This is my ambition. First I wish to attend Tuskegee College but I do not wish to be a man like Booker Washington or Doctor Carver. Then when I deem that my education is complete I wish to start off being a fine lawyer like the one who defended the Scottsboro Boys. I would only take cases for colored people against white people. Every day our people are made in every way and by every means to feel that they are inferior. This is not so. We are a Rising Race. And we cannot sweat beneath the white man’s burdens for long. We cannot always sow where others reap.
I want to be like Moses, who led the children of Israel from the land of the oppressors. I want to get up a Secret Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars. All colored people will organize under the direction of these picked leaders and prepare for revolt. Other nations in the world who are interested in the plight of our race and who would like to see the United States divided would come to our aid. All colored people will organize and there will be a revolution, and at the close colored people will take up all the territory east of the Mississippi and south of the Potomac. I shall set up a mighty country under the control of the Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars.
No white person will be allowed a passport--and if they get into the country they will have no legal rights.
I hate the whole white race and will work always so that the colored race can achieve revenge for all their sufferings. That is my ambition.
Doctor Copeland felt the fever warm in his veins. The ticking of the clock on his desk was loud and the sound jarred his nerves. How could he give the award to a boy with such wild notions as this? What should he decide? The other essays were without any firm content at all. The young people would not think. They wrote only about their ambitions and omitted the last part of the tide altogether. Only one point was of some significance. Nine out of the lot of twenty-five began with the sentence, ‘I do not want to be a servant.’ After that they wished to fly airplanes, or be prizefighters, or preachers or dancers. One girl’s sole ambition was to be kind to the poor.
The writer of the essay that troubled him was Lancy Davis. He had known the identity of the author before he turned the last sheet over and saw the signature. Already he had some trouble with Lancy. His older sister had gone out to work as a servant when she was eleven years old and she had been raped by her employer, a white man past middle age. Then a year or so later he had received an emergency call to attend Lancy.
Doctor Copeland went to the filing case in his bedroom where he kept notes on all of his patients. He took out the card marked ‘Mrs. Dan Davis and Family’ and glanced through the notations until he reached Lancy’s name. The date was four years ago. The entries on him were written with more care than the others and in ink: ‘thirteen years old--past puberty.
Unsuccessful attempt self-emasculation. Oversexed and hyperthyroid. Wept boisterously during two visits, though little pain. Voluble--very glad to see Lucy Davis--mother washerwoman. Intelligent talk through paranoiac.
Environment fair with one exception and well worth watching and all possible help. Keep contact. Fee: $1 (?)’
‘It is a difficult decision to make this year,’ he said to Portia.
‘But I suppose I will have to confer the award on Lancy Davis.’
‘If you done decide, then--come tell me about some of these here presents.’
The gifts to be distributed at the party were in the kitchen.
There were paper sacks of groceries and clothing, all marked with a red Christmas card. Anyone who cared to come was invited to the party, but those who meant to attend had stopped by the house and written (or had asked a friend to write) their names in a guest book kept on the table in the hall for that purpose. The sacks were piled on the floor. There were about forty of them, each one depending in size on the need of the receiver. Some gifts were only small packages of nuts or raisins and others were boxes almost too heavy for a man to lift The kitchen was crowded with good things. Doctor Copeland stood in the doorway and his nostrils quivered with pride.
I think you done right well this year. Folks certainly have been kindly.’
‘Pshaw!’ he said. This is not a hundredth part of what is needed.’
‘Now, there you go, Father! I know good and well you just as pleased as you can be. But you don’t want to show it.
You got to find something to grumble about. Here we haves about four pecks of peas, twenty sacks of meal about fifteen pounds of side meat, mullet, six dozen eggs, plenty grits, jars of tomatoes and peaches. Apples and two dozen oranges. Also garments. And two mattresses and four blankets. I call this something!’
‘A drop in the bucket.’
Portia pointed to a large box in the corner. These here--what you intend to do with them?’
The box contained nothing but junk--a headless doll, some duty lace, a rabbit skin. Doctor Copeland scrutinized each article. ‘Do not throw them away. There is use for everything.
These are the gifts from our guests who have nothing better to contribute. I will find some purpose for them later.’
‘Then suppose you look over these here boxes and sacks so I can commence to tie them up. There ain’t going to be room here in the kitchen. Time they all pile in for the refreshments.
I just going to put these here presents out on the back steps and in the yard.’
The morning sun had risen. The day would be bright and cold.
In the kitchen there were rich, sweet odors. A dishpan of coffee was on the stove and iced cakes filled a shelf in the cupboard.
‘And none of this comes from white people. All from colored.’
‘No,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘That is not wholly true. Mr.
Singer contributed a check for twelve dollars to be used for coal. And I have invited him to be present today.’
‘Holy Jesus!’ Portia said. ‘Twelve dollars!’
‘I felt that it was proper to ask him. He is not like other people of the Caucasian race.’
‘You right,’ Portia said. ‘But I keep thinking about my Willie. I sure do wish he could enjoy this here party today. And I sure do wish I could get a letter from him. It just prey on my mind.
But here! Us got to quit this here talking and get ready. It mighty near time for the party to come.’
Time enough remained. Doctor Copeland washed and clothed himself carefully. For a while he tried to rehearse what he would say when the people had all come. But expectation and restlessness would not let him concentrate. Then at ten o’clock the first guests arrived and within half an hour they were all assembled.
‘Joyful Christmas to you!’ said John Roberts, the postman. He moved happily about the crowded room, one shoulder held higher than the other, mopping his face with a white silk handkerchief.
‘Many happy returns of the day!’ The front of the house was thronged. Guests were blocked at the door and they formed groups on the front porch and in the yard. There was no pushing or rudeness; the turmoil was orderly. Friends called out to each other and strangers were introduced and clasped hands. Children and young people clotted together and moved back toward the kitchen. ‘Christmas gift!’ Doctor Copeland stood in the center of the front room by the tree. He was dizzy. He shook hands and answered salutations with confusion. Personal gifts, some tied elaborately with ribbons and others wrapped in newspapers, were thrust into his hands. He could find no place to put them. The air thickened and voices grew louder. Faces whirled about him so that he could recognize no one. His composure returned to him gradually. He found space to lay aside the presents in his arms. The dizziness lessened, the room cleared. He settled his spectacles and began to look around him.
‘Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!’ There was Marshall Nicolls, the pharmacist, in a long-tailed coat, conversing with his son-in-law who worked on a garbage truck. The preacher from the Most Holy Ascension Church had come. And two deacons from other churches. Highboy, wearing a loud checked suit, moved sociably through the crowd. Husky young dandies bowed to young women in long, bright-colored dresses. There were mothers with children and deliberate old men who spat into gaudy handkerchiefs. The room was warm and noisy.