Part 78 (1/2)
”Hincty m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka,” snorted a man near me, shaking his head in disgust.
”My people are not ashamed to have servants, and they know what to do with them . . .”
Uncertain looks all around.
”In short, my people have not been discussed by mainstream America, which has no idea we exist. Which is why I wrote Chosen People: I want America to know that we are here. I want us to take our rightful place in American society. I want people with money and taste and breeding to stop hiding these a.s.sets and to be proud of them. We should be proud: We are special. We are different. We are chosen. And now is our time to s.h.i.+ne.”
The room broke into vigorous applause from the people who felt strongly as Simp did. Others kept their hands in their pockets, frowning. Some people shook their heads, as if they couldn't believe what they were hearing. And about four folks simply got up and left.
During all this, a white magazine journalist for the local monthly was scribbling furiously into his notebook. Clearly he'd never met or heard from anyone like JSL Hastings, Jr., and was fascinated.
”Now, I could go on for hours,” Hastings chuckled. ”My fiancee-who some of you out here may know; she has an M.D. and a J.D. from Yale and she's a medical correspondent for the Today show-Dr. Sheila Howe?-says I go on all the time. But I'll stop, because I'm sure you have questions, and I'd love to hear them. And answer them.”
So saying, he drank some more water, and looked over the rim of his gla.s.s at the audience. You could hear chairs squeaking as people s.h.i.+fted.
”Come on, don't be shy! What's on your mind?-Tell me!”
A tall, thin woman rose slowly. She was elegantly dressed, all in beige, with a cream-colored cashmere shawl draped gracefully around her shoulders.
”What I'd like to know, Mr. Hastings, is this: Why?”
He blinked.
”I beg your pardon?”
”Why bring all this up now? We've gone through so much as a people, this is such a hurtful subject for many in our community. Why do you insist on raising it?”
Her voice was well modulated and confident. She was probably in her late sixties. Her gold bracelets jingled softly as she sat again.
”Well, Mrs . . . ?”
”Elton, Grace Elton.”
”Oh my G.o.d-I cannot believe I'm talking to you, finally!” Simp squeaked. ”Does anybody here not know who this is?”
Many people looked at him as if saying ”Duh-of course we do.” A few people shrugged, confused. They didn't remain unenlightened for long.
”This is the wife of Dr. Howard Elton, one of the premiere civil rights activists in this city. Dr. Elton's father established the first black hospital in Los Angeles. You may be too young to remember any of this-I am, too, actually, but I did my homework: The hospital Dr. Elton senior started is now Los Angeles Munic.i.p.al Children's Hospital.”
Gasps of recognition.
”You're exactly who I wanted to write about in this book!” Simp Hastings chided the woman old enough to be his mother. ”You should have let me interview you!”
Mrs. Elton rose again, and looked squarely at him.
”I had no interest in being in your book, Mr. Simpson. Like my late husband, I feel strongly that if we are to move forward as a people, we have to concentrate on what binds us together, not focus on what could tear us apart. This book never should have been written. Or perhaps it should have been written-by someone else. I have no quarrel with a book that outlines the achievements of successful blacks, but this is not that book. This is merely a . . . a shopping list of things to have and to get, and a wretched catalogue of the worst sn.o.bberies and sillinesses some of our people insist on displaying. So I have become a Chosen Person: I have chosen to remove myself from any a.s.sociation with it at all. I wish some of the people who had decided otherwise had had second thoughts. And I pity you, Mr. Hastings. You have completely missed the boat on what being black means in this day and age.
”I'm sorry,” Grace Elton turned and apologized to those around her; ”I'm becoming a little emotional. I wish you all a good evening.”
And, wrapping her shawl more closely around her, the chic Mrs. Elton picked up her purse and left to thundering applause.
Simp Hastings wasn't fazed in the least.
”Well,” he said, only a smidge huffily, ”some people are still in denial about their station in life. Such a pity. She would have been fabulous to include. Other questions?”
It went on for about a half hour, with varying degrees of civility: why had he included So-and-So but not Thus-and-So? Why hadn't he thought to include more cities in the Midwest? Would he consider, ever, doing a history of ”the best sororities and fraternities? White folks need to understand we've had these organizations for years . . .” Was it true that he'd signed on as a consultant to a Movie of the Week about life on the East Coast's now-vanished black summer resorts?
After the questions, Simp Hastings signed books for another half hour. Some people bought loads-one for themselves, several as presents. Many people bought them for their children ”because they need to know this about us.”
Toward the end, a big, burly brother with twists and a Malcolm X T-s.h.i.+rt came up to the signing table, leaned forward and said, softly: ”We should be beyond this s.h.i.+t by now. It's n.i.g.g.e.rs like you that are holding us back. You need to rethink your utility to the community, brother.”
The menace in his voice was unmistakable.
”I'll be sure to do that,” Simp said blandly as the angry man stalked out of the store.
”What's with him?” wondered Logo Lady, who was having three books signed.
”E-N-V-Y,” Simp said, looking at her knowingly. She nodded, and slipped the books into a stylish tote with a big metal G on its front.
Hastings had promised a brief interview after all this was over to both me and the white guy from the city magazine, so we hung around waiting for the last person to receive a signed copy.
Unfortunately for the remaining few, Ashanti had run out of books. Simp had sold seventy-five in thirty minutes.
”Oh no!” one disappointed customer moaned. ”I'd wanted to give one to my mother for her birthday.”
”We're getting another s.h.i.+pment in two days,” the store owner a.s.sured her.
”My mother's birthday is tomorrow,” the woman said stonily.
The owner retreated to the cash register, muttering something about ”last-minute Negroes who think they can just throw a present together when their mama's birthday is the same day, every year.”
Disappointed Customer rolled her eyes at him.
”Know what? I think I have a few extra in the back of my car,” Simp said. ”Let me go out and look, and if I do, they're yours.”
”Oh, would you? Thank you! Do I make the check out to you?”
”Yes,” he called as he walked out into the misty night air. ”I'll be right back.”
Either he had a huge trunk or he was having trouble finding the books, because after ten minutes, Simp Hastings hadn't returned.
”Maybe he's out having a smoke,” someone suggested.
”Or making a call on his cell phone.”
”Or,” said the bookstore owner, ”he can't see. Those rental cars are notorious for leaving off as many of the essentials as possible. I'll bring him a flashlight.”