Well, last year somebody suggested we have an America's Making pageant just like New York. You see, we need something to sort of bring us together after the war. We had a lot of Germans here and near-Germans and we had to pull them up pretty stiff. In all, we had seven or eight races or nations, not counting the colored people. We salute the flag and many of us can sing The Star Spangled Banner without books. But we really need Americanization; a sort of wholesome getting together.
So, as I have said, last year the Federation of Women's Clubs started the matter and got a committee appointed. They appointed me and Birdie; Mrs. Cadwalader Lee (who is an awfully aristocratic Southern lady); Bill Graves, who runs the biggest store; the editor of the daily paper and the Methodist preacher, who has the biggest church. They made me secretary but Birdie suggested that we needed an impartial chairman who knew something about the subject, for, says she, "What with the Germans, Poles, Scandinavians and Italians, everybody will claim so much that there'll be nothing left for the real Americans." We met and considered the idea favorably and wrote to the state university. They sent us down a professor with a funny name and any number of degrees. It seems that he taught sociology and "applied ethics," whatever that may be.
"I'll bet he's a Jew," said Birdie as soon as she looked at him. "I've got nothing against Jews but I just don't like them. They're too pushing."
First thing off the bat, this professor, who wore a cloak and spoke exceedingly proper and too low for anybody to hear unless they were listening, asked if the colored people ought not to be represented. That took us a bit by surprise as we hadn't thought of them at all. Mrs. Cadwalader Lee said she thought it might be best to have a small auxiliary colored committee and that she would ask her cook to get one up.
WELL," says I, after we had gotten nicely settled for our first real meeting, "what is the first thing that's gone to making America and who did it?" I had my own mind on music and painting and I know that Birdie is daft on architecture; but before we either of us could speak, Bill Graves grinned and said, "hard work."
The chairman nodded and said, "Quite true, labor."
I didn't know just what to say but I whispered to Birdie that it seemed to me that we ought to stress some of the higher things. The chairman must have heard me because he said that all higher things rested on the foundation of human toil.
"But, whose labor?" asked the editor. "Since we are all descended from working people, isn't labor a sort of common contribution which, as it comes from everybody, need not be counted?"
"I should hardly consent to that statement," said Mrs. Cadwalader Lee, who is said to be descended from a govrnor and a lord.
"At any rate," said the chairman, "the Negroes were America's first great labor force."
"Negroes!" shrilled Birdie, "but we can't have them!"
"I should think," said Mrs. Cadwalader Lee, softly, "that we might have a very interesting darky scene. Negroes hoeing cotton and that sort of thing." We all were thankful to Mrs. Lee and immediately saw that that would be rather good; Mrs. Lee again said she would consult her cook, a very intelligent and exemplary person.
"Next," I said firmly, "comes music."
"Folk songs," said the Methodist preacher.
"Yes," I continued. "There would be Italian and German and--"
"But I thought this was to be American," said the chairman.
"Sure," I answered, "German-American and Italian-American and so forth."
"There ain't no such animal," says Birdie, but Mrs. Cadwalader Lee reminded us of Foster's work and thought we might have a chorus to sing Old Folks at Home, Old Kentucky Home and Nelly Was a Lady. Here the editor pulled out a book on American folk songs by Krehbiel or some such German name and read an extract. (I had to copy it for the minutes.) It said:
The only considerable body of songs which has come into existence in the territory now compassed by the United States, I might even say in North America, excepting the primitive songs of the Indians (which present an entirely different aspect), are the songs of the former black slaves. In Canada the songs of the people, or that portion of the people that can be said still to sing from impulse, are predominantly French, not only in language but in subject. They were for the greater part transferred to this continent with the bodily integrity which they now possess. Only a small portion show an admixture of Indian elements; but the songs of the black slaves of the South are original and native products. They contain idioms which were transplanted from Africa, but as songs they are the product of American institutions; of the social, political and geographical environment within which their creators were placed in America; of the influences to which they were subjected in America; of the joys, sorrows and experiences which fell to their lot in America.
Nowhere save on the plantations of the South could the emotional life which is essential to the development of true folksong be developed nowhere else was there the necessary meeting of the spiritual cause and the simple agent and vehicle. The white inhabitants of the continent have never been in the state of cultural ingenuousness which prompts spontaneous emotional utterances in music.
This rather took our breath and the chairman suggested that the auxiliary colored committee might attend to this. Mrs. Cadwalader Lee was very nice about it. ( She has such lovely manners and gets her dresses direct from New York.) She said that she was sure it could all be worked out satisfactorily. We would need a number of servants and helpers. Well, under the leadership of that gifted cook, we'd have a cotton-hoeing scene to represent labor and while hoeing they would sing Negro ditties; afterward they could serve the food and clean up.
That was fine, but I didn't propose to be sidetracked.
"But," I says, "we don't want to confine ourselves to folk songs. There is a lot of splendid American music like that of Victor Herbert and Irving Berlin."
The editor grinned. But the chairman was real nice and he mentioned several folks I never heard of--Paine, Buck, Chadwick and DeKoven. And, of course, I know of Nevin and McDowell. Still that editor grinned and said, "Yes, and Harry Burleigh and W. C. Handy and Nathaniel Dett."
Here the preacher spoke Up. "I especially like that man, Dett. Our choir sang his Listen to the Lambs last Christmas."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Cadwalader Lee, "and Burleigh's Young Warrior was one of the greatest of our war songs."
"I am sure," said the Methodist preacher, "that our choir will be glad to furnish the music."
"But are they colored ?" asked the chairman, who had been silent.
"Colored?" we gasped.
"Well, you see, each race was to furnish its own contribution."
"Yes," we chorused, "but this is white American music."
"Not on your life," said the editor, who is awfully slangy. "Of course you know Burleigh and Dett and Handy are all Negroes."
"I think you're mistaken," said Mrs. Cadwalader Lee, getting a bit red in the face.
But sure enough, the chairman said they were and we did not dare dispute him. He even said that Foster's melodies were based on Negro musical themes.
"Well," said the preacher, "I am sure there are no Negroes in town who could sing Listen to the Lambs," and the editor added, "And I hardly think your choir could render The Memphis Blues just as it ought to be." We looked attach other dubiously and I saw right then and there that America's Making had a small chance of being put on in our town. Somebody said that there was a choir in one of the colored churches that could sing this music, but Mrs. Cadwalader Lee reminded us that there would be insuperable difficulties if we tried to bring in obstreperous and high-lo. ow Negroes who demanded social equality. It seems that one of these churches had hired a new social worker--a most objectionable colored person who complained when Mrs. Lee called her by her first name.
THAT editor is just lugging the Negroes in," said I to Birdie.
"The Negroes seem to be lugging us in," she replied, and she launched us into architecture. From architecture we went to painting. There were Sargent and Whistler and Abbey. Birdie had seen Tanner's Raising of Lazarus in the Luxembourg and suggested a tableau.
"We might get him to help," said the editor. "He's having an exhibit in New York." We were thrilled, all except Mrs. Lee. "I understand he has Negro blood," she said coldly, "and besides, I do not think much of his work." We dropped that and hurried to inventions.
Here, of course, America is preeminent and we must pick and choose. First the preacher asked what kinds of inventions we ought to stress since America was so very inventive. Bill Graves wanted to stress those which had made big money, while the preacher wanted to emphasize those which had "made for righteousness." Birdie said she was strong for those which were really helpful and the chairman suggested the telephone, things that had helped travel, laborsaving devices, etc.
Well, we named over a number of things and especially stressed the telephone; The editor mentioned Granville Wood as one who had helped to perfect the telephone but we didn't listen. I'm sure he was a Negro. But in spite of all, the chairman spoke up again.
"Shoes," he said.
"Well," said I, "I didn't know we invented shoes. I thought they were pretty common before America was discovered."
"But American shoes are the best in the world," said the editor, and then the chairman told us of the United Shoe Machinery Company and how they made shoes.
'And," he added, "that lasting machine which is at the bottom of their success was invented by a Negro."
"I don't believe it," said Birdie flatly, looking at Mrs. Cadwalader Lee. Mrs. Lee got pale this time.
"Of course," she said, "if you are just going to drag in the Negro by the ears--"
"Still," said the editor, "we are after the truth, ain't we? And it is certainly true that Matzeliger invented the lasting machine and you wouldn't want your sister to marry Matzeliger now would you ?"
"Ain't he dead?" asked Birdie, and Mrs. Cadwalader Lee doubted if we ought to be interested in anything as common as shoes.
"I should think automobiles and locomotives would express our genius better."
"Only, we didn't invent them," said the editor.
"But we did invent a method of oiling them while in motion," said the chairman.
"And I'll bet a colored man did that," said Birdie.
"Quite true," answered the chairman. "His name was Elijah McCoy. He is still living in Detroit and I talked with him the other day."
"MIGHT I ask," said Mrs. Cadwalader Lee, looking the chairman full in the face, "if you yourself are of pure white blood?" We all started and we looked the chairman over. He was of dark complexion and his hair was none too straight. He had big black eyes that did not smile much: and yet there couldn't be any doubt about his being white. Wasn't he a professor in the state university and would they hire a colored man no matter how much he knew? The chairman answered.
"I do not know about the purity of my blood although I have usually been called white. Still, one never knows," and he looked solemnly at Mrs. Cadwalader Lee.
Of course, I rushed in, angels being afraid, and cried,
"Dancing--we haven't provided for dancing and we ought to have a lot of that."
"Lovely," says Birdie, "I know a Mexican girl who can do a tango and we could have folk-dancing for the Irish and Scotch."
"The Negroes invented the tango as well as the cake walk and the whole modern dance craze is theirs," said the editor.
This time the preacher saved us. "I'm afraid," said he, "that I could not countenance public dancing. I am aware tliat our church has changed its traditional attitude somewhat, but I am old-fashioned. lf you are to have dancing--" We hastened to reassure him unanimously. We would have no dancing. We dropped it then and there.
Mrs. Lee now spoke up. "it seems to me," she said, "that the real greatness of America lies in her literature. Not only the great writers like Poe and Lanier but in our folk-lore. There are the lovely legends of the mountain whites and, of course, the Uncle Remus tales. I sometimes used to recite them and would not be unwilling to give my services to this pageant.
"Negro dialect, aren't they?" asked the editor, with vast innocence.
"Yes," said Mrs. Lee, "but I am quite familiar with the dialect."
"But oughtn't they to be given by a Negro?" persisted the editor.
"Certainly not; they were written by a white man, Joel Chandler Harris."
"Yes," added the chairman, "he set them down, but the Negroes originated them--they are thoroughly African."
Mrs. Cadwalader Lee actually sniffed. "I am sorry," she said, "but it seems to me that this matter has taken a turn quite different from our original purpose and I'm afraid I may not be able to take part." This would kill the thing, to my mind, but Birdie was not sure.
"Oh, I don't know," she whispered, "she is too high-brow anyway and this thing ought to be a matter of the common people. I don't mind having a few colored people take part so long as they don't want to sit and eat with us; but I do draw the line on Jews."
Well, we took up education next and before we got through, in popped Booker T. Washington. And then came democracy and it looked like everybody had had a hand in that, even the Germans and Italians. The chairman also said that two hundred thousand Negroes had fought for their own liberty in the Civil War and in the war to make the world safe for democracy. But that didn't impress Mrs.Lee or any of the rest of us and we concluded to leave the Negro out of democracy.
"First thing you know you'll have us eating with Negroes," said Birdie, and the chairman said that he'd eaten with Republicans and sinners. I suppose he meant to slur Democrats and Socialists but it was a funny way to do it. Somehow, I couldn't just figure out that chairman. I kept watching him.
Then up pops that editor with a lot of notes and papers. "What about exploration?" he asks. Well, we had forgotten that, but naturally the Italians could stage a good stunt \vith Columbus.
"And the French and Spanish," said Birdie, "only there are none of them in town, thank God!"
"But there are colored folk!" said that chairman. I just gave him a withering look.
"Were they Columbus' cooks," I asked.
"Probably," said the chairman, "but the one I have in mind discovered New Mexico and Arizona. But I'm afraid," he added slowly, "that we're getting nowhere."
"We've already got there," said Birdie. But the chair man continued: "How could we when we're talking for people and not letting them express themselves?"
"But aren't we the committee?" I asked.
"Yes, and by our oun appointment."
"But we represent all the races," I insisted, "except, well--except the Negroes."
"Just so," replied the chairman, "and while I may seem to you to be unduly stressing the work of Negroes, that is simply because they are not represented here. I promise to say nothing further on the matter if vou will indulge me a few minutes. In the next room, a colored woman is waiting. She is that social worker at the colored church and she is here by my invitation, I had hoped to have her invited to sit on this committee. As that does not seem possible, may she say just a word?"
He looked at me. I looked at Birdie and Birdie stared at Mrs. Cadwalader Lee. Mrs. Lee arose.
"Certainly--oh, certainly," she said sweetly. "Don't let me interfere. But, of course, you will understand that we Lees must draw the line somewhere," and out she sailed.
I KNEW the whole thing was dead as a door nail and I was just about to tell Birdie so when in marched that Negro before we'd had a chance to talk about her. She had on a tailor-made gown that cost fifty dollars if a cent, a smart toque and (would you believe it?) she was a graduate of the IJniversity of Chicago! If there's anything I hate it's a college woman. And here was a black one at that. I didn't know just how to treat her so I sort of half turned my shoulder to her and looked out the window. She began with an essay. It had a lot of long words which sounded right even if they weren't. What she seemed to be driving at was this:
Who made this big country? Not the millionaires, the ministers and the "know-alls," but laborers and drudges and slaves. And she said that we had no business to forget this and pretend that we were all descended from the nobility and gentry and college graduates. She even went so far as to say that cranks and prostitutes and plain fools had a hand in making this republic, and that the real glory of America was what it proved as to the possib lities of common-place people and that the hope of the future lay right in these every-day people.
It was the truth and I knew it and so did all of us, but, of course, we didn't dare to let on to each other, much less to her. So I just kept staring out the vvindow and she laid aside her essay and hegan to talk. She handed to the Negro, music, painting, sculpture, drama, dancing, poetry and letters. She named a lot of people I never heard of; and others like Dunbar and Braithwaite and Chesnutt, but I had always thought they were white. She reminded us of Bert Williams and told us of some fellows named Aldridge and Gilpin.
And then she got on our nerves. She said all this writing and doing beautiful things hurt. That it was born of suffering. That sometimes the pain blurred the message, but that the blood and crying lurked beneath. And at last she took out a little thin black book and read.
She read about this country not belonging to white folk any more than it did to black folks and that the black folk got here before the pilgrims. I couldn't help stepping on Birdie's toes because she says her people came in on some boat named after a flower so long ago she's forgot their names. The black girl said that the story of the Negro could be found on every page of the story of America. This made me sick and I turned and glared right at her. But she looked right through me and went on. She said Negroe had been soldiers in all our wars, had nursed the babies, cooked the food and sung and danced besides working so hard that "working like a nigger" was about the hardest work you could picture.
And she asked us if America could have been America without Negroes.
She had me up a tree, I must admit. And I reckon the rest felt as I did--all except that editor.
The chairman looked at us with owl-like eyes; then he shoved a paper at me and read it aloud as he did:
"Timeo Nigros et dona ferentes."
Nobody knows what he meant and nobody gave him the satisfaction of asking.
WELL, we just sat and stared until she left. Tllen we went on talking but we didn't touch the real question; and that was, could we have America's Making without Mrs. Cadwalader Lee and with the Negroes?
We couldn't make up our minds and before we had courage to say so openly we went smash on religion.
We might possibly have had some sort of an America's Making pageant if we hadn't discussed religion. You see, the editor who is downright malicious and hates the Federation of Women's Clubs because they start things, got us all wrong by trying to get a definition of religion. He was strong on meekness and humility and turning the other cheek and that sort of thing and I know he didn't mean a word of it.
"I suppose," said Birdie, "that you'll be saying that the Negroes have given us all our religion because they're cowards and allowed themselves to be slaves and take insult today meekly."
"I must admit," said the preacher, "that if the meek inherit the earth, the American Negro will get a large share."
"But will the meek inherit the earth?" I asked.
"I think so," said the chairman calmly.
Birdie jumped up and reached for her cloak. "I believe you're a Jew and a pacifist," she said.
"I am both," he answered.
"And I suppose," said I, getting my hat on straight, "that when somebody slaps you over, you turn the other cheek."
"I did," said he.
"Well, you're a fool," I answered, reaching for my coat.
And Birdie yelled, "And what did they do to you after you turned the other cheek? Answer me that."
"They crucified me," said the chairman.