så det tager i reglen en time, før politi og ambulance
kommer. Så fik hun den lyse idé at ringe til politiet og sige, at de skulle
skynde sig at komme, for der var en hvid mand, som var ved at blive overfaldet
af tre sorte og puertoricanere lige nede på gaden, og straks kom to
politibiler og en ambulance. Dette trick er almindeligt i New York, men det
virker åbenbart hver gang. Ofte har jeg set Erica give en hel dagløn til folk
i nød. Hun bragte dem direkte fra de rige forretningsfolk i hotellerne til en
eller anden tigger på gaden. En anden aften var hun endnu
mere fantastisk. Vi var på vej i biografen, da vi så en bums i halvtredserne
sidde og bede om hjælp til en flaske vin og nogen at snakke med. Vi sad og
snakkede med ham i et par timer over vinen, og han sagde, at han var ved at
få delirium tremens, og at han var bange for at dø.
Straks sagde Erica, at vi ville gå med ham på hospitalet, og han græd af
glæde. Han havde ventet på dette øjeblik i ti år. Han havde aldrig selv haft
mod til at gå på hospitalet. Vi tog ham med i en taxa og kørte til St.
Vincenthospitalet. Vi sad i venteværelset i to timer. Hele tiden græd han. Så
fik vi at vide, at de ikke ville tage ham. Han havde siddet og drukket og
blev helt umulig og begynde at råbe og skrige. Jeg råbte også nogle ting
efter personalet om at komme fra et civiliseret land med gratis hospitaler
for alle. Der blev tilkaldt politi, og vi blev smidt ud med fuld musik. Vi
tog så en taxa til skadestuen på Bellevue-hospitalet og sad der sammen med de
mærkeligste mennesker: skrigende, hysteriske, selvmorderiske, og hvad ved
jeg. Vi sad der lige til klokken 6 om morgenen, uden at der skete noget.
Manden drak imens hele flasken og sad på gulvet og græd med hovedet i Ericas
skød, mens han tryglede os om ikke at gå fra ham. Flere gange tissede han i
bukserne, og der lå en sø udenom, da han tog sin penis ud og lod den hænge.
Erica stoppede den hele tiden ind, men den blev ved med at komme ud. De
fleste af patienterne var efterhånden flygtet ud af lokalet. Så begyndte han
at brække sig over det hele, det mærkeligste slimede og stinkende bræk, jeg
længe har set. På det tidspunkt flygtede selv de to sygeplejersker. Vi
prøvede at tørre det op. Ved 6-tiden var vi helt udkørte, og da
sygeplejerskerne højt og helligt lovede, at han ville blive indlagt, tog vi
hjem og sov. To dage senere tog jeg til Bellevue-hospitalet for at besøge ham
og give ham nogle cigaretter. Jeg fik at vide, at der aldrig havde været
nogen indlagt af det navn. Jeg blev rasende og ulykkelig og turde slet ikke
fortælle det til Erica. New York er en by, som simpelthen ikke tillader noget
menneske at være menneskelig. Skal man overleve her, må man lære at lade
andre mennesker i stikken. Erica er naturligvis ikke fra New York, så derfor
vil jeg blive boende hos hende endnu en tid. Men snart vil jeg tilbage til
Sydens varme. New Yorks kulde slår mig ud hver gang. Brev til amerikansk ven
I am, I said, to no one there. And no one heard at all... I am, I cried! And I am lost and I can’t even say why ... leaving me lonely still... I’ve got an emptiness deep inside, and I tried, but it won’t let me go. And I’m not a man who likes to swear, but I’ve never cared for the sound of being alone... I AM, I CRIED! I AM, SAID I! And I am lost and can’t even say why... Leaving me
lonely still... Systemet – som er summen af vores daglige
undertrykkende tænkning – bruger som altid repressiv tolerance mod presset
fra ofrene og kvæler råbet fra undergrunden ved at ophøje det og give det
anerkendelse for dets kunstneriske værdi.
Og
derfor vil mine billeder kun være en katarsis. Skønt
jeg vidste dette og ofte fik det fortalt af underklassens sorte, der ikke
havde nogen illusioner om nytten af at tale til den "indre godhed i deres hvide undertrykkere, fortsatte jeg og har således
forrådt både de sorte og den Tredje verden, hvilket gør denne side til den eneste i bogen, som næsten alle
afroamerikanere kan være enige i. Jeg har skabt en underholdende
følelsesmæssig udløsning for undertrykkerne og
derved forlænget undertrykkelsen. Jeg er lige så hyklerisk som disse
kunstsnobber, fordi jeg spiller efter deres regler. Hvis min kritik blev for ”radikal” ville de blot vende den
ryggen. Jeg er derfor
tvunget til at udvande den, så den risikerer at blive en tårevædet nedladende
"paternalistisk" naiv vagabond-eventyrhistorie om lidelserne i
ghettoen og vores uheldige skyggesider - som f.eks. den følgende sentimentale
rejse til Harlem, ikke langt fra disse liberales højborg, Museum of Modern
Art.
If you take the train with me uptown through the misery of ghetto streets in morning light where it is always night: Take a window seat, put down your Times you can read between the lines, just read the faces that you meet beyond the windowpane: And it might begin to teach you how to give a damn about your fellow man!
Mange af mine bedste venner bukkede under
for crack. Jeg havde kendt Robert Yard i årevis, men kort efter hans bryllup
i Harlem blev hans kone her offer for crack. Jeg så ham desperat forsøge at
redde hende og deres ægteskab, mens hendes liv løb ned i en afgrund af
kriminalitet, prostitution og fængsler indtil hendes alt for tidlige død.
Come and see how well despair is seasoned by the stifling air. See your ghetto in the good old sizzling summer time. Suppose the streets were all on fire, the flames like tempers leaping higher, suppose you’d lived there all your life, do you think that you would mind? And it might begin
to reach you Why I give a damn
about my fellow man, And it might begin
to teach you How to give a damn
about your fellow man.
Ghettoens sorte eller brune har ingen tid
til overs for de liberales nedladende holdning og forsøger konstant at
fremprovokere vores sande racistiske/islamofobiske ansigt. De nægter at se
det som fremgang, at kniven i deres ryg bliver trukket tilbage fra 4 cm til
kun 2 cm og vil hellere stikke os tilbage til den velkendte ”hvide modreaktion”
, hvor vi hører hjemme med disse ord: Hvis jeg ikke kan blive elsket, vil jeg
respekteres. Hvis jeg ikke kan blive respekteret, vil
jeg anerkendes Hvis jeg ikke kan blive anerkendt, vil jeg
accepteres Hvis jeg ikke kan blive accepteret, vil jeg
bemærkes Hvis jeg ikke kan blive bemærket, vil jeg
frygtes Hvis jeg ikke kan blive frygtet, vil jeg
hades
De sortes eget syn på Harlem er stik modsat
vores behov for at se et offer, da de ikke ensidigt kan se det værste i
ghettoen uden at gå til grunde. De vil f.eks. ikke fremhæve, at 10 % af
Harlems ungdom er er
voldsforbrydere, der terroriserer gaderne. De vil vende det på hovedet og opmuntres af den utrolige
kendsgerning, at trods dette kriminelle miljø har 90 % af ungdommen aldrig
været i konflikt med loven. There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, a rose in black and Spanish
Harlem. It is a special one, it never sees the sun it only comes out when the moon is on the run and all the stars are gleaming. It’s growing in the street right up through the concrete soft, sweet and dreaming. With eyes as black as coal they look down in my soul and start a fire there and then I lose control I want to beg her pardon I’m going to pick that rose and watch her as she
grows in my garden. 296
Vi forsikrer konstant hinanden - med
rosenrøde historier om enkeltpersoner eller en sort middelklasse eller en
Obama, der har klaret sig - om, at vi ikke blot er retfærdige, men nærmest de
rene engle selv. Det er et fejt og kalkuleret forsøg på at vise, at der er
noget galt med alle dem, som ikke har succes – altså igen at skyde skylden på
vore indespærrede for deres egen indespærring.
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