Chapter 9
I instantly knew something was wrong.
The door was slightly open as if someone had been there. It looked like it was left that way on purpose. And as I stepped
in, I saw the wreckage—drawers pulled open, clothes scattered across the floor.
My heart beat harder as I took in the mess and searched around to make sure my stuff was here. Most of it was . . . but the
rest of the flyers I’d made for my paper . . . gone. Some rough drafts and notes I had for the content were also missing,
and with them, my plans to shed light on the problems at school no one else dared to talk about.
I picked up one of my notebooks lying open on the floor. Its pages had been rifled through. Whoever did this wanted to put
an end to my paper, and I already had a good idea who that person might be.
Charlie. He was one of the only people outside the Blue House who even knew about my intentions with this, who had both the power and the reason to shut me down. He’d mocked me ever since I arrived and was ready to ruin anything he saw as a threat to his world here.
I sank down onto the bed and looked at the floor.
Now what? I needed funds to print my paper—no way I’d be able to use the Chronicle’s mimeograph if they were this against me. I’d nearly run through the spare money I made working for Kirby. Was there anyone
else I could ask?
Well, there was one, but just thinking about it felt like betrayal.
What was spying, really? Was going out with someone, picking up on information, and telling someone else about it all I had
to do? That was merely gossip, wasn’t it? Everyone did it.
Three hundred dollars for just a few pieces of information.
But what if . . . what if Jordan did something to Jay? Jay had been there for me. He’d understood me.
His invitation to the dance was something to mull over when I felt lonely, something to look forward to. We were building
something, though I was not sure what just yet. If I gave that up for a quick buck, what kind of person would I be? A traitor—that’s
what!
But I also couldn’t let Charlie win.
Tonight’s UNIA meeting would be a chance to learn from people who’d fought back against people bigger than Charlie—and won.
If there was one place to find inspiration, it was there. The robber could wait.
Right now, I needed to see what strength looked like in real life.
The UNIA church was on 135th at 40 West. It was a big stone fixture with three floors and a big steeple that supported its Roman Catholic design.
When I arrived, a crowd of people out front was making their way in, but Jay was arguing with a guard. She stood even taller
than him, like a pillar in front of the door, burly arms crossed.
He noticed me and instantly told the guard, “See, this is my friend! We go to school together.”
The woman raised an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t ask who you go to school with. I asked for a name.”
“It’s . . . it’s um . . .” He looked up as if he’d find his name in the sky.
“Jay Jr.,” I offered.
“That’s it,” Jay said. “Silly me. Forgetting my own name.”
Was I not supposed to reveal that? I thought with a tremor of horror at possibly having blown his cover.
“What is your business with the UNIA?” the guard asked. “Our focus here is on increasing the wealth of Colored people. And
according to every other issue of The Saturday Evening Post, your family is already rich.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say rich.”
“You wouldn’t? You live with your white father in a mansion that could house a good part of this city’s population.”
“The mansion isn’t ours,” Jay said. “We only rent it.”
“The point stands,” said the guard. “It’s suspect that you show interest in our movement at all, as someone who comes from wealth. Now run along.”
“He’s a friend to me,” I said, stepping forward. “And as the son of West Egg’s founder, his perspective is from right inside
the heart of the integration movement. He could use the education he’ll find here to help his father make our school better.
Could he stay, please?”
The guard squinted at me, and then her expression softened as she finally resigned. “Fine,” she said, standing aside. “You
make a good case . . . but if he does something that harms the group, it’s on you.”
“He won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
“Thank you, miss,” Jay said as we entered. And then he whispered to me, “Is that all it took?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I’ll need your help gaining entry to places, and sometimes you’ll need mine.”
People who were lounging in the entryway looked at him when we walked in, but Jay seemed used to the stares and ignored them.
He was comfortable beyond the doors, unbothered to be recognized as a person of status, or by the fact that he was lighter
than most in the room.
An article about West Egg was the front-page story on a news rack—“Can Negroes Enter into Upper Echelon Society? A Deep Dive
into the West Egg Experiment.” I wished I could have set my own papers on the rack beneath it. That way, organizers would know about what was really happening
in Harlem’s so-called “integrated” schooling.
We continued walking and entered the nave, where wine-colored pews led to an open altar.
“We ought to be careful,” Jay said, as we scanned the crowd, full of people in suits, feathered hats, and berets. “The federal
government’s waging a war against the speaker of the event as we speak.”
“Of course,” I said. “Garvey is a truth-teller, so why wouldn’t they?”
“And he combines the two things America hates most,” Jay said. “Colored people and Communism.”
“So, you’re telling me we should be prepared to run?” I asked.
Before Jay could answer, the lights went down on the crowd and up on a stage. We found our seats beside each other as the
event began. First was a comedy sketch about buffoon police patrols in New York chasing down a thief. And next, there were
some Swanee Bottom dancers, and then Mr. Garvey took the stage.
He wore a suit of fine wool and stood tall and powerful, with a posture that screamed leadership. Everyone cheered so loudly
when he took the podium that he had to raise both hands and wait for the crowd to be silent. He smiled, and then his expression
grew serious as the people quieted.
“May it please your Highness the Potentate, Right Honorable Members of the Executive Council, Deputies and Delegates to the
Second International Convention of Negroes of the World, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced. “I desire to give you a message;
one that you will, I hope, take home and propagate among the scattered millions of Africa’s sons and daughters.”
He talked about his world travels and how wherever he went, he realized that Colored people’s conditions were decrepit. Everywhere, Colored people were thought to be at the bottom of an imaginary scale. As free Negroes in America, it was our job to change that reality.
Listening to him made me feel free. Larger than life! Like I could do more, be more, regardless of how small West Egg taught
me to be.
BANG!
The sound made me jump and turn to Jay.
BANG! BANG!
Someone was at the church doors. Garvey stopped and the noise continued. The guards at the door looked as though they didn’t
know what to do.
“Police!” the banging people outside screamed. “Open up!”
The guards blocked the doors, until the cops finally gave up. There was a period of silence. And—BOOM!
It was the thunderous sound of a battering ram, slamming the doors open. People instantly began to flee in various directions
as the cops barged through the splintered wood and dust, screaming and swinging their night sticks to threaten us into dispersing.
“Okay, okay,” Garvey said from the stage, trying to calm people down, but everybody fled anyway.
Jay grabbed me by the arm and took me away from the pews, deeper into the church. I looked over my shoulder and recognized
a face among the older cops—a junior cop.
Cannon Cleary, dressed in a hat too tall for him, was smacking a nightstick against his hand. “Show’s over, Commies!” he screamed, just as he made eye contact with me.
Jay pulled me through a door behind the church stage. Back here was a corridor of old brick, hidden in shadows.
Cannon weaved around the running crowd to pursue us. I followed Jay down the corridor, wondering how he knew this structure
so intimately. This passageway seemed to have been half discovered by the builders of the place. It felt like it was indoors,
but it was also open to the sky. It was a secret exit, which connected the church to the building next door.
We stopped at a ladder embedded into the wall of the neighboring building. Jay jumped on it and began to climb. I followed
behind him, but when I was halfway up, I looked down and saw Cannon climbing up after me, the megaphone hanging from around
his neck.
“You’re under arrest, Clumsy Nick!” he screamed, as if this were all a joke.
The rungs were slippery, but I climbed as fast as I could, as wind swept through the channel and threatened to throw me off.
Jay reached the roof and turned to pull me up. I was on my feet on solid ground seconds later, and we ran across this roof,
dodging the various pipes and chimneys sticking up from it.
Harlem extended before us like an industrial obstacle course. Roofs of varying heights and powerlines, like jungle vines, invited us to swing. Jay jumped between two buildings, rolled to standing, and sprung to his feet as if an audience should give him a round of applause.
“Jump, Nick!” he screamed.
I hesitated and assessed how much damage I’d take if I fell. There was definitely a chance I’d suffer a spinal fracture.
“Freeze, Clumsy Nick!” Cannon screamed.
“Jump!” Jay shouted.
I took a few steps back, said a little prayer to Jesus—we were friends in moments like these—and I jumped! For a moment, the
slick alley dangled underneath me, and my arms were level with the telephone wire. Suspended in air, I thought of everything
I’d ever done, everything I wanted to do!
And then I landed on the next roof across, my toes brushing the edge of the building.