Singer stood attentively in the doorway. Most of the young people sat on the floor. Among them was Lancy Davis. The boy’s lips were nervous and pale. He clasped his knees very tightly with his arms, and his young face was sullen. All the eyes in the room watched, and in them there was hunger for truth.
‘Today we are to confer the five-dollar award upon the high-school student who wrote the best essay on the topic, "My Ambition: How I can Better the Position of the Negro Race in Society." This year the award goes to Lancy Davis.’ Doctor Copeland took an envelope from his pocket. ‘There is no need for me to tell you that the value of this award is not wholly in the sum of money it represents--but the sacred trust and faith that goes with it.’
Lancy rose awkwardly to his feet. His sullen lips trembled. He bowed and accepted the award. ‘Do you wish me to read the essay I have written?’
‘No,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘But I wish you to come and talk with me sometime this week.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The room was quiet again.
‘I do not wish to be a servant!’ That is the desire I have read over and over in these essays. Servant? Only one in a thousand of us is allowed to be a servant. We do not work! We do not serve!’ The laughter in the room was uneasy.
‘Listen! One out of five of us labors to build roads, or to take care of the sanitation of this city, or works in a sawmill or on a farm. Another one out of the five is unable to get any work at all. But the other three out of this five--the greatest number of our people? Many of us cook for those who are incompetent to prepare the food that they themselves eat.
Many work a lifetime tending flower gardens for the pleasure of one or two people. Many of us polish slick waxed floors of fine houses. Or we drive automobiles for rich people who are too lazy to drive themselves. We spend our lives doing thousands of jobs that are of no real use to anybody. We labor and all of our labor is wasted. Is that service? No, that is slavery.
‘We labor, but our labor is wasted. We are not allowed to serve. You students here this morning represent the fortunate few of our race. Most of our people are not allowed to go to school at all. For each one of you there are dozens of young people who can hardly write their names. We are denied the dignity of study and wisdom.
‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. ‘All of us here know what it is to suffer for real need.
That is a great injustice. But there is one injustice bitterer even than that--to be denied the right to work according to one’s ability. To labor a lifetime uselessly. To be denied the chance to serve. It is far better for the profits of our purse to be taken from us than to be robbed of the riches of our minds and souls.
‘Some of you young people here this morning may feel the need to be teachers or nurses or leaders of your race. But most of you will be denied. You will have to sell yourselves for a useless purpose in order to keep alive. You will be thrust back and defeated. The young chemist picks cotton. The young writer is unable to learn to read. The teacher is held in useless slavery at some ironing board. We have no representatives in government. We have no vote. In all of this great country we are the most oppressed of all people. We cannot lift up our voices. Our tongues rot in our mouths from lack of use. Our hearts grow empty and lose strength for our purpose.
‘People of the Negro race! We bring with us all the riches of the human mind and soul. We offer the most precious of all gifts. And our offerings are held in scorn and contempt. Our gifts are trampled in the mud and made useless. We are put to labor more useless than the work of beasts. Negroes! We must arise and be whole again! We must be free!’ In the room there was a murmur. Hysteria mounted. Doctor Copeland choked and clenched his fists. He felt as though he had swelled up to the size of a giant. The love in him made his chest a dynamo, and he wanted to shout so that his voice could be heard throughout the town. He wanted to fall upon the floor and call out in a giant voice. The room was full of moans and shouts.
‘Save us!’
‘Mighty Lord! Lead us from this wilderness of death! ‘Hallelujah! Save us, Lord!’ He struggled for the control in him. He struggled and at last the discipline returned. He pushed down the shout in him and sought for the strong, true voice.
‘Attention!’ he called. ‘We will save ourselves. But not by prayers of mourning. Not by indolence or strong drink. Not by the pleasures of the body or by ignorance. Not by submission and humbleness. But by pride. By dignity. By becoming hard and strong. We must build strength for our real true purpose.’
He stopped abruptly and held himself very straight. ‘Each year at this time we illustrate in our small way the first commandment from Karl Marx. Every one of you at this gathering has brought in advance some gift. Many of you have denied yourselves comfort that the needs of others may be lessened. Each of you has given according to his best ability, without thought to the value of the gift he will receive in return. It is natural for us to share with each other. We have long realized that it is more blessed to give than to receive.
The words of Karl Marx have always been known in our hearts: "From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs." Doctor Copeland was silent a long time as though his words were complete. Then he spoke again: ‘Our mission is to walk with strength and dignity through the days of our humiliation. Our pride must be strong, for we know the value of the human mind and soul. We must teach our children. We must sacrifice so that they may earn the dignity of study and wisdom. For the time will come. The time will come when the riches in us will not be held in scorn and contempt. The time will come when we will be allowed to serve. When we will labor and our labor will not be wasted.
And our mission is to await this time with strength and faith.’
It was finished. Hands were clapped, feet were stamped upon the floor and en the hard winter ground outside. The odor of hot, strong coffee floated from the kitchen. John Roberts took charge of the presents, calling out the names written on the cards. Portia ladled the coffee from the dish-pan on the stove while Marshall Nicolls passed slices of cake.
Doctor Copeland moved about among the guests, a little crowd always surrounding him.
Someone nagged at his elbow: ‘He the one your Buddy named for?’ He answered yes. Lancy Davis followed him with questions; he answered yes to everything. The joy made him feel like a drunken man. To teach and exhort and explain to his people--and to have them understand. That was the best of all. To speak the truth and be attended.
‘Us certainly have had one fine time at this party.’
He stood in the vestibule saying goodbye. Over and over he shook hands. He leaned heavily against the wall and only his eyes moved, for he was tired.
‘I certainly do appreciate.’
Mr. Singer was the last to leave. He was a truly good man. He was a white man of intellect and true knowledge. In him there was none of the mean insolence. When all had departed he was the last to remain. He waited and seemed to expect some final word.
Doctor Copeland held his hand to his throat because his larynx was sore. ‘Teachers,’ he said huskily. ‘That is our greatest need. Leaders. Someone to unite and guide us.’
After the festivity the rooms had a bare, ruined look. The house was cold. Portia was washing the cups in the kitchen.
The silver snow on the Christmas tree had been tracked over the floors and two of the ornaments were broken.
He was tired, but the joy and the fever would not let him rest Beginning with the bedroom, he set to work to put the house in order. On the top of the filing case there was a loose card--the note on Lancy Davis. The words that he would say to him began to form in his mind, and he was restless because he could not speak them now. The boy’s sullen face was full of heart and he could not thrust it from his thoughts. He opened the top drawer of the file to replace the card, A, B, C--he thumbed through the letters nervously. Then his eye was fixed on his own name: Copeland, Benedict Mady.