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Editorial

Philip Pettijohn

The first half of the 70-71 academic
year is over and I think an assessment of
the real accomplishments of the black
"actionary and reactionary forces" on
the UMass. campus is in order. An as-
sessment that should pin-point political-
ly, economically and socially the
position of the black community of the
University of Massachusetts. Our posi-
tion in relation to or compared to what?
— reality; the reahty of it all.

The new year brought with it the
housing of the "big three" under the
same roof. The W.E.B. DuBois Black
Studies Dept., the Committee for the
Collegiate Education of Black Students
and the Black Cultural Center Main Of-
fices are all now located and operating
out of Mills House.

The Black Studies Dept., in fact the
whole University heartily welcomed
Michael Thelwell back as the chairman
of the Department. The return seemed
to be a just reward for the suffering
many endured during his, seemingly
eternal, but brief absence. The expan-
sion of and the solidifying of the Dept.
as a university dept. is greatly appre-
ciated and something the whole black
community can be proud of. However,
some of the major questions asked by
the more politically and culturally
orientated of us, still go unanswered.
Where is the student entity of the de-
partment? An explanation or definition
of the role of the white man in the

Black Studies Dept. is in order. The
Black Studies Dept. is fighting a battle
against the University in its attempt to
admit Herbert Aptheker to the Dept.
Many universities follow a "hands off"
policy in regards to Aptheker because of
his political affiliations. The people of
the Dept. rejected a Nigerian brother's
application because of, from what I
understand, his concept of reality. I
wonder how Mr. Austin looks at reality.

Recently the Black Studies Depart-
ment was charged with being "ideolog-
ically passive"; I find myself in agree-
ment with this charge. I don't know if
it's the political strategy of the Dept. or
the lack of communication that exists
between the Dept. and the black stu-
dent body, but the Dept. has yet to
issue a statement of position on many
of the important and relevant issues that
have arisen so far this semester. If
Brother Thelwell is unaware of the ex-
tent of his influence in the black
community, please tell him to lift his
head up, the black community wants to
hear what he has to say. Another charge
was voiced along with the one stated
above. It was that the Dept. "is not
addressed to the desperate need of the
Black Nation for scientists", that is the
Dept. is not set-up to produce engineers,
doctors, nuclear physicists, or biologists.
The charge is real, however, if the Black
Studies Dept. can be pinned with the
blame, so must all the black people in
America be so blamed. The failure of
the Dept. to offer such courses in the
realm of science, is due to situational
factors rather than the ideologies
and priorities of the Dept. The situa-
tional factors are those which revolve
around the fact that the white man has
his foot in our ass and insists on keeping
it there.

It is my belief that the Black Studies
Dept. has a solid and real foundation
and a core of faculty that will develop
the Department into one of best of its

kind in the country. However, if the
Dept. continues to ignore its relation-
ship with the black community beyond
the education level, the white commun-
ity of the university will be the only
group that acknowledges the relevance,
the reality of the W.E.B. DuBois Black
Studies Department.

The internal structure of the Com-
mittee for the Collegiate Education of
Black Students has undergone radical
change since the previous year. With the
installation of Dr. Hodges Glenn as the
director of the CCEBS Program, we
have seen a transformation of the Pro-
gram from a loosely structured, usually
silent, somewhat inefficient entity into
a highly structured, aggressive, and ef-
ficient organization. It has become a
factor of university life that a segment
of the community feel the Program and
Dr. Glenn sacrificed too much to obtain
this level of bureaucracy, aggressiveness
and efficiency. The Program because of
the sacrifices has taken on character-
istics similar to those of a white bureau-
cratic institution (Whitmore). The
countenance of the Program is some-
what harder and colder than it was be-
fore. Black students find this hard to
deal with, that is a Program coming
from a black frame of reference that
dictates stringent rules and guidelines
that they must function within. I find it
a lot easier to deal with the bureaucracy
of the CCEBS Program than with the
aggressive personality of the Program.
The Program and Dr. Glenn upon their
move into the Cultural Center, during
the summer, literally "bogarted" the
black student's lounge on the second
floor. Despite the objections raised from
the students that were on the campus at
the time Dr. Glenn had the lounge re-
painted, removed the furniture, and
then declared it a possession of CCEBS.
I don't doubt the practicality of CCEBS
using a lounge as a pseudo auditorium
but the transition should have been

made only after student consent. If the
aggressiveness of the CCEBS Program
could be directed for the black students
instead of at them, the lethal gap that
exists between the two entities could be
narrowed considerably. The aggressive-
ness could be channeled into finding
monies for the black students on cam-
pus who still haven't received all of their
scholarship allocation. With the Univer-
sity being as large as it is, this wouldn't
take much aggression to channel. Also,
it is my feeling and that of a large
number of other black students that
there are too many white folks working
for CCEBS; too many counselors are
white and too many tutors are white. It
is a gross misinterpretation of priorities
on the part of the CCEBS Program and
Dr. Glenn if they don't see the need of
directing some of the aggression of the
Program into locating and training quali-
fied black students to fill these posi-
tions.

The importance and relevance of the
CCEBS Program to the black commun-
ity is immeasurable. However, the im-
portance and relevance of the Program
will never be illuminated to the ultimate
degree until the people of the Program
start viewing students in a different
light. A light that will show the need for
the Program to respect its students as
much as the students must respect it.

The completeness of the powerless
position that black students as a whole,
hold on the UMass campus can only be
traced back to the two lethal diseases
that are running rampant on the epi-
demic level throughout the black stu-
dent body. The diseases being apathy
and political barbarism. Both diseases
are highly contagious and can lead to
mental stagnation and death. The over-
whelming number of black students
struck down from these cancer-like dis-
eases is staggering.

How any black man can allow him-
self to become a victim of apathy;

apathetic to the reality of the un-
realness of his relationship, as a black
man, to himself, his woman, his society,
is inconceivable. Yet black student
apathy is a reality on this campus and
we must deal with it. Apathy basically
stems from ignorance (total lack of
understanding of what's going on) there-
fore a long term antidote would be
education, in our case a black educa-
tion. Education is a long drawn out
process and time seems to be the only
thing black students don't have on their
side. Therefore we must develop a short
term way of dealing with it to go along
with the long term process of education.
We must take advantage of apathy;
make it work for us. We must tell apa-
thetic students what to think, what to
say, and how to react, reaction is the
only thing they are capable of. In-
humane? Face reality, apathetic people
don't think because they are afraid to,
they don't speak because they don't
have anything to say, and they don't act
because they're too busy reacting. If
black people want to walk around like
robots (gadgets) then program them; if
we don't the man will.

Political barbarism or political inex-
perience is the primary force that is
keeping thinking brothers and sisters
from establishing a real black student
front on campus. The only way we can
cure this political inexperience is by ex-
periencing or practicing politics; true
knowledge comes only from practice.
Black vanity, black paranoia, and black
distrust make it almost impossible for
black students to practice politics. Too
proud to make a mistake, too afraid to
take on responsibility, not enough trust
in oneself to trust anyone else, all these
make it unfeasible for a black student to
practice politics. Vanity, paranoia, and
distrust can only be dealt with on an
individual level, brothers and sisters, I
suggest we start dealing with them be-
fore they deal the final blow on us.

Hillbillies, Harlemites
& Peacenicks

in Vietnam

By Doug Ruhe

Doug Ruhe is presently a graduate student at the
University of iVIassachusetts School of Educa-
tion.

Classified as a Conscientious Objector, Ruhe
served in Vietnam as a nnedic. The following
article, which was written while the author was
still stationed in Southeast Asia, is excerpted
from a larger essay in which Ruhe describes his
experiences in Vietnam.

Vietnam is like a great Rorschach test exploring the
attitudes and beliefs harbored by average Americans; it
evokes the aggregate of values and notions which they
have absorbed from our culture and schools.

Because the arriving GI has been offered almost no
explanation whatever of the causes, history, peoples,
strategies, economics and politics of war, he confronts a
vast and confusing array of experiences that are ex-
tremely foreign to him. The hords of small Vietnamese
peoples who surround him when he takes time off in
town, sing-song crazily in languages he finds completely
unintelligible. To function and communicate with them,
he must choose an understanding of who he is in relation
to them and what is his mission.

The prospect of investigation into the several cultures
is inviting. He senses hostility and resentment in the
people and derision in their laughter. Few, if any, Amer-
icans that he meets have knowledge of the languages,
while a general suspicion prevails that all the indigenous
folk either are VC or give allegiance to the VC. The

enemy can't be distinguished from the people; so,
subtly, the people become the enemy. And these suspi-
cions are nurtured by the realization that the only Viet-
namese people who seem eager to consort with them are
brazen hustlers, pimps, whores, and shifty-eyed thieves.
A pageant of avarice unfolds in that segment of Vietna-
mese society open to them. (One gets the impression
that Vietnam has been converted into a garrish bazaar-
bordello to accommodate the material and physical lusts
of theGI's.)

Admittedly this presents a formidable barrier to
ordinary human conversation and friendship. Cash com-
munication is hard to penetrate, but it is the rare GI who
even makes an attempt to investigate.

For most of the Americans I have met, the easiest and
most natural alternative to search out is to reach into the
fagbag of racist and chauvinistic cliches they have ac-
quired in American society. Knowing who the Vietna-
mese are, and one's own position, one then is reduced to
the process of selecting appropriate formulas from the
American Way of Life.

Poor Asian countries, for example, populated with
"backward". Oriental, "uneducated" people, some of
whom are "communists", are something we (GI's) have
heard about from our teachers in school, our families
and friends, ever since we were young children. The
exalted status America allegedly holds, compared with
such nations and peoples, or any nation or people for
that matter, is reflex knowledge. We've been told it a
thousand times: America is the greatest nation that ever
was; our people are the most educated, sanitary, rich,
free, honest, etc.

Among my fellow GI's, genocide is far and away the
most popular solution to the Vietnamese Question. It is
embodied in a variety of similarly inspired "plans", from

the invasion of the North with two million troops, to
saturated bombing of all populated areas where the
enemy might be. The jargon has it that we should "quit
messing around" and comfortably unleash a tech-
nological scourge. Negotiated settlement, until very re-
cently, was scorned by most as an abdication to the
hippie-commie coalition in the states, or as surrender to
the "little man", "Charlie". More dearly felt than these
reasons is the craving for revenge.

Thirty-five thousand Americans* have died here and
someone should pay drastically for it. (No one I have
questioned has any idea how many Vietnamese soldiers
have died, since the army apparently finds these statis-
tics lacking in significance. Presumably, the estimated
500,000 lives lost by the VC and the NVA during the
war, and the devastation wrought on the North by three
years of bombing, are not sacrifice enough).

A college-educated acquaintance told me one day at
noon chow:

"What we ought to do is pull our troops out of
Vietnam and when they're on the boats in the
South China Sea, nuke the hell out of the gooks.
Then there'd be peace and we could all go home.'

The person who uttered this remark is not an embittered
eccentric hater or a paranoid mad-dog. On the contrary
he has a gleaming smile, and is articulate and com-
mercially handsome. The words, though said in a
pleasant conversational manner, were expressed with
complete seriousness as well.

Asked about the justice of slaughtering benign civil-
ians, many of whom may be either a-political or anti-
communist, the speaker's voice hardens; he grimaces in
mock pain. He is talking, he now knows, to one of those
"unreahstic" humanitarian peacenik types. "Fuck 'em.
This is war! " he sneers.

The advocacy of genocide here, as a victory climax to
the war suggests a whole complex of assumptions and
beliefs: the base themes of our society. Indeed, the
soldiers here are echoing a sentiment I heard in the states
many times before leaving. There it was bad manners.
Here, they let it all hang out.

Racism is the word "gook", an ubiquitous epithet
among GI's. "Gook" thinking is one, if not the primary
factor in the genocide equation; it converts human be-
ings to things which are strange and repellent. So perva-
sive is this thesis, that I have continually heard the
epithet used by Black, Puerto Rican and Mexican GI's,
as well as their more predictable white comrades. Watch-
ing a Black soldier swaggering among the Vietnamese,
imperiously cursing, having his shoes shined by jostling
urchins or buying their awe and companionship with a
roll of military dollars, at first seems grotesque, but
upon reflection, shouldn't be considered.

Our culture is saturated with racist thinking and
many ghetto dwellers, as the objects of most of it are
tyrannized by its logic. Nonetheless it is bizarre to listen
(as I several times have) while a Black or Mexican-
American holds forth on the alleged attributes held to be
proof of "gook" inferiority, poverty, stupidity, laziness,
immorality, lack of education and cleanliness, etc. I
always have the weird sensation that I am talking to a
Mississippi redneck in blackface. "Probably in America
they'd call the Vietnamese 'niggers'," is my stock retort.
Yet, in fairness, it must be added that whites most
frequently manifest the super-race style and that many
GI's from the minority peoples of America, especially
Black people, are acutely aware of the irony of an
"anti-gook" campaign, and disturbed by the ugly cur-
rents of racism in the military.

My first sultry day in Vietnam was spent at the Cam
Ranh Bay Reception station working on a detail. I was
surprised at the large numbers of Vietnamese people in
the compound, who could be seen everywhere doing the
dirty-work for the Americans; dishwashing, feces burn-
ing, sand bag filling, sweeping, laundering, shoe shining,
etc. The older people, I reflected had probably done
e.xactly the same tasks for the French Colonial Army
fifteen years prior. And, I later learned, these drudges
are to be found in large numbers on every base and
installation.

More interesting than the Vietnamese presence itself,
however, was the response of the GI's to them. Fellows
just arrived on the plane with me, began addressing the
Vietnamese in the peremptory tones of plantation over-
seers. There was no period of adjustment. Arkansas
hillbillies and Harlemites fell into the master role as
easily as the middle class GI's. The office to which I was
assigned a painting chore was duted and swept by a
withered and watchful old lady in a beaten conical straw
hat and black rayon britches. Everyone in the office
(NCO's, officers, enlisted men) spoke to her playfully in
the most vulgar and abusive manner imagineable, as
though she were a prostitute. When she seemed uncom-
prehending or doubtful of their humor, they resorted to
lewd gestures. One of the men on the job with me joined
freely in the conversation that centered on the "use" of
"gook" women.

The racism that dominates the GI consciousness not
only blocks his power to witness and comprehend the
way the Vietnamese people think and exist, it also
corrupts his heart; he cannot feel what his brothers feel,
does not care about the injustices done them, and can-
not see with his own eyes. He imagines himself a mem-
ber of the master race, product of the greatest, cleanest
nation, and bearer of the "American Way of Life". His
experiences seem to confirm all his stock preconceptions
and malignant ideas, while the fear of death compounds
the irrational process and brutalizes his entire psyche.

{*Ed. note — the figure is now well up to over 40,000)

Li 'I black boy

Want to see something?

Come.

Let's see Death.

He is part of us.

You only five

Too bad,

Death wants you to see Him

So come on now.

By William Smith

There was commotion; a loud boom, then high pitched
yells and screams. Some lady, whose name escapes my
memory, came stumbling up to our gate. The squat, heavily
perspiring woman yelled into our doorway, "Miss Katie!
Dey shootin' in Thirty!"

Things from that point happened so fast, my memory
only recalls my standing at our gate craning my neck to see
through the openings between the houses across the street.
This row of irregularly spaced shack-houses formed the
boundary of "Dirty Thirty". Thirty dilapadated houses
wedged together on a triangular strip of land dissected by
two rutted streets.

People scampered back and forth through the narrow
openings between the houses. The air was filled with cries
of "Lo'd have mercy". "Oh God!", "Look out", and "Da
nigga's gone crazy". I remember one distinct scream above
the general pandamonium. It sounded more distant, but
distinct in that it was continuous. There was what seemed a
moment of silence. The scream came again. This time
louder; the voice of a woman screaming damnation.

BLAMM! "A gun!" I thought.

Silence.

I sprang quickly through our gate and across the street
where I stood half crouched beside a fire hydrant. Ner-
vously I glanced about, trying to see what was happening in
"Thirty" while at the same time on the lookout for my
Momma. She had given the firm command for me not to
leave the front yard. Curiosity was greater than command. I
darted from the fire hydrant to the back steps of Mrs. Willie
Belle's house. A human knot, pushing and shoving, was
ringed around the front of Miss Eva's house. My jumbled
thoughts as to what was on the other side of the crowd
were interrupted by the wail of sirens.

The '49 Ford leaned heavily onto the narrow, gutted
street. Its siren screeching and red lights flashing. Out
jumped three policemen, guns drawn.

"Alright, you'en git 'way from here", they ordered.

A short fat "po-lece" grabbed a tall, skinny black man
by the shirt collar and crushed a pistol against the man's
head. The skinny man cupped his hands to his face and
blindly pushed his way through the thinning crowd.

And then I saw it.

Propped against the steps of Miss Eva's porch was her
brother, Mister Buddy. I caught only a glimpse of him but I
vividly recall his head hanging limply to one side. There was
blood dripping from Mister Buddy's body. The sight of the
dark red flesh caused my stomach to quiver. I wanted my
Momma. Frantically I scrambled from the steps and dashed
through a hedgerow, crossed the street, and bounded up the
steps to our house.

I was in the house only minutes before Momma came.
We went into the kitchen and sat at the table. For a long
time she just sat there, her eyes fixed on nothing in partic-
ular. Looking at the one-handed clock above the icebox,
and then turning to me, she said in a very soft voice, "it's
past eight o'clock, so you better git ready for bed."

I asked her if I could leave the door to the bedroom
open because I was afraid that Mister Buddy's body would
come and get me. She reached for my hand and gently led
me to the bedroom and whispered, "Child, that poor man's
in heaven somewhere; he can't bother you. Don't bother
yourself 'bout Mister Buddy."

She then gave me her favorite smile and added, "Any-
way, if you say your prayers, the Lord will send a special
angel to watch over you."

Cupping the back of my head in one hand and opening
the bedroom door with the other she directed me into the
dim room. I wanted to ask if I could leave the light on but
knew it would be in vain. Momma had said many times
before, "You don't need no light when you sleepin'."

I lay in bed hoping I would go to sleep before Mister
Buddy came in to get me. Then I remembered I had not
said my prayers. It was too late to say them now I thought.
If I got out of the bed Mister Buddy might be under the
bed waiting to grab me. Then it occurred to me that if I
didn't say my prayers, God might SEND Mister Buddy to
get me.

I eased the covers back, so Mister Buddy would not
suspect that I was getting out of bed. On the count of three
I decided, I would jump out of bed and say my prayers
quickly and hop back in bed before Mister Buddy could
grab me. About the time it would take me to get back in
bed I figured God would have received the prayer and sent
a special angel down to guard me from Mister Buddy.

As I began to count to three for about the tenth time, I
heard someone coming into our house.

"Come on in Miss Willie Mae!" said Momma.

"1 jus stopped by fo ah lil spell, Katie. I'm ah gitting ole
now and can't sit 'n talk long like I use ta. Lordy! It sho
wuz ah shame what happened to Buddy and Eva."

After convincing myself that Mister Buddy could only
get me if I got off the bed itself, I crawled to the other end,
of the bed, hopefully to hear what happened to him in the
first place. "How did he git dead?" I wondered. "How did
anybody git dead?"

"Lo'd, Katie, I knowed sumthin' wuz gonna happen.
Buddy and Pig Meat been ah fussin' 'bout dat fence fo da
longest!"

"Yeah, well you know Buddy thought he owned that
shack he stayed in anyway. I reckon 'cause he'd been
staying there for nearly ten years."

"Shit! ('Scuse me Lo'd) He jus may's well afta ten yea's
o rentin'. But you'll nevah ketch me ah fussing ova dat
dump I lives in 'n I been thar might neah twenty yea's."

"You know, Miss Willie Mae, I just can't believe it. Eva
and Buddy both dead. Lo'd, Pig Meat must've been out of
his mind."

"Naw, he ain't. Dat nigga got good sense. He don' it
'cause he knowed he git 'way wit' it."

"He ain't gonna git away with this. He'll do some time
for killing them folks."

"You thank so, child?"

"Shucks! Eva and Buddy never bothered anybody. Sure,
they are gonna send him up for some long time."

"Ummm no 'bout dat. Look what evahbody thought
'bout Luthar Johnson stabbin' dat Green child 'n den
shootin' her brother dead. Shucks, dat nigga won't on the
chain gang ah good yea' fo dey let 'im out in da street
again. 'N what 'bout ole Charlie Croft when he killed
Mammie Louise. Dat nigga ain't don no time to dis day. An'
Pig Meat shot dat po Sly bo las' summah 'n dent do but
tutty days on da chain gang."

"Yeah, well you know as good as I do they ain't gonna
give no time to anybody for doing anything to a nigga."

"Kattie child, dats da sho 'nough truth! Why you see da
ole po-lece ah bitten' Slim McNeil side da head for nuthin'?
An' den turned rat 'round 'n grinned in dat fool, Pig Meat's
face, talking' 'bout "Look like you n' done killed yo self ah
coupla niggahs, huh boy?"

"Wuzn't that something? Umph, umph, umph

Poor Eva and Buddy, both dead."

"Yeah, dey bof died fo dey knowed good what hit 'em."

The Role of a Black Playwright
in the Twentieth Century

By Danny Scarborugh

During my short career as a play-
wright, I am beginning to discover that I
am primarily concerned with creating
some type of legitimate reaction be-
tween a Black character and the Black
audience. Needless to say, 1 have been
told that a playwright should address
himself to a "university" ... for that is
what I am about. I try to communicate
the language of my people. Unlike some
modern Black playwrights who have
been seduced into a mystical bag or hate
whitey bag, I am interested in writing
plays which, for the most part, stay
within the realm of reality. This reality,
because of the history of Black people
in the United States, can, and on some
ocassions, should be one that can handle
a Black/White encounter from a Histor-
ical or aesthetic perspective without be-
coming obsessed with "up against the
wall . . . honkie." To paraphrase a pas-
sage from Ed Bullin's New Plays From
the Black Theatre, I am not trying to
create a higher form of white art in
Black face. I am desparately trying to
work towards a form of liberation
theatre that will encompass both the
soul and spirit of the various Black ex-
periences.

As an elaboration on this point, I
should mention Lonne Elder's Cere-
monies in Dark Old Men; during Mr.
Elder's visit to Amherst, Mass. to view
the Black Repertory Theatre's produc-
tion of his play, he talked with members
of the cast, crew, and the director from
1 1 :00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. He emphasized
the fact that the white man had become
so unimportant to Ceremonies in Dark
Old Men until the characters referred to
him as Mr. You Know Who. Yet, with-
out exaggerating the reality of his Har-
lem setting, without polluting the stage

with an overabundance of mis-placed
profanity, and without sacrificing the
"Blackness" of his characters, Mr. Elder
managed to capture the tragedy of the
oppressor oppressing the oppressed. The
audience, for the most part, knew why
Mr. Russell Parker was engaged in a con-
tinuing battle for his manhood, they
could understand Adele Parker's "going
to meet the man" from nine to five,
they could understand Blue Haven's
desire to use people before they used
him, and finally, they could sympathize
with Theopolis Parker's refusal to "go
downtown" to push a cart. Close read-
ing of Mr. Elder's play reveals that "up
against the wall, honkie" could very
well be one of the themes of the play.
Yet, his handling of Mr. You Know Who
is that of an ever present shadow that
can and will be dealt with. As an artist,
Mr. Elder does not perpetrate a social lie.
Instead, he validates the Black aesthetic.
In exchanging manuscripts with
other young Black playwrights, who,
like myself, are waiting for an oppor-
tunity to share their ideas through the
printed medium, I have found that some
of us are trying to make use of the
immediate past in an attempt to mold
the future of the Black theatre. To para-
phrase a speech by Raymond Watson in
a different context. Black playwrights
have endured the scorn of white critics
. . . but continued to produce. They
have been told that their plays were not
aesthetically functional ... but con-
tinued to produce. Now, we've got a
good thing going . . . Black dramatists
are addressing themselves to the people
for the liberation of the people. If some
white critics find the dramas of Black
playwrights are aesthetically weak —
that is the problem of the white critic.

let him deal with it. We know what we
are about.

As a Black playwright, I am inclined
to believe that there are those of us who
have come into our own — those of us
who are coming into our own — and
those of us who have always been. As
Gravedigger said to Coffinhead in Cot-
ton Comes to Harlem, "That's Black
enough for me."

Earlier, I stated that I was concerned
with heritage and culture of the people.
In my play We Shall Overcome: Or
Else, .... and if you are wondering "or
else what" you will need to be around
to find out ... the basic setting is that
of a custom from my community con-
cerning the Wake. On this ocassion, the
body of the "loved one" is brought
home to "lie in state." During the Wake,
we learn how good the man was, how
natural he looks, and how well he was
put away. Perhaps I should note here
that the Wake provides an opportunity
for a cross-section of the Black com-
munity to meet. The local wino comes
by to pay his respects. The flower girls
and the pall bearers will come by for
two reasons: to sympathize with the
family and to make sure that all of the
pall bearers have either black or blue
suits for the funeral and all of the
flower girls have either white or black
dresses. At this same Wake, we meet the
signifier, whom I will discuss later, the
local minister, the local Prophet, elders,
deacons, teachers, workers from the cot-
ton mill, farmers, just plain folk and
... the under taker. As an example, let
me introduce you to some of the people
who attend the Wake in We Shall
Overcome: Or Else.

First of all, there is David, who in
speaking to Bernard, says the following:

David: You know, Bro., some of his
words should have been immortal-
ized. Some institute should have col-
lected his papers. Why somebody
should have committed his last words
to paper.
Bernard replies:

Bernard: Toilet tissue, may be?
That bit of Black culture which comes
across in the above is known as ranking

or signifying terms for dissecting

a man's skin from his body without
touching him.

The next person to appear at the
Wake is Wilbert, a one time rocking
chair advocate of all out revolution who
has reached that stage in life where he is
tired of talking.

Wilbert: Peace Brothers! I bring you
greetings from the Mother Land. I
bring you hope from Africa.
Bernard, an advocate of streetology here
in the United States, replies by saying:
Bernard: Did you bring any food, Wil-
bert? Did you bring anything to eat?
Wilbert: Ease up, Bernie. I just thought
I'd drop by to pay my respects to my
man there; I hear he talked himself
into a stupor.

Later on in the play, we meet Larry,
a would be militant, who during one
scene between Bernard and himself,
describes how he is doing all he ever
intends to do to help the Movement by
staying out of the way and sitting on his
natural ass.

Larry: Look, Bernard, Don't preach to
me. I've served my time on the
street. Man . . . how do some folks
say it ... I've paid my dues.
Bernard: . . . It's always I, Larry. Why
don't you ever think in terms of We?
We the people. We the United Black

front. We the Black community . . .

We...
And Larry interrupts and says ....
Larry: We some shit. I am only Black-

assed Larry! One man, Bro. I speak

for me.
Wilbert: Well you're doing a piss poor

job of that.

Later on, the audience is given the
opportunity to see what I refer to as the
"Essential" Larry.

Larry: Don't you see my side, Wilbert?
I've got to give more to the Move-
ment than another dead body. I'm so
out of it, man. There are times when
I don't know if I'm going, coming, or
hanging on. If I could straddle this
sick society and ride it with one foot
in the right spur and one foot in the
left .,. . I would. But I can't straddle
it in these days and times. To hear
you people talk, it's either Black or
something else. There's nothing in
between. Man, I marched and studied
and just like the Bro there, I've
talked. And when things started clos-
ing in on me .... I prayed. Yeah me
. . . Larry in the eagle's pit . . pray-
ing But he never answered,

Bernard. He never even answered.

During the course of the play, we
meet one really jive time Bro.,
Oleg. . . . It's Oleg's basic philosophy
that an international sex orgy would
solve everything.

After meeting Nita, Charles, and Jay,
the audience is given the chance to
watch such historical figures as Eldridge
Cleaver, James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon,
and W.E.B. DuBois substantiate Ber-
nard's claim that the Brotherhood of
other people is about as close to religion
as a man should ever desire to be.

During one scene from We Shall
Overcome: Or Else, Bernard internally
disembodies the Statue of Liberty.
Bernard: You know, Larry, everytime I
look at the Statue of Liberty, I have
this inner urge to snatch it off its
pedestal. I have this urge to put it on
solid ground so that it can see the
poor, hungry, and tired people of
this world. If it would lower that
God Damn light ... it might be able
to see those masses of Black people
raising hell to get some freedom.
How Black are you now, Larry? How
Black are you going to get?

One of the most "cutting" moments
in the play occurs when Wilbert tells
Larry the following:

Wilbert: Things aren't the way they
used to be are they, Larry. Some of
the gray folks are using you. The
colored folks don't like you. You
aren't Negro enough for the Negroes

and (laughing) no other race

of people will claim you. Blessed are
those who go around in eternal cir-
cles, for they shall be called wheels.
Amen.

Towards the end of the play, when Nita,

a Sister who has her program pretty

much together, tells Larry,

Nita: Look, Larry, somebody's got to
do something. We need Ministers of
Blackness

Larry replies ....

Larry: Sorry, Nita. My field is not theol-
ogy.

One of the play's inspirational mo-
ments occurs when Bernard tells Larry,
Bernard: We're going to get it together,
Larry. We're going to be like Pan-
thers lurking through an infested
jungle . . . waiting for the kill. And

man, either we shall overcome

or else.

It seems as though it takes me for-
ever to write a play. 1 am constantly
re-writing and thinking about those
sources which provide material. My Bap-
tist church is one source. 1 guess the
plot of a play centered around the
church would — in part — involve the at-
titude of the church towards a girl who
is about to have an illegitimate child.
You see — at one time — a girl who was
about to have a child out of wedlock at
Friendship Chapel Baptist Church
would not only be dismissed from the
church during a "conference meeting"
but her name would be removed from
the Church register. The irony of this
particular situation is -just when the
girl really needs the church, she receives
a scarlet letter. The rest of the plot
would involve the series of changes the
congregation goes through when one of
its members objects to the procedure.

Another source of material is my
home town, Wake Forest, North Carol-
ina. The town itself is divided by a rail-
road track. I can vividly remember the
local movie house being integrated one
day, and going up in smoke the next. I
can remember the day a shot gun blast
interrupted my family's rendition of "O
Come All Ye Faithful." 1 can remember
my Grandmother telling the "man" that
she was Mrs. Hall and not Ant Ella. I
can remember an incident between an
Aunt and a salesman. My Aunt was try-
ing to get my Grandfather to a hospital.
See if you can envision the scene. The
ambulance is parked in front of the
house. The undertaker is wheeling my
Grandfather out of the house. The sales-
man — who must have been desparate

for a client — asked my aunt if he could
interest her in some siding for the
house. You should have seen the expres-
sion when she said, "Hell n' all, I don't
want no damn siding. This man is sick
and you talking about siding. Ain't got
no damn side meat, . . . and you talking
about siding for a house. Damn the
house. Damn you, and Damn the sid-
ing."

Those of you who are familiar with
the late Langston Hughes, know that he
was in direct contact with the people.
He frequented the bars, the church, the
night clubs, and the local hang outs.
Langston knew where the material was
and he employed it in his plays. Tom-
bourines to Glory, Soul Gone Home,
Simply Heavenly and Mulatto are ex-
amples.

Language is an important factor in
the drama of a Black playwright. If a
Black experience, as depicted by a Black
playwright, is to have any nuance of
reality, it should concern itself with
both the dialect and "in" sayings of that
particular segment of the Black popu-
lace recreated on stage. Needless to say,
you would not expect a southern Black
from Tippy Toes, North Carolina to talk
like a northern Black from Brooklyn.
Whereas the greeting may be "What's
happening baby," in Brooklyn, it's "How
y'ali doing" in Tippy Toes, North Carol-
ina.

I was once asked if the training of a
Black playwright was unique. By virtue
of the Black playwright's background,
the training is unique. But beyond this,
there are some other factors to consider.
Perhaps some of the best advice given to
me by a prominent Black playwright
was to read everything within my reach.

This gives a playwright an opportunity
to find out what works and what does
not work. At the same time, it does not
interfere with his desire to experiment.
1 can conclude by saying that if there
is to be a dramatic epic in this century,
it will come from the Black Theatre
.... all of the essentials for such an
epic are to be found in the experiences
of Black America.

Book Review

by Cal B. Whitworth

The Street — Anne Retry

Once again we are confronted with a description
of Harlem, ou/stereotype ghetto. Countless attempts
to describe Harlem to those who were
nough not to be there when it was in its
imeV IS it still is). Its tales have been recounted
aut\ biographies. After you have read "The Street"
find that there is still more to learn about
'ships of life in Harlem.

has conditioned us into believing that the only
ing in the ghetto have been put forth by "the
■, Ann Petry colours the obstacles which black
nted for themselves. "The Street" is a bold,
J which depicts the intensity of a young black
0 good-looking to be decent" who is trying to hurdle
s.

%son was "a soul on ice in a brutal ghetto. " She
trying to make it out of the slums. Her husband
icouldn 't hang it. He couldn 't hang being supported by his wife,
especially when his wife was away working for white folks. He
know the insults she had to suffer, but he could do nothing about it. So rather than face up to it, he
packed and left.

Lutie took her son Bub to live with her father, but Lil (her fathers' girlfriend) proved a bad
influence on Bub. Consequently Lutie searches for an apartment, but finds trouble instead. . An old
super who jives her, a fast-moving musician who tries to use her, and a white man who owns the
casino and would also like to own her.

When Lutie rejects all three of them she literally brings the curtain down on her life. The super
makes an all-out attempt to get even by cajoling Bub into stealing letters from mailboxes with the
misconception that he is aiding the police. When Bub is caught by the police (with the aid of super)
Lutie has to produce $200. dollars to pay his lawyers.

In desperation Lutie asks the musician to loan her money. As is true to life he promises to loan
her the money if she'll spend the night with him. Lutie turns to leave, anger surging through her, and
as he attempts to force himself on her she defends herself with an iron candlestick on the mantlepiece.
He was dead.

Lutie decides to leave town. Leaving Bub behind she takes a train for Chicago. Bub will
probably go to a reform school anyway, she thinks to herself. What possible chance could he have with
a murderer for a mother?

He would understand.

He would remember that she loved him; at least she hoped.

Will the god of war crush the flowers this year with his iron feet?

Will two opposing forces come to a peaceful valley to meet ?

Will a nation die from defeat?

Will evolution be neat, and with people take a seat?

Will the god of war eat?

Will the god of war sleep ?

Will the god of war keep ?

Will the god of war heat?

Wills, minds, bodies, souls, spirits of Pete. *

Will the god of war burn the wheat?

Will the god of war spoil the meat?

Will the god of war give all humanity a treat, and destroy us all with his heavy feet?

Will the god of war enslave the world with a fleet?

Will the god of war leave just a little land to start over on such as Crete?

Will the god of war march upon the earth, if he was wearing kleets on his heavy iron feet?

Will the god of war make all mankind retreat?

Will repeat?

Will the god of war crush the flowers this year with his iron feet?

*(Soldiers)

by Erick Walker,
Street Academy System of
Springfield, Incorporated

estrangement —

keep the nigger down,
downtown, uptown,
off the streets, in the bouse
in the closet, but keep bim . . .

estranged

to others, to self

make him certain of his uncertainties,

and keep the nigger down,

in his place . . .

estranged

from a heritage of the past,
from his world of the present,
from the hope of a future
and his estrangement will continue
to continue . . .

to keep the nigger down.

John E. Davis

Sound Review

by Bruce Harris

Miles Davis / Bitches Brew

Columbia

Personnel: Miles Davis, trumpet; Wayne Shorter,

soprano sax; Lenny White, drums;
Bennie Maupin, bass clarinet;
Chick Corea, electric piano; Jim Riley,
percussion; Jack Dejohnete, drums;
Harvey Brooks, fender bass;
Charles A lias, drums; Dave Holland, bass;
John McLaughlin, electric guitar;
Joe Zawinul, electric piano; Larry Young,
electric piano.

Songs: Pharaoh 's Dance, Bitches Brew, Spanish Key,

John McLaughlin, Miles Runs the Voodoo Down,
Sanctuary.

Miles ' newest album proves once again the creativ-
ity that is Miles Davis. The group included on this
album Is much larger than those with which Miles
usually plays, but true to Miles, the larger group
maintains the unity of his previous small groups, and
the music is complex without confusion. One again is
forced to ask himself If Miles' brain will ever run
out of new ideas.

The only trumpet on the album Is played by Miles,

and he leads the album as

always. His solos are the
most sensitive yet, often
played In a style of
Intermittent, Irregular
bursts of music (especially
in "Spanish Key").
"Pharaoh 's Dance" starts off
with the two electric pianos
which produce an intricate
pattern of Interwoven notes,
plus fast drumming. Then,
the drumming stops for a
short moment, leaving only
the pianos to intertwine
their notes. Miles comes
in smooth and strong, backed
up by McLaughlin's excellent
guitar. Then the song picks
up its tempo, and Miles bursts in off and on with sound. The drum-
ming drives the music on and on to a high intensity, becoming almost
frantic until the soothing end.

In "Miles Runs the Voodoo Down", after a rhythm build-
up on the drums, Miles enters with a slow trumpet that hits even the
highest notes without any screech, and fluctuates in volume with
ease.

"Sanctuary" is calm as Miles starts off with a slow
melody in which the notes are often held for a long time. Then an
irregular drumming, starting in the background and pushing its way
to the front, slowly builds the piece to a short, frantic climax
after which the slow tempo takes over again.

One would almost think that Miles will be hard put to
beat this album.

But we have thought that in the past, too . . .

LkoctAlvn

oeMi

-t>sel*'^g^

Lapromesadeanmundomejor

auaegentesdesabiduru
aayudatloensunac.m.emo.

Faith ■■""»«"' "'7''^
Brings u-.« men /<"

W>5 M/ JIAZA HABLA EL ESPIHITU

4127170

the sound of fury and impatience
marked the day . . .

The shout went up, spiralled, swirled, and reaffirmed
that a new cadre was born. CHICANO POWER and
BROTHER LOVE! Yale University resounded with
Mexican-American sense of being. It was April 24th and
25th, 1970, and the circumstances were the founding of
a Northeast Chicano Alliance.

A conference had been called by MECHA (Movimiento
Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan - Chicano Student
Movement of Aztlan). Chicanos from all over the
Northeast came in. Everyone was embracing. "Hola,
Carnal," we shouted to each other. "Viva la Raza," we
responded. Talk reverberated. From boycotting grapes
to affirming the Alliance of the Pueblos Libres of Aztlan
(separatism and a new nation in the Southwest) to
supporting the Panther Party as it strives to survive.

There is a Third World! What is needed now is a party
that is Third World; a party that can deal with the issues;
a party that can help bring about an end to racism — for
only those of us who have been hurt by the awesomely
brutal horrendousness of institutional racism can know
the burdens that we carry. White middle class ameriKa
wants to deal only with symptoms, not gut issues. We
must pave the way.

Nosotros, the Chicanos in the Northeast have established
an Alliance to exchange resources and to support our
brothers in the struggle. We extend our embrace as
brothers to black america, Indian america, asian america,
puertorican america, and to oppressed america in hope
and activism that we might all get together to create a
new social order. Viva la Causa! Viva el mundo tercero —
to the Third World and its Liberation!

Ricardo Sanchez

4128170

black brother
you shout out soulness
i shout out carnal ismo
and we mean
the same

thing . . .

we really aren 't

so different
except in our

language patterns;

where you now rap a neo-english,
I rap calo/spanish

but our eyes know
the feelings of our beings;
my alma latina/chicana
flows madly and girds

my rhytmic sense of life
while your black soul

beatifies your being . . .

chingao, brothers,
but the business of living
is something we both do well;

our living is based on life

not dollars, cents, or marginal profit scales.

let us go forth together

in quest for a new society , . .

Ricardo Sanchez

may 1, 1970

"to my daughter, newly born. . ."

listen well, my child,
life is not so mysterious
(as some claim);
it is rather a thing of carnival
that should ring out
the you-ness that you feel. . .

Liber tad, named for a freedom
that is only futuristic for our

brothers/sisters
of la raza unida de aztlan . . .
it is trial and tribulation being born
into the role of the Chicano,
but it is also a proud reckoning
and self-acceptance
being able to look
the world in the eye
and proclaim
with one's existence
that one is what one is
and life is a beautiful thing.

wear well, mid-week one born
last Wednesday, the heritage
that swaddles you;
smile out Chicano beauty,
embrace the world with Chicanismo

as the spirit of your harmandad.

Libertad, be free.

Free as your name,

free as your heritage demands,

free as your soul must be

that you may grow

to reach the zany zenith

of your enfant's expectations. . .
Libertad,

gurgle out

the joy

being

live,
reach out
and grapple

with la vida
and teach us human-ness.

Ricardo Sanchez

It is tellingly spoken

That a slave, in idleness

Before his death,

Perched the stem of a three-leaf clover.

And in this wound placed

A fourth.

Had he time to name his own

creation's symbolism,

Might it have been,

"Life With A Purpose?"

anonymous

We say it loud, with A froed hieads

and claim we 're proud of blacf^ness.
We tall^ trim, and scream revolution,

while we shout unity with clenched fists,
then yell power, with symbols of peace?
But when it comes time to act

we speak very,

very

softly.

John E. Davis

''How close Is home?"

I saw a man, black and woolly being beaten in the street.

But I did nothing.
Another stabbed by bayonets, in the agony of defeat.

And I did nothing . .
A woman and child burned, the tormented father hanged.

Still, I did nothing . . .
I saw a boy, yet still young, go off to fight a war,
and by my doing nothing, I had wanted more.
My neighbors' house was bombed last night!

But I did nothing!
then my mother was beaten to death; she sighed before she died,
"For Christ's sake son do something now!"

And then I did / cried.

John E. Davis

I could but

shape

fate,

there would he

blackman on the

moon,

hidden,

armed with the

unlimited.

And

anonymous

it's said

the white

undertaker

retired

after

burying five

freedom marchers

whose

mouths

did

smile in

death.

Duane Jones

Fact or Fallacy

"Lord. "

"I am coming to you from hell's fire . "
"You put me here

for killing my master who killed my baby.
"I've been here for over 100 years."
"Every now and then I peek at earth. "
"Things have changed. "
"My people drive cars ..."
"Wear suits on Sunday ..."
"Live in apartments. "

"Lord. "

"The cars they drive are for the people in the back seat. "
"They turn and stop when directed. "

"The suit they wear wears only on Sunday and is the only
"The apartments host high rents,
rats and plugged comods. "
"Things have changed. "
"People are the same. "

"Lord. "

"If you ever bring me back on earth ..."

" . . . make me a dog, or a car, or a cow. "

"Something with a chance. "

"If you can 't do that . . leave me here. "

"I'm used to the heat now. "

Amen.

Talking to a mute

I asked her why
she allowed this to hold her back

I told her of the
opportunity in this land of the free

and I raised my hand
to cross her face

she showed me
her skin and quelled my curiosity.

anonymous

The sky blackened

Had God lain down,

Naked,

On the lucid boundary of heaven?

Or had he gotten up?

Does it really matter?
It still will rain.

anonymous

those deprived

the white man can no
longer impose his
tricknology on Blacl<
people —

ask, who is

culturally deprived?

Is it the Black Brother who can

work roots;
or the "psychologist" who tells

you a homosexual has "abnormal"
tendencies.

Who is Culturally Deprived?

People of the Sun;
or people who have to
send their people to
the moon???

People who have created

spirituals, blues and jazz

tradition;

or people who have stolen,

raped and exploited

a religion, a culture
and a manhood.

Tell Me — Who are those culturally deprived?

John E. Davis

Black Boy Blues

My little Black boy so sad and blue,

Come tell your mamma tout's wrong wid you.

It mus ' be somepin ' really bad,

'Cuz teats like dat I nevuh had.

Now dry dos eyes and look at me,
'Cuz if your hurt I sho can 't see.

Wut's dat boy I heah you say?

Now Mamma you know jes why I's sad,
It's cuz I ain 't got me no dad.

Marlene R. Andrade

Threshold of Freedom

As I stand on the threshold of freedom,
I pause to reflect on this path.
Yes, it was inevitable: in this my
faith was unshaken. A miserable
journey, though, so much had to be
overcome. Many years gone by full
of misery, misery and tears, brought
on by the condition — the condition, of
course Black. But I'm thankfid now;
the sojourn is over. The trek is over.
That trek through miles of degradation,
humiliation, servitude, filth, neglect,
poverty, and fear. Yes fear, fear
that the end never would come. But the
time is now.

So, as I stand on the threshold of freedom,
I feel so very free, and I'm happy Lord,
as I welcome my death.

Marlene R. Andrade

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