Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
And while the ice was melting to form a flood in which I threatened to drown I awoke one afternoon to find that my first northern winter had set.
Chapter thirteen
At first I had turned
away from the window and tried to read but my mind kept wandering back to my old problems and, unable to endure it any longer, I rushed from the house, extremely agitated but determined to get away from my hot thoughts into the chill air.
At the entrance I bumped against a woman who called me a filthy name, only causing me to increase my speed. In a few minutes I was several blocks away, having moved to the next avenue and downtown. The streets were covered with ice and soot-flecked snow and from above a feeble sun filtered through the haze. I walked with my head down, feeling the biting air. And yet I was hot, burning with an inner fever. I barely raised my eyes until a car, passing with a thudding of skid chains whirled completely around on the ice, then turned cautiously and thudded off again.
I walked slowly on, blinking my eyes in the chill air, my mind a blur with the hot inner argument continuing. The whole of Harlem seemed to fall apart in the swirl of snow. I imagined I was lost and for a moment there was an eerie quiet. I imagined I heard the fall of snow upon snow. What did it mean? I walked, my eyes focused into the endless succession of barber shops, beauty parlors, confectioneries, luncheonettes, fish houses, and hog maw joints, walking close to the windows, the snowflakes lacing swift between, simultaneously forming a curtain, a veil, and stripping it aside. A flash of red and gold from a window filled with religious articles caught my eye. And behind the film of frost etching the glass I saw two brashly painted plaster images of Mary and Jesus surrounded by dream books, love powders, God-Is-Love signs, money-drawing oil and plastic dice. A black statue of a nude Nubian slave grinned out at me from beneath a turban of gold. I passed on to a window decorated with switches of wiry false hair, ointments guaranteed to produce the miracle of whitening black skin. “You too can be truly beautiful,” a sign proclaimed. “Win greater happiness with whiter complexion. Be outstanding in your social set.”
I hurried on, suppressing a savage urge to push my fist through the pane. A wind was rising, the snow thinning. Where would I go? To a movie? Could I sleep there? I ignored the windows now and walked along, becoming aware that I was muttering to myself again. Then far down at the corner I saw an old man warming his hands against the sides of an odd-looking wagon, from which a stove pipe reeled off a thin spiral of smoke that drifted the odor of baking yams slowly to me, bringing a stab of swift nostalgia. I stopped as though struck by a shot, deeply inhaling, remembering, my mind surging back, back. At home we’d bake them in the hot coals of the fireplace, had carried them cold to school for lunch; munched them secretly, squeezing the sweet pulp from the soft peel as we hid from the teacher behind the largest book, the World’s Geography. Yes, and we’d loved them candied, or baked in a cobbler, deep-fat fried in a pocket of dough, or roasted with pork and glazed with the well-browned fat; had chewed them raw—yams and years ago. More yams than years ago, though the time seemed endlessly expanded, stretched thin as the spiraling smoke beyond all recall.
I moved again. “Get yo’ hot, baked Car’lina yam,” he called. At the corner the old man, wrapped in an army overcoat, his feet covered with gunny sacks, his head in a knitted cap, was puttering with a stack of paper bags. I saw a crude sign on the side of the wagon proclaiming YAMS, as I walked flush into the warmth thrown by the coals that glowed in a grate underneath.
“How much are your yams?” I said, suddenly hungry.
“They ten cents and they sweet,” he said, his voice quavering with age. “These ain’t none of them binding ones neither. These here is real, sweet, yaller yams. How many?”
“One,” I said. “If they’re that good, one should be enough.”
He gave me a searching glance. There was a tear in the corner of his eye. He chuckled and opened the door of the improvised oven, reaching gingerly with his gloved hand. The yams, some bubbling with syrup, lay on a wire rack above glowing coals that leaped to low blue flame when struck by the draft of air. The flash of warmth set my face aglow as he removed one of the yams and shut the door.
“Here you are, suh,” he said, starting to put the yam into a bag.
“Never mind the bag, I’m going to eat it. Here …”
“Thanks.” He took the dime. “If that ain’t a sweet one, I’ll give you another one free of charge.”
I knew that it was sweet before I broke it; bubbles of brown syrup had burst the skin.
“Go ahead and break it,” the old man said. “Break it and I’ll give you some butter since you gon’ eat it right here. Lots of folks takes ’em home. They got their own butter at home.”
I broke it, seeing the sugary pulp steaming in the cold.
“Hold it over here,” he said. He took a crock from a rack on the side of the wagon. “Right here.”
I held it, watching him pour a spoonful of melted butter over the yam and the butter seeping in.
“Thanks.”
“You welcome. And I’ll tell you something.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“If that ain’t the best eating you had in a long time, I give you your money back.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” I said. “I can look at it and see it’s good.”
“You right, but everything what looks good ain’t necessarily good,” he said. “But these is.”
I took a bite, finding it as sweet and hot as any I’d ever had, and was overcome with such a surge of homesickness that I turned away to keep my control. I walked along, munching the yam, just as suddenly overcome by an intense feeling of freedom—simply because I was eating while walking along the street. It was exhilarating. I no longer had to worry about who saw me or about what was proper. To hell with all that, and as sweet as the yam actually was, it became like nectar with the thought. If only someone who had known me at school or at home would come along and see me now. How shocked they’d be! I’d push them into a side street and smear their faces with the peel. What a group of people we were, I thought. Why, you could cause us the greatest humiliation simply by confronting us with something we liked. Not all of us, but so many. Simply by walking up and shaking a set of chitterlings or a well-boiled hog maw at them during the clear light of day! What consternation it would cause! And I saw myself advancing upon Bledsoe, standing bare of his false humility in the crowded lobby of Men’s House, and seeing him there and him seeing me and ignoring me and me enraged and suddenly whipping out a foot or two of chitterlings, raw, uncleaned and dripping sticky circles on the floor as I shake them in his face, shouting:
“Bledsoe, you’re a shameless chitterling eater! I accuse you of relishing hog bowels! Ha! And not only do you eat them, you sneak and eat them in private when you think you’re unobserved! You’re a sneaking chitterling lover! I accuse you of indulging in a filthy habit, Bledsoe! Lug them out of there, Bledsoe! Lug them out so we can see! I accuse you before the eyes of the world!” And he lugs them out, yards of them, with mustard greens, and racks of pigs’ ears, and pork chops and black-eyed peas with dull accusing eyes.
I let out a wild laugh, almost choking over the yam as the scene spun before me. Why, with others present, it would be worse than if I had accused him of raping an old woman of ninety-nine years, weighing ninety pounds … blind in one eye and lame in the hip! Bledsoe would disintegrate, disinflate! With a profound sigh he’d drop his head in shame. He’d lose caste. The weekly newspapers would attack him. The captions over his picture: Prominent Educator Reverts to Field-Niggerism! His rivals would denounce him as a bad example for the youth. Editorials would demand that he either recant or retire from public life. In the South his white folks would desert him; he would be discussed far and wide, and all of the trustees’ money couldn’t prop up his sagging prestige. He’d end up an exile washing dishes at the Automat. For down South he’d be unable to get a job on the honey wagon.
“Sho, all you want, long as I got ’em. I can see you a serious yam eater, young fellow. You eating them right away?”
“As soon as you give them to me,” I said.
“You want ’em buttered?”
“Please.”
“Sho, that way you can get the most out of ’em. Yes-suh,” he said, handing over the yams, “I can see you one of these old-fashioned yam eaters.”
“They’re my birthmark,” I said. “I yam what I am!”
“Then you must be from South Car’lina,” he said with a grin.
“South Carolina nothing, where I come from we really go for yams.”
“Come back tonight or tomorrow if you can eat some more,” he called after me. “My old lady’ll be out here with some hot sweet potato fried pies.”
Hot fried pies, I thought sadly, moving away. I would probably have indigestion if I ate one—now that I no longer felt ashamed of the things I had always loved, I probably could no longer digest very many of them. What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do? What a waste, what a senseless waste! But what of those things which you actually didn’t like, not because you were not supposed to like them, not because to dislike them was considered a mark of refinement and education—but because you actually found them distasteful? The very idea annoyed me. How could you know? It involved a problem of choice. I would have to weigh many things carefully before deciding and there would be some things that would cause quite a bit of trouble, simply because I had never formed a personal attitude toward so much. I had accepted the accepted attitudes and it had made life seem simple …
But not yams, I had no problem concerning them and I would eat them whenever and wherever I took the notion. Continue on the yam level and life would be sweet—though somewhat yellowish. Yet the freedom to eat yams on the street was far less than I had expected upon coming to the city. An unpleasant taste bloomed in my mouth now as I bit the end of the yam and threw it into the street; it had been frostbitten.
The wind drove me into a side street where a group of boys had set a packing box afire. The gray smoke hung low and seemed to thicken as I walked with my head down and eyes closed, trying to avoid the fumes. My lungs began to pain; then emerging, wiping my eyes and coughing, I almost stumbled over it: It was piled in a jumble along the walk and over the curb into the street, like a lot of junk waiting to be hauled away. Then I saw the sullen-faced crowd, looking at a building where two white men were totting out a chair in which an old woman sat; who, as I watched, struck at them feebly with her fists. A motherly-looking old woman with her head tied in a handkerchief, wearing a man’s shoes and a man’s heavy blue sweater. It was startling: The crowd watching silently, the two white men lugging the chair and trying to dodge the blows and the old woman’s face streaming with angry tears as she thrashed at them with her fists. I couldn’t believe it. Something, a sense of foreboding, filled me, a quick sense of un-cleanliness.
“Leave us alone,” she cried, “leave us alone!” as the men pulled their heads out of range and sat her down abruptly at the curb, hurrying back in the building.
What on earth, I thought, looking above me. What on earth? The old woman sobbed, pointing to the stuff piled along the curb. “Just look what they doing to us. Just look,” looking straight at me. And I realized that what I’d taken for junk was actually worn household furnishings.
“Just look at what they’re doing,” she said, her teary eyes upon my face.
I looked away embarrassed, staring into the rapidly growing crowd. Faces were peering sullenly from the windows above. And now as the two men reappeared at the top of the steps carrying a battered chest of drawers, I saw a third man come out and stand behind them, pulling at his ear as he looked out over the crowd.
“Shake it up, you fellows,” he said, “shake it up. We don’t have all day.”
Then the men came down with the chest and I saw the crowd give way sullenly, the men trudging through, grunting and putting the chest at the curb, then returning into the building without a glance to left or right.
“Look at that,” a slender man near me said. “We ought to beat the hell out of those paddies!”
I looked silently into his face, taut and ashy in the cold, his eyes trained upon the men going up the steps.
“Sho, we ought to stop ’em,” another man said, “but ain’t that much nerve in the whole bunch.”
“There’s plenty nerve,” the slender man said. “All they need is someone to set it off. All they need is a leader. You mean you don’t have the nerve.”
“Who me?” the man said. “Who me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Just look,” the old woman said, “just look,” her face still turned toward mine. I turned away, edging closer to the two men.
“Who are those men?” I said, edging closer.
“Marshals or something. I don’t give a damn who they is.”
“Marshals, hell,” another man said. “Those guys doing all the toting ain’t nothing but trusties. Soon as they get through they’ll lock ’em up again.”
“I don’t care who they are, they got no business putting these old folks out on the sidewalk.”
“You mean they’re putting them out of their apartment?” I said. “They can do that up here?”
“Man, where you from?” he said, swinging toward me. “What does it look they puttin’ them out of, a Pullman car? They being evicted!”
I was embarrassed; others were turning to stare. I had never seen an eviction. Someone snickered.
“Where did he come from?”
A flash of heat went over me and I turned. “Look, friend,” I said, hearing a hot edge coming into my voice. “I asked a civil question. If you don’t care to answer, don’t, but don’t try to make me look ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? Hell, all scobos is ridiculous. Who the hell is you?”
“Never mind, I am who I am. Just don’t beat up your gums at me,” I said, throwing him a newly acquired phrase.
Just then one of the men came down the steps with an armful of articles, and I saw the old woman reach up, yelling, “Take your hands off my Bible!” And the crowd surged forward.
The white man’s hot eyes swept the crowd. “Where, lady?” he said. “I don’t see any Bible.”
And I saw her snatch the Book from his arms, clutching it fiercely and sending forth a shriek. “They can come in your home and do what they want to you,” she said. “Just come stomping and jerk your life up by the roots! But this here’s the last straw. They ain’t going to bother with my Bible!”
The white man eyed the crowd. “Look, lady,” he said, more to the rest of us than to her, “I don’t want to do this, I have to do it. They sent me up here to do it. If it was left to me, you could stay here till hell freezes over …”
“These white folks, Lord. These white folks,” she moaned, her eyes turned toward the sky, as an old man pushed past me and went to her.
“Hon, Hon,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “It’s the agent, not these gentlemen. He’s the one. He says it’s in the bank, but you know he’s the one. We’ve done business with him for over twenty years.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “It’s all the white folks, not just one. They all against us. Every stinking low-down one of them.”
“She’s right!” a hoarse voice said. “She’s right! They all is!”
Something had been working fiercely inside me, and for a moment I had forgotten the rest of the crowd. Now I recognized a self-consciousness about them, as though they, we, were ashamed to witness the eviction, as though we were all unwilling intruders upon some shameful event; and thus we were careful not to touch or stare t
I looked at the old people, feeling my eyes burn, my throat tighten. The old woman’s sobbing was having a strange effect upon me—as when a child, seeing the tears of its parents, is moved by both fear and sympathy to cry. I turned away, feeling myself being drawn to the old couple by a warm, dark, rising whirlpool of emotion which I feared. I was wary of what the sight of them crying there on the sidewalk was making me begin to feel. I wanted to leave, but was too ashamed to leave, was rapidly becoming too much a part of it to leave.