394 – 405 Eloids to Attica (old
book 250-261)
Vincents text
Norsk Ny dansk bog
|
394 (Luke 9: 3-5)
In North Carolina a millionaire I often stayed with loaned me one of
his cars, a big Buick, so that I could get out to the most deserted back
roads where it is impossible to hitchhike. After having seen much poverty
throughout the day, I got to Wilmington that evening. I had heard that there
had been racial disturbances in the town, so I felt like getting to know it a
bit better. As always when I come to a new town, I started from the bottom by
going into the worst neighborhoods. I parked the car far away since you
cannot communicate with people if you roll up in a car. I grabbed my shoulder
bag and walked down the street as if I had just hitchhiked into town, and
then went over to one of the worst black bars on one of the main streets. I
love these dingy combination bar-and-grills with the small jars of pickled
pigs’ feet and pepper, and often sit in such a bar for hours. There is always
something happening. But this evening things went wrong. It was around eleven o’clock and completely dark when I got to the
place. There was the usual crowd of half-criminal types outside: the
hustlers. They often look mean and dangerous in their sunglasses, but they
are not that bad if you treat them right. I really love them, because it is
such a challenge for me to find the human being behind the sunglasses. It’s
either win or lose; if you make a wrong move it can mean death. Like all
criminals, they are actually extremely timid and therefore react
spontaneously and nervously. I use as a rule of thumb that the darker their
sunglasses, the more afraid they are of me and of each other. But as soon as
you gain their trust and the sunglasses are removed over a glass of beer or a
joint, they show themselves to be fantastic people and will do anything for
you. That’s why I always seek them out first when I come into a new town
since they have lots of contacts. I am always completely honest with them and
don’t pretend to be anything but what I am, never trying, for example, to
imitate their language or to use the common white sentimentality about “we
are brothers” and all that crap they have heard so often from whites. One
must remember how paranoid they are and that they have no faith in whites in
general, or their own people, or themselves. They have been trampled on all
their lives and that oppression can not be overcome
through any phony “brother” talk. But by speaking absolutely honestly you can
show them in various ways who you really are, and what you want, you can
overcome their suspicion. They need to know who they are dealing with. It is,
for instance, this strong desire that makes many blacks prefer the Southern
racist over the Northern liberal, for with the racist they know where they
stand and can respect him for his honesty, while the liberal always says one
thing and does another. With my pictures and my detailed descriptions of what
I have done in other ghettos, it is usually not difficult to convince them of
my identity (whenever I know myself what my identity is). They are never
totally convinced that I am not an undercover cop, yet they almost always
take the chance. Every person has a need to be human in this social system
and there is always a risk involved in that. If you let the mask fall, you
risk being hurt. Both the capitalist and the criminal are in their everyday
life so strongly deformed by the roles dictated for them by the system that
they have an unspeakable urge toward human kindness. This urge they have a
chance to express with the vagabond, who stands completely outside the
system. In order to get something to eat or a place to stay, the vagabond
must always talk to the “good” (the humane) in the capitalist or the criminal
and when he first realizes that this is always possible, then he can no
longer condemn them as “capitalists” or “criminals,” but concludes that they
all have possibilities for acting in accordance with a system other than the
one that usually directs them. Thus, the vagabond instead begins to condemn
the system he always has to struggle against in order to survive. Therefore,
even the worst criminals usually take that chance with me, and gradually, as
the worst distrust subsides, and some beers go down, we can fall quite in
love with each other in mutual admiration of the roles we usually play. They
are always interested in what I have learned from other criminals, and the
more “hustles” I describe, the closer we are bound to each other. But in the
exchange of ways to “cop” (the word that covers everything the criminal
needs, whether it is a bag of heroin, a car, a gun, a woman, or wine), I
always emphasize putting it in a political context. Often the events we are
exposed to in the course of such a night become increasingly criminal. I know
that in order to get a place to sleep toward morning, I have to convince them
that I am with them all the way. So the first night in a new town I usually
don’t get much sleep; but in this way I gain a foothold in other social
circles of the ghetto, since the criminal’s sisters, brothers, parents, and
friends are not necessarily criminals themselves. But this night in Wilmington something went wrong. I received the same
hostile vibrations from the people outside the bar as I always get, but there
was no possibility of breaking the ice. No matter what I said, it didn’t get
through. They started making threats and said, “We’re militants, get your ass
out of here or you’re a dead man.” I was so stunned that my survival
philosophy didn’t work that I went all weak in the knees. I felt suddenly
that I had no control over events and gave up. I walked a bit farther down
the main street, but to get back to the car without passing them again, I
turned off to the right through an unlit “project” - as these municipal
poorhouses are called. But just as I turned in there, I noticed that they had
started after me. Apparently they perceived this to be their territory. I
made the mistake of running further in in order to hide from them. I hid
under a bush and saw that they were suddenly all over, about a dozen of them.
I started shaking, I was so shocked at this development. I realized that I
didn’t stand a chance and ran out into a dark alley to surrender. I was
immediately surrounded, knives and guns pointing at me from all sides. From
that moment I don’t remember exactly what happened, just that I began
rattling off a lot of words. I said, among other things, something like that
they should wait just two minutes, look at my pictures and hear why I was
there, and if they didn’t like it, they could kill me then. I don’t know if
that was what tipped the balance, but after much yelling and screaming about
what they should do with me, what finally happened was that they led me out
to the main street with guns and knives in my hack. I was shaking at the
thought that someone might pull the trigger by accident. They said that I should
walk straight up the road until I was out of town. In order to get back to
town, I now had to walk two miles out and then two miles back on a parallel
street. I thought about calling a taxi or the police, but gave up the idea. I
had no money for a taxi and felt it was wrong to use the police. If I was
seen with the cops, they would really be convinced that I was not on their
side. So in the darkness I ran from tree to tree down the parallel street to
avoid being seen from cars, as it could be my attackers in the cars. The
scene was exactly like the movie “In the Heat of the Night” - only racially
reversed. I got back without a scratch and roared out of town at full speed. I
had had enough of staying in the ghetto for that night. I have since tried to
analyze what I did wrong that evening. There is no doubt that I failed
because I was dishonest with the criminals. I pretended to be a poor vagabond
who needed a place to sleep, but in fact I was not poor, as the car was
hidden nearby and I knew all along that if necessary I could sleep in the car
that night. I had not been completely honest with them and therefore could
not make the positive impression that would open them up. I had made the same
mistake as the feudal lord who comes riding along in his comfortable coach
with shining lanterns and thus carries with him his own light and his own
darkness. He enjoys his security and the light which is cast on the immediate
surroundings, but he does not understand that the strong glare dazzles him
and prevents him from seeing the stars, which the poor peasant wandering on
foot and without a lamp is able to see perfectly clearly and to use as a
guide. I then drove out to a white community nearby. After this grim
experience I began to feel that something fantastic would happen that night.
That’s how it almost always goes when you travel: when you are the most down,
you will be the highest up right afterward. So fatalistic have I become on
this point that when two weeks earlier 1 stood in shirt sleeves freezing in a
snowstorm for hours on a back road in West Virginia, unable to get a lift, I
became completely convinced that something good would come out of’ it, and
sure enough, that same evening I landed at the Rockefellers’. If as a
vagabond you are not possessed of this fatalism you are lost, for just by
virtue of your conviction you are able to communicate such strong positive
energy that you yourself are actually helping to create a favorable
situation. Anyhow, when I stepped into a bar on Wrightsville Beach that night,
I was not totally taken by surprise by what happened. I had been standing
there alone for some time when a very sweet young woman came over and pulled
my beard and wanted to know who I was. Then things happened pretty fast and
she began pouring a lot of wine into me. When, as a vagabond, you stand
completely alone in the world, you are very weak in such situations and fall
in love incredibly easily. But when only an hour earlier you have been closer
to death than ever before, then this falling in love takes on such violent
dimensions that it becomes totally overwhelming. Any human being who had
shown me warmth that night, I would have bound myself to forever. One of the
first things she asked me was if I had a place to live. When I said no, she
immediately said that I should move in with her. She would give me all the
money I needed and a gasoline credit card for the car. It turned out that she
belonged to one of America’s richest families, who own the Schlitz brewery. I
will never forget that night. Usually I am impotent the first night with a
new woman, but the violent experience was still so much with me that I was
thinking more about that, and therefore everything went as it should. It was
exactly the same as that time in New Orleans when a woman and I witnessed one
of our friends kill another while we played pool, and afterward went home and
made love all night long. Sex and violence are probably very intimately
connected. On the whole, I feel that many of my love affairs in the U.S.A.
have been brought about by a violent experience – or have resulted in one. My
love for this country could be of the same nature. That night we fell so much
in love with each other that she started talking right away about getting
married. When we got married we would receive $50,000, and thereafter $30,000
a year. “I want to have a child with you,” she said. During the first days I
myself was so convinced that I was getting married that I started writing to
all my friends that “now I had finally found the right one.” I was fascinated by her and her upperclass
nature. She spent money as if it were water. The first week we spent hundreds
of dollars and she had to telegraph her father in Europe for more money. I
enjoyed going to the finest restaurants, eating lobster and steak, which felt
good after several months of “soul food.” But I still insisted on continuing
my exploring and drove out in the car in the daytime to photograph the
poverty and hunger in eastern North Carolina. An expert on geophagy (dirt
eating) had told me about the hunger in the area. During the day I
photographed hunger, and at night I gorged myself on steaks. Every other day
I spent with my fiancée on a nearby island, which was only for rich people.
There was a guard on the bridge to prevent blacks and other poor outcasts
from getting out there. We lived in a lovely big villa and lay on the beach
all day loafing. It was here I first began to lose interest in her, as I was
simply bored to death. In the beginning she took a certain interest in my
“hobby,” but gradually it became clear that she perceived blacks as subhuman.
I have often fallen in love with Southern racists because of their exoticism
and charming dialect and my own fascination with the person behind the
master/slave relationship, but it slowly dawned on me that you cannot base a
marriage on such a fascination. I began to feel that our child would be more
the product of violence than of love. When I asked what she would do if we
drifted apart, she said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got enough money, I can get an
abortion any time.” She was still madly in love with me, but I was starting
to get my feet hack on the ground. So when shortly afterward she had to
travel to the Galapagos Islands to look at turtles and wanted to take me with
her, f at first felt very tempted, but nevertheless said no. It would be good
to get her at a little distance and cool off. She asked me to come hack for her birthday, which I promised to do. I hitchhiked a couple of thousand miles to get back
on that day and arrived just around noon and thought she would be happy. But
she just lay on her bed and was totally cold. She had had a good vacation
with the turtles but had begun to feel that we weren’t suited for each other.
In the end she had gone to Ecuador to get an abortion.
It had been very expensive and difficult “in that
primitive, Catholic country.” Now she had no feelings left for me, she said. I was both deeply hurt
and very relieved at the same time, said farewell and went back into the
ghetto in Wilmington to have another try at getting to live there. I went
into the same bar, but this time in the daytime and bought a round of Schlitz
for the people there with the money I had left from my days of luxury. And
this time I succeeded in being accepted and there was chatter and talk and a
warmth without equal. It was at that time that Schlitz started their new ad
campaign with the slogan “Only love is better than Schlitz.” Every time I saw
it around the country I thought of Wilmington, and its violent racial hatred. Summary of letters
The crime of the poor, like the exploitation by the rich, is almost
impossible to photograph. You can take pictures of the result, but rarely of
the process itself. Usually I’d be with criminals for days before
photographing them. In order to survive among them, it was a necessity that I
always had faith in the inner goodness of these children of anger, directing
myself toward the human being inside and away from the role the system had
forced them to model their lives on. By photographing their shady activities,
I was relating more to their environmental side and thus in a way betrayed
the trust they’d given me. I always wanted to photograph crime as seen from
the point of view of the criminal, but to do that I had to set myself at a
distance and so was no longer “one of them.” Recording the system’s violence
was easier than photographing its counter-violence. a long rap about ”no knock” being legislated for the people you’ve always hated in this hell-hole you/we call home. NO KNOCK the man will say to protect people from themselves. Who’s
going to protect me from you ? No knocking, head rocking, enter shocking, shooting, cursing, killing,
crying, lying and being white. NO KNOCK told my brother Fred Hampton bullet holes all over the place. But if you’re a wise ”no knocker you’ll tell your knocking’ lackeys no knock on my brother’s head no knock on in my sisters head and double lock your door because someone may be NO KNOCKING... For you! One day I saw in the New York times a picture of Mayor Lindsay
presenting a bouquet of flowers to a “heroic” police officer in a hospital
bed. It said that he had been shot down while “entering an apartment.” I
decided to find out what was actually behind this incident and nosed around
the Bronx for several days to find the relatives and the apartment where it
all took place. Little by little I found out what had happened. James and
Barbara were a young black couple who lived in the worst neighborhood in the
U.S.A. around Fox Street in the South Bronx. One day they heard burglars on
the roof and called the police. Two plain-clothes officers arrived at the
apartment and kicked in the door without knocking. James thought it was the
burglars who were breaking in, and he shot at the door, but was then himself
killed by the police. Barbara ran screaming into the neighbor’s apartment.
When I went to the 41st Precinct police station they confirmed the story and
admitted that “there had been a little mistake,” but James of course “was
asking for it, being in possession of an unregistered gun.” I was by now so used to this kind of American logic that I did not
feel any particular indignation toward the officer. I just felt that he was
wrong. Since I had spent so much time finding out the facts of the case. I
might as well go to the funeral, too. I rushed around town trying to borrow a
nice shirt and arrived at the funeral home in the morning about an hour
before the services. I took some pictures of James in the coffin. He was very
handsome. I admired the fine job the undertaker had done with plastic to plug
up the bullet holes. Black undertakers are sheer artists in this field; even
people who have had their eyes torn out they can get to look perfectly
normal. Since black bodies arrive in all possible colors and conditions, they
use almost the entire color spectrum in plastic materials. James did not make
any particular impression on me; I had already seen so many young black
corpses. The only thing I wondered about was that there wasn’t any floral
wreath from the police. I waited about an hour, which was to be the last
normal hour that day. Not more than ten people came to the funeral, all of
them surprised at seeing a white man there. A young guy whispered to me that
he thought it was a little unbecoming for a white man to he
present at this particular funeral. Then suddenly I heard terrible screams
from the front hall and saw three men bringing Barbara in. Her legs were
dragging along the floor. She was incapable of walking. I could not see her
face, but she was a tall, beautiful, light-skinned young woman. Her screams
made me shudder. Never before had I heard such excruciating and pain-filled
screams. When she reached the coffin, it became unbearable. It was the first
and only time in America I was unable to photograph. I had taken pictures
with tears running down my cheeks, but had always kept myself at such a great
distance from the suffering that I was able to record it. When Barbara came
up to the coffin, she threw herself down into it. She lay on top of James and
screamed so it cut through marrow and bone. I could only make out the words,
“James, wake up, wake up!” again and again. The others tried to pull her
away, but Barbara didn’t notice anything but James. I was at this point
completely convinced that James would rise up in the coffin. I have seen much
suffering in America, but I have often perceived in the midst of the
suffering a certain hypocrisy or even shallowness, which enabled me to
distance myself from it. Barbara knocked my feet completely out from under
me. Everything began to spin before my eyes. It must have been at that point
that I suddenly rushed weeping out of’ the funeral home. I ran for blocks
just to get away. My crying was completely uncontrollable. I staggered down
through Simpson and Prospect Streets, where nine out of ten die an unnatural
death. Robbers and the usual street criminals stood in the doorways, but I
just staggered on without noticing them, stumbling over garbage cans and broken
bottles. It was a wonder that no one mugged me, but they must have thought I
had just been mugged. When I got to James’ and Barbara’s apartment building, still crying, I
asked some children if there was anyone up in the apartment “of the man who
was shot the other day.” They asked if I didn’t mean the man who was shot in
the building across the street last night. No, it was in this building, I
said. But they had not heard that anyone had been shot in their building.
They lived on the third floor and James and Barbara lived on the sixth floor.
I went up to the apartment, which now stood empty. Robbers had already ransacked it, and there were only bits of paper
and small things scattered around on the floor. The emptiness of the
apartment made me sob even harder. There were bullet holes all over in the
living room wall where James had been sitting, but there were only two in the
door which the police had kicked open. There were three locks on the door like everywhere in New York, as
well as a thick iron bar set fast in the floor - a safety precaution the
police themselves recommend that people use to avoid having their doors
sprung open by criminals. James and Barbara had been so scared of criminals
that they had put double steel bars on their windows although it was six
stories up and there was no fire escape outside. Down in the courtyard there
was a three-foot pile of garbage people had thrown out of their windows. Here James and Barbara had lived since they were sixteen with their
now four-year-old daughter. After a couple of’ hours I ventured out of the
apartment. I had cried so much that I had a splitting headache, and all the
way into Manhattan the weeping kept coming back in waves. When I came to a
movie theater on the West Side, I wandered in without really knowing what I
was doing. It was at that time that movies directed by blacks were being
produced for the first time in history. The film was called “Sounder” and was
about a poor family in Louisiana in the 1930’s. There was an overwhelming
sense of love and togetherness in the family, but in the end the father was
taken away by the white authorities and sent to a work camp for having stolen
a piece of meat. The film was made in Hollywood and romanticized the poverty;
after several years in a work camp, the father came back to the family, so
the film would have a happy ending. This wasn’t the kind of poverty I had met up with in the South. The
only time I cried in the movie was when I saw things that reminded me all too
much of James and Barbara. Afterward I wandered over in the direction of
Broadway. An old black woman whom I had stayed with in the North Bronx the
night before had given me ten dollars so I could get some nice clothes for
the funeral. She had at first not trusted me and had spent several hours
calling various police stations asking them what was the idea of sending an
undercover cop to her house. But when after half a day she had assured
herself that I was not a police agent, she was so happy that she gave me the
ten dollars, and I had to promise to come stay with her again, and she
telephoned to Alaska so I could talk with her daughter who lived up there.
Now I still had a little money left over and went in my strange state of mind
straight into another movie theater on Broadway and saw “Farewell, Uncle
Tom.” It was a harrowing film about slavery. It was made by non-Americans (in
Italy), so it didn’t romanticize slavery. You saw how the slaves were sold at
auction, the instruments of torture that were used, and you saw how men were sold
away from their wives and children. It was frightful. How could all this have
been allowed to happen only a hundred years ago? At some points in the film I
almost threw up. I looked around the cinema repeatedly, as I was afraid that
there would be blacks in there, but there were only two people in the whole
theater besides me. When I got outside, there was a young black guy hanging
around with sunglasses on. I stood for a long time looking him in the eyes,
and I couldn’t understand why he didn’t knock me down. For days afterward I was a wreck. I will never forget that day. It
stands completely blank in my diary. A whole year went by before I pulled
myself together and sought Barbara out. But when I came to the kitchen at the
veterans’ hospital where she worked, an old black woman was sent out to talk
to me. She told me that she was Barbara’s guardian, since Barbara had not
been normal since the funeral. She had become very withdrawn and never spoke
any more. I asked her what Barbara had been like before James’ death. She
went into deep thought for a moment and then told me with tears in her eyes
about the four years when James and Barbara had worked together there in the
kitchen. They had always been happy, singing, and a real joy to the kitchen
personnel. They had never missed a day of work, always came in together and
always left together at the end of the day. But she wouldn’t let me see
Barbara, for Barbara did not wish to see anyone. Another year went by before I sent a letter to Barbara from somewhere
in the South. I assumed that by now Barbara had gotten over her husband’s
murder. When I again went to the kitchen, the same elderly woman met me. It
was as if time had not passed at all, and we just continued where we left
off. She sighed deeply and looked into my eyes. “Barbara has gone insane,”
she said. Barbara kept coming up in my thoughts wherever I traveled. But another
event came to make just as strong an impression on me. Somewhere in Florida
an unhappy white woman had climbed up a water tower and stood on the edge,
about to commit suicide. But she couldn’t make herself jump. It was in a
ghetto area and a large crowd of people, most of them black, gathered at the
foot of the tower. The police and fire department were trying to persuade the
woman not to jump, while the crowd shouted for her to jump. I was totally
unable to comprehend it. I shouted as loud as I could: “Stop it, stop it,
please, let the poor woman live.” But their shouts grew louder. It was the
worst and most sickening mass hysteria I had ever experienced. Then suddenly
it hit me that the screams sounded like Barbara’s on that unforgettable
morning. I started getting weak in the knees and rushed off, just as fast as
at the funeral home. In five years I will try to contact Barbara once more. I
must see her face again some day! Summary of letters On the day I became one with the suffering, I could no longer depict
it. The screams from people in the closed system drowns in a vacuum for the
world outside. A white policeman beating a black woman was shot down in anger
by a young man on a roof. In retaliation, 5,000 officers are marching through
the ghetto to intimidate our oppressed. Every time a policeman is killed by a
black sniper, the entire apparatus of colonial power is set in motion in this
way. But there’s a deeper tragedy underlying these sad police murders. The
26-year-old widow of the deceased officer comes, as did he, from the poorest
white stratum of society. Although it doesn’t excuse the brutality, one can
very well understand it. These whites have themselves often been downtrodden and exploited.
Facing grim prospects in life, they had no choice but to join the ranks of
the old slave-drivers. The racism and lack of trust that a poor
under-stimulated upbringing has instilled in them is exacerbated by their
nervousness about being part of an occupying force in a culture to which they
don’t belong. It’s become common to attack the police, but we forget that they’re
just as much the victims of the system as they are its representatives. We
look at their tight lips and hardened faces and despair. One can only infer
that they will forever be marked with bitterness, hatred, and apprehension.
But did they deliberately create these faces?
Or were they forced to live a life which tightened their faces into a
perverted distortion of humanity? Yes, it’s difficult to create a more just society since even to see
the possibility of change means to have enough faith in the inherent goodness
of humanity and in your everyday life to be able to look beyond the distress
patterns that everywhere paralyze us. Our duty is to change this system,
which is based on our shared accumulated pain, so people can become fully
human all over the world. In so doing we’ll also save the planet from the
worst of all our oppressions: the destruction of our environment, the
climate, and our children’s future. I know that I couldn’t have survived
among all the strange people in America if I hadn’t had strong faith in the
best in people. Without that faith, the worst would’ve gotten the upper hand,
and I would’ve been obliterated. |
|
394 Mellem
eloider og morlokker Lukas 9: 3-5
Det var lige før midnat og helt mørkt, da jeg kom til stedet. Udenfor stod den sædvanlige skare af
halvkriminelle typer: ”hustlers” og ”superflies”.
De ser tit onde og farlige ud med deres solbriller, men det er de slet ikke,
hvis man behandler dem rigtigt. Jeg elsker dem simpelthen, fordi det er sådan
en udfordring for mig at finde mennesket bag solbrillerne. Det er enten knald
eller fald, for hvis
man laver et forkert træk, kan det betyde døden. De er nemlig som alle kriminelle uhyre frygtsomme og reagerer
derfor ofte spontant og nervøst. Jeg bruger som tommelfingerregel, at jo mørkere deres solbriller er,
jo mere bange er de for mig og for hinanden. Men så snart man vinder deres tillid, og
solbrillerne fjernes over et glas øl eller en joint, viser de sig som
fantastiske mennesker og vil gøre alt for en. Derfor var det altid dem, jeg først opsøger,
når jeg kommer til en ny by, da de har
masser af kontakter. Jeg er altid fuldkommen ærlig over for dem
og foregiver ikke at være andet end det, jeg er, og forsøger f.eks. aldrig at
efterligne deres sprog eller at bruge den almindelige hvide sentimentalitet
om ”we are brothers” og alt det pis, de så ofte har hørt fra hvide. Man skal huske på, hvor paranoide de er, og
at de ikke har nogen tillid til hvide i almindelighed, eller deres eget folk,
eller sig selv. De er blevet trampet på hele deres liv, og
den undertrykkelse kan ikke overvindes ved hjælp af noget falsk ”brother”-snak. Men ved at tale helt ærligt kan man på
forskellige måder vise dem, hvem man virkelig er, og hvad man vil, og derved
overvinde deres mistænksomhed. De har brug for at vide, hvem de har med at
gøre. Det er f.eks. dette stærke ønske, der får mange sorte til at
foretrække den sydlige racist frem for den frisindede fra nordstaterne, for med racisten ved de, hvor de står, og
kan respektere ham for hans ærlighed, mens den
frisindede altid siger et og gør noget andet. Med mine billeder og mine detaljerede beskrivelser af,
hvad jeg har foretaget mig i andre ghettoer, er det normalt ikke svært at overbevise dem
om min identitet (når jeg selv ved, hvad min identitet er). De er
aldrig helt overbevist om, at jeg ikke er en
politiagent. Alligevel tog de næsten altid chancen, men alligevel tager de næsten altid
chancen. For alle mennesker har en trang til
at være menneskelige og i dette samfundssystem er der altid en risiko
forbundet med det. Lader man masken falde, risikerer man at blive såret. Både
kapitalisten og den kriminelle er i deres dagligdag så stærkt deformerede af
de roller, systemet dikterer dem, at de har en usigelig trang til at vise menneskelighed.
Denne trang har de en chance for at udfolde over for vagabonden, som står
helt uden for systemet. For at få noget at spise eller et sted at bo må
vagabonden altid tale til ”det gode” (det humane) i kapitalisten eller i den
kriminelle, og når han først indser, at dette altid kan lade sig gøre, kan
han ikke længere fordømme dem som ”kapitalister” eller ”kriminelle”, men
erkender, at de alle har muligheder for at handle i overensstemmelse med et
andet system end det, der normalt styrer dem. Således begynder vagabonden i
stedet at fordømme det system, han hele tiden må kæmpe imod for at overleve.
Derfor tager selv de værste forbrydere næsten altid denne chance med mig, og
efterhånden som den værste mistro har lagt sig, og nogle øl ryger ned, kan vi
blive helt forelskede i hinanden i gensidig beundring for de roller, vi
normalt spiller. De var altid interesserede i, hvad jeg har lært af andre
kriminelle, og jo flere
"hustles" jeg beskriver, jo tættere er vi knyttet til hinanden. Men i
udvekslingen af måder at "cop" (det ord,
der dækker over alt, hvad den kriminelle har brug for, hvad enten det er en
pose heroin, en bil, en pistol, en kvinde eller vin), lægger jeg altid vægt
på at sætte det ind i en politisk sammenhæng. Ofte bliver de begivenheder, vi udsættes
for i løbet af sådan en nat, mere og mere kriminelle. Jeg ved, at for at få
et sted at sove hen på morgenener jeg nødt til at overbevise dem om, at
jeg er med dem hele vejen. Så den første nat i en ny by får jeg normalt ikke
meget søvn; men på den måde får jeg fodfæste i andre sociale kredse i
ghettoen, da de kriminelles søskende, forældre og venner ikke nødvendigvis selv er
kriminelle. Men
denne nat i Wilmington gik noget galt. Jeg modtog de samme fjendtlige
vibrationer fra folk uden for baren, som jeg altid får, men der var ingen
mulighed for at bryde isen. Ligegyldigt hvad jeg
sagde, prellede det af. De
begyndte at komme med trusler og sagde: "Vi er militante, få din røv ud
herfra, eller du er en død mand." Jeg var så forbløffet over, at min overlevelsesfilosofi
ikke virkede, at jeg blev helt blød i knæene. Jeg følte pludselig, at jeg ikke havde
nogen kontrol over begivenhederne og gav op. Jeg gik lidt længere ned ad hovedgaden, men
for at komme tilbage til bilen uden at passere dem igen, drejede jeg af til
højre gennem et uoplyst "projekt" - som disse kommunale fattiggårde
kaldes. Men netop som jeg drejede derind,
bemærkede jeg, at de satte efter mig. Åbenbart opfattede de dette som deres
territorium. Jeg gjorde så den fejl, at jeg begyndte at løbe længere ind for
at gemme mig for dem. Jeg gemte mig under en busk og så, at de pludselig var
over det hele, omkring
et dusin af dem. Jeg begyndte at ryste, så
chokeret var jeg over denne udvikling. Jeg indså, at jeg ikke havde en
chance, og løb ud i den mørke gyde for at overgive mig. Jeg blev straks
omringet, knive og pistoler pegede imod mig fra alle sider. Fra det øjeblik kan jeg ikke huske præcis,
hvad der skete, blot at jeg begyndte at rable en
masse ord af mig. Jeg sagde bl.a. noget i retning af, om de ikke ville vente
blot to minutter og kigge på mine billeder og høre på, hvorfor jeg var der.
Hvis de ikke syntes om det, kunne de så slå mig ihjel. Jeg ved ikke, om det
var det, der gjorde udslaget, men efter megen råben og skrigen om, hvad de skulle
gøre ved mig, skete der i al fald det, at de førte mig ud til hovedgaden med
pistoler og knive i ryggen. Jeg rystede ved tanken om, at en af dem skulle
komme til at trykke på
aftrækkeren ved et uheld. Dernæst sagde de, at
jeg skulle gå lige ud ad landevejen, til jeg var ude af byen. Jeg følte mig som en netop befriet kidnappet ambassadør i
Latinamerika. For at komme tilbage til
byen måtte jeg nu gå tre kilometer ud og derefter tilbage ad en parallel
gade. overvejede at ringe efter en taxa eller politiet, men opgav. Jeg havde ingen penge til en
taxa og følte det forkert at bruge politiet. Hvis jeg blev set sammen med politiet, ville de jo først blive overbevist om, at jeg ikke var på deres side. Så
i mørket hoppede jeg fra træ til træ ned ad parallelgaden for at undgå at
blive set fra biler, da det jo kunne være mine overfaldsmænd i bilerne. Scenen var præcis som i filmen
”I nattens hede” – blot racemæssigt omvendt. Jeg nåede helskindet tilbage og drønede ud af byen i fuld fart.
Jeg havde fået nok af at bo i ghettohjem den nat. Jeg har siden forsøgt at
analysere, hvad jeg gjorde forkert den aften. Der er ingen tvivl om, at jeg fejlede, fordi jeg var
uærlig over for de kriminelle. Jeg
foregav at være en fattig vagabond, der havde brug for et sted at sove; men i virkeligheden var jeg ikke fattig,
for bilen var gemt i nærheden, og jeg vidste hele tiden, at jeg om nødvendigt
kunne sove i bilen den nat. Jeg havde ikke været
fuldkommen ærlig over for dem og kunne derfor ikke udsende de positive
vibrationer, der ville åbne dem op. Jeg havde
gjort den samme fejl, som den middelalderlige herremand, der kommer kørende i
sin behagelige karet med skinnende lygter, og som således bærer sit eget lys
og sit eget mørke med sig. Han nyder sin tryghed og lyset, som kastes på de
umiddelbare omgivelser, men han forstår ikke, at det stærke skær blænder ham
og forhindrer ham i at se stjernerne, som den fattige bonde, vandrende til
fods og uden lygte, er i stand til at se til fuldkommenhed og at bruge som
vejvisere.
Jeg blaffede flere tusinde
kilometer for at komme tilbage på dagen og ankom lige ved middagstid og
troede, hun ville blive glad. Men hun lå blot på sengen og var helt kold. Hun
havde haft en god ferie hos skildpadderne, men var begyndt at føle, at vi
ikke passede sammen. Til sidst var hun taget til Ecuador for at få en abort.
Den havde været meget dyr og vanskelig i ”dette primitive, katolske land”. Nu
havde hun ingen følelser tilbage for mig, sagde hun. Jeg følte, at hun var meget overfladisk, men jeg havde jo også
selv været for overfladisk. Jeg var både dybt
såret og meget lettet på samme tid, sagde farvel og tog ind til ghettoen i
Wilmington for endnu en gang at prøve at komme til at bo der. Jeg gik ind i
den samme bar, men nu om dagen, og købte en omgang Schlitz til folk derinde
for de penge, jeg havde tilbage fra min luksustid. Og denne gang lykkedes det
mig at blive accepteret, og der var en pludren og
en snakken og en varme uden lige. Det var på det tidspunkt, Schlitz kørte deres nye
reklamekampagne med sloganet ”Only love is better than Schlitz”. Hver gang
jeg siden så den rundt om i landet, tænkte jeg tilbage til Wilmington, byen
med det voldsomme racehad. Sammendrag af breve
Her
blev jeg fanget midt en
skudveksling mellem politi og kriminelle i Harlem. En politimand løb
over og brugte min døråbning som skydestilling, og jeg befandt mig pludselig (fotografisk) på politiets
side. Ved sådanne lejligheder
begyndte jeg at forstå politiets brutale, men ak-så-menneskelige
reaktioner. Deres racistiske
holdninger og manglende forståelse for ghettoens reaktioner er blandt
årsagerne til de vrede anklager om politibrutalitet. Samfundet har trænet
politiet til at forvente det værste i stedet for at kommunikere med det gode
i mennesker. Derfor skyder de ofte, før de spørger. Generelt mener jeg, at det er en
voldshandling at bære våben ind i en ghetto, da det viser, at man ikke har tillid til ghettoens
befolkning, hvilket avler modvold. I de første to år i USA var jeg
stadig for præget af de hvides frygt – hovedingrediensen i al racisme. Så indtil jeg lærte ikkevoldelig
kommunikation og positiv indre tænkning om medmennesket, blev jeg konstant
slået ned af sorte. Politiet bygger på forhånd på det negative i mennesker og
fremelsker det derfor. Hvis de
i stedet ankom ubevæbnede og med åbne ansigter, ville de have en chance for
at fremme de positive sider, som jeg altid formåede at finde i selv de værste
typer, ”der vil dræbe for en dollar” – eller for et kamera. Således
bygger politiet et klima af frygt på begge sider, som gør brutalitet
uundgåelig. Indtil nutidens
afslørende videoafsløringer satte en stopper for det, blev det meste af det
sanktioneret af hvide myndigheder. Mange stater tillader politiet at bryde
ind i folks hjem uden at banke på, hvorved mange uskyldige mennesker er
blevet dræbt.
a long rap about ”no knock” being legislated for the people you’ve always hated in this hell-hole you/we call home. NO KNOCK the man will say to protect people from themselves. Who’s
going to protect me from you ? No knocking, head rocking, enter shocking, shooting, cursing, killing,
crying, lying and being white. NO KNOCK told my brother Fred Hampton bullet holes all over the place. But if you’re a wise ”no knocker you’ll tell your knocking’ lackeys no knock on my brother’s head no knock on in my sisters head and double lock your door because someone may be NO KNOCKING... For you!
Da jeg kom til James og
Barbaras opgang, spurgte jeg stadigt tudende nogle børn, om der var nogen
oppe i lejligheden ”hos manden, der blev skudt forleden dag”. De spurgte, om
jeg ikke mente manden, der blev skudt i opgangen overfor i går aftes. Nej,
det var i denne opgang, sagde jeg. Men de havde ikke hørt, at nogen var
blevet skudt i deres opgang. De boede på anden sal, og James og Barbara boede
på femte sal. Jeg gik op i lejligheden, som nu stod tom. Røvere havde
allerede plyndret den, og der lå kun lidt papir og småting rundt om på
gulvet. Tomheden i lejligheden fik mig til at hulke endnu kraftigere. Der var
masser af skudhuller inde i stuevæggen, hvor James havde siddet, men der var
kun to henne i døren, som politiet havde sparket op. Der var tre låse på
døren, som overalt i New York samt en tyk jernstang fastgjort i gulvet – en
sikkerhedsforanstaltning, politiet selv har foreslået folk at anskaffe sig
for at undgå, at deres døre bliver sprængt af kriminelle. James og Barbara
havde været så bange for kriminelle, at de havde sat dobbelt jerngitter for
deres vinduer, skønt det var i femte sals højde, og der ingen brandtrappe var
udenfor. Nede i baggården lå der en meterhøj dynge af affald, som folk havde
smidt ud af deres vinduer. Her havde James og Barbara levet fra de var 16 år
med deres nu fireårige datter. Efter et par timer dristede
jeg mig ud af lejligheden. Jeg havde grædt så meget, at jeg havde en drønende
hovedpine, men hele vejen ind til Manhattan blev gråden ved med at komme i
bølger. Da jeg kom til en biograf på Vestsiden, dryssede jeg ind i den uden
egentlig at have besluttet mig dertil. Det var på det tidspunkt, de sorte
film var ved at komme frem for første gang i de sortes historie. Filmen hed ”Sounder” og handlede om en fattig familie i Louisiana i
30’erne. Der var en overvældende kærlighed og sammenhold i familien, men til
sidst blev faderen hentet af de hvide myndigheder og sendt i arbejdslejr for
at have stjålet et stykke kød. Filmen var lavet i Hollywood og romantiserede
fattigdommen, og efter adskillige år i arbejdslejr kom faderen da også
tilbage til familien, for at filmen kunne få en happy-ending. Det var ikke den fattigdom,
jeg havde mødt i Syden. De eneste gange, jeg græd under filmen, var, når jeg
så ting, der mindede alt for meget om James og Barbara. Jeg dryssede derefter
over i retning mod Broadway. En gammel sort kone, som jeg havde boet hos i
det nordlige Bronx om natten, havde givet mig 10 dollars, for at jeg skulle
få mig lidt pænt tøj til begravelsen. Hun havde først ikke stolet på mig og
havde brugt flere timer på at ringe til forskellige politistationer for at
spørge dem om, hvad meningen var med at sende en agent til hendes hus. Men da
hun efter en halv dag havde forvisset sig om, at jeg ikke var politiagent,
blev hun så glad, at hun gav mig 10 dollars, og jeg måtte love at komme igen
og bo hos hende, og hun ringede til Alaska, for at jeg skulle tale med hendes
datter, som boede deroppe. Nu havde jeg stadig lidt penge tilbage og gik i
min underlige sindstilstand lige ind i en anden biograf på Broadway og så ”Farewell, Uncle Tom”. Det var
en rystende film om slaveriet. Den var lavet af italienere, så den
romantiserede ikke slaveriet. Man så, hvordan slaverne blev solgt på auktion,
torturredskaberne som blev brugt, og man så, hvordan mænd blev solgt fra
deres kvinder og børn. Det var frygteligt. Hvordan havde alt det dog kunnet
få lov til at ske for kun 100 år siden? Nogle steder i filmen var jeg ved at
brække mig. Jeg så mig gentagne gange omkring i biografen, da jeg var bange
for, at der skulle være sorte derinde, men der var kun to mennesker i hele
biografen foruden mig. Da jeg kom udenfor, stod en ung sort trippende med
solbriller på. Jeg stod i lang tid og så ham ind i øjnene og kunne ikke
forstå, at han ikke slog mig ned. I flere dage bagefter var jeg helt ødelagt.
Jeg vil aldrig glemme den dag. Den står fuldstændig blank i min dagbog. Der
gik et helt år, før jeg tog mig sammen til at opsøge Barbara. Jeg kunne ikke
glemme hende. Men da jeg kom til køkkenet på Veteranhospitaltet,
hvor hun arbejdede, blev en ældre sort kvinde sendt ud for at tale med mig.
Hun fortalte mig, at hun var Barbaras værge, da Barbara ikke havde været
normal siden begravelsen. Hun var blevet indesluttet og sagde aldrig noget
mere. Jeg spurgte hende, hvordan Barbara havde været før James’ død. Hun
faldt helt hen i tanker et øjeblik og fortalte så med tårer i øjene om de fire år, hvor James og Barbara havde arbejdet
sammen der i køkkenet. De havde altid været muntre, sunget og været til
stadig glæde for køkkenpersonalet. De havde vist aldrig forsømt en dag, var
altid ankommet sammen og var altid gået sammen efter fyraften. Men hun ville
ikke lade mig se Barbara, for Barbara ønskede ikke at se nogen. Der gik derpå
endnu et år, hvor jeg sendte et brev til Barbara fra et eller andet sted i
Syden. Jeg gik ud fra, at hun nu var kommet sig over det. Da jeg igen kom til
køkkenet, var det den samme ældre kvinde, der kom ud. Det var, som om tiden
slet ikke var gået og at vi blot fortsatte, hvor vi slap. Hun sukkede dybt og
så mig ind i øjnene: ”Barbara er blevet sindssyg”, sagde hun. Barbara blev ved med at
dukke op i mine tanker, hvor som helst jeg rejste. Men en anden begivenhed
kom til at gøre et lige så stærkt indtryk på mig. Et sted i Florida var en
ulykkelig hvid kvinde kravlet op i et vandtårn og stod på kanten for at begå
selvmord. Men hun kunne ikke få sig selv til at springe. Det var i et
ghettoområde, og der samlede sig straks en større flok mennesker ved foden af
tårnet, næsten alle sorte. Politi og brandvæsen var i gang med at overtale
kvinden til ikke at springe, mens folkemængden skreg til hende, at hun skulle
springe. Jeg begreb det ikke. Jeg råbte alt, hvad jeg kunne: ”Hold op, hold
op, lad dog den stakkels kvinde leve”. Men deres råb steg i styrke. Det var
det værste og mest modbydelige massehysteri, jeg nogensinde havde oplevet. Så
pludselig med et slog det mig, at skrigene lød som Barbaras den
uforglemmelige morgen. Jeg begyndte at blive svag i benene og styrtede så
hovedkulds væk, lige så hurtigt som i begravelseshjemmet. Om fem år vil jeg
prøve at opsøge Barbara igen. Jeg må se hendes ansigt igen en dag! Sammendrag af breve
Det er blevet almindeligt at angribe politiet, men vi glemmer, at de i
lige så høj grad er ofre for systemet, som de er dets repræsentanter. Vi
ser på dem – på deres hårde ansigter og stramme læber – og bliver
fortvivlede. Vi konkluderer hurtigt, at de aldrig vil forandre sig. De vil
altid være fulde af bitterhed, had og frygt. Men sad de med deres gode viljer
foran spejlet og skabte disse ansigter?
Ja, det er svært at skabe et mere retfærdigt samfund.
For bare at se muligheden for forandring betyder, at have tilstrækkelig tro på menneskets
iboende godhed til at være i
stand til i sin hverdag at se ud over de lidelsesmønstre, som lammer os
overalt. Vores pligt er at ændre dette system af fælles ophobet smerte, så
mennesket kan blive fuldt menneskeligt over hele verden. Kun derved kan vi
også redde jordkloden fra den værste af alle vore undertrykkelser:
ødelæggelsen af miljøet, klimaet og vores børns fremtid. Jeg ved, at jeg ikke kunne have overlevet
blandt alle disse (vid)underlige
mennesker i Amerika, hvis jeg ikke havde haft en stærk tro på det bedste i
mennesket. Hvis ikke ville det værste have fået overhånd, og jeg ville være blevet udslettet.
|