Unforgivable Blackness;
The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson
by Geoffrey C. Ward.
Hardback, 492 pages with illustrations and notes.

Just a week ago the United States Government offered an official apology for the practice of lynching. Beginning shortly after the Civil War and ending as late as the 1950’s–some say the 1960’s–lynching was the “punishment” meted out to African Americans who were thought to have not “known their place” by certain white members of the population. My own hometown of Westminster, Maryland was the scene of at least two lynchings: the first that of Townsend Cook, who met his end at a quarry outside of town in the early 1880’s for the alleged rape of a white woman; the other taking place in the early years of the 20th century, just about the time that Jack Johnson was making his bid to be the first undisputed heavy-weight champion of the world. It is remarkable that Johnson himself did not die at the hands of a lynch mob, as he clearly worked hard to let everybody know that his place was at least equal to anyone who walked across his path, be it in the ring, or outside of it. Not only did Johnson realize his dream, after stalking after white champions who invoked the “color line” as a bid to escape the skill of his fists, but he thrived–becoming the first black athlete to amass a small fortune with his prowess and business acumen. Clearly, this was no ordinary man: he held two patents, could play the viola and loved opera, could speak two languages, was a collector of race cars at a time when the average paycheck was $10.00 a week, worked (allegedly) as a spy in W.W.I., and was a matador, an author and a movie star. And he did it all in the face of white hate, death threats, prejudice and scorn in the popular press. Not only that, but he flaunted his success, and in addition, he loved white women and had several at his beck and call.

Sadly, after achieving his goal, what white males could not do against him in the ring, they contrived to do in the American courts, and this part of Unforgivable Blackness makes for painful reading and is typical of the stories of other black athletes. Suffice it to say that Johnson is brought low again, but still manages to live with grace, although his inexplicable dislike of Joe Louis seems to have tarnished his later years. Johnson died at the wheel of a Lincoln Zephyr going over 70 miles per hour on June 9, 1945, and is buried at Graceland Cemetery in Chicago, by the side of his wife Etta Duryea Johnson.

Interestingly enough, Johnson was in exile in Europe at about the same time as the beginnings of modern art, and was friends with Arthur Cravan, an early dadaist and amateur boxer. The Johnson-Cravan match is described in these terms:

“…[Cravan’s] solution was to crouch and cover up, making himself as tiny as possible. Since a movie camera was filming the proceedings and there was hope at least a liitle money might be made by exhibitng it, Johnson toyed with him until the start of the sixth and final round.

The poet Blaise Cendrars left an account of what happened then:

`[Cravan] contented himself with turning round and round trembling visibly. The Negro prowled around him like a big black rat around a Holland cheese, tried three times in a row to call him [to] order by three kicks to the rump, and then in an effort to loosen [him] up, the Negro thumped him in the ribs, cuffed him a bit while laughing, encouraged him, swore at him, and at last, all of a sudden furious, Jack Johnson stretched him out cold with a formidable punch to the left ear, a blow worthy of a slaughterhouse.`”

It would be wonderful to see that film, if it still exists in any archive. It could be interpreted as an early example of performance art a la the Kipper Kids! This aspect of Johnson–his life in Paris among the bohemians–the artists and the poets,–has yet to be written.

There yet remains one more connection between Johnson and the avant-garde: In 1937 the aging Johnson took a $35.00 a week job at Hubert’s Museum and Flea Circus, a sideshow just off Times Square. There he entertained questions from visitors about his boxing career. Thirty-five years later, Diane Arbus would haunt Hubert’s, photographing the various unusual people who exhibited themselves there. Had Johnson lived long enough, we are certain the two would have met–and, who knows what would have happened next?

Having toiled up Parnassus (located, by the way, near Stickleyville, Virgina), we see a few folks walking along the trail ahead of us. These are the crafted writers. The careful writers. Thomas Meyer is one of this rare crew: all three of his offerings are worth coming back to. His “The Merchant’s Daughter” is especially fine.

***

My grief or her giraffe,
I wasn’t sure what she meant.

Wild flowers. Or will power?
What were the words? Yellow moved

through the fields two days ago.
And it was evening.

*

A white donkey.
A red barn.

The yellow light
the mind holds

becomes a thought.

*

For miles
the dry hills roll
in any direction.

***

Hank Lazar, too, makes the disjointed, the fragmented, not a badge of “belonging” to the experimentalists, but a manner of expression, and a manner (sans hubris) of displaying argument, thought. There’s a care in the utterance.

crossed wolf river ran along a road of words

listened in the forward movement of john’s blue train

distance is time & miles minutes crossed hobolochiito creek

linguistic visitant….

I wish this program would allow me to get the spacing correct. “from The New Spirit” is indeed fine writing.

Writers of place who should be mentioned: Honoree Fanonne Jeffers is accurate with her language and works within the cultural parameters of the South. I especially like “Ezekiel Saw de Wheel.”

Poor Ezekiel, what
A lonely man.
Feel sorry for him:
who cares to notice
Ezekiel’s cracked brow,
his holy frowns?
***

This is genuine stuff.

Kalamu ya Salaam, also a remarkable writer, gives us another take on the South. “The Moment of the First Day” is especially compelling.

Any Young is yet another poet who bears close reading for his profound connection to Southern folklore.

We end our appreciation with the remarkable “from Brambu Drezi, Book III” by Jake Berry, an experimental text fully situated in the South. You have to experience Berry’s writing to believe it. I recommend his work heartily, and will not fail to seek out more of it in future.

Now sweating, winded, we’ve finished our journey. Perhaps we’ve been a tad harsh on those we’ve encountered, but the harshness comes from the fact that your correspondent has also created his share of crippled, fragmented, blenderized, ironic, hubristic texts. He asks the forgiveness of everyone he’s mentioned in less than glowing terms, and hopes it will be bestowed upon him.

Christy Sheffield Sanford claps her hands three times and suddenly we hear mandolins and banjos kick up a rousing break-down from a nearby grove. As we crush forward among the crowd of experimental poets, we see Thomas Holley Chivers advancing under the trees, wearing a crown and dressed in an ermine-trimmed robe. All around us are the fine poets we mentioned on our climb up. There’s Camille Martin dancing with Joel Daily, and Skip Fox writing notes to Bill Lavender, who shakes his head, laughs, and writes right back. There’s Bob Grumman cooling off under a shade tree with Jim Leftwich, who lifts a six ounce bottle of Coke squints his eyes, and examines the bottom for cracks. Jake Berry is mumbling something over what looks for all the world to be a voodoo doll, while poor John Lowther is still crying out for someone to untie him and pull the blind-fold from his eyes! Chivers is shaking Hank Lazer’s hand. He whispers that Edgar Allen Poe might be stopping in for a visit later on. The party lasts long into the night, and many of the crowd take the journey down Parnassus by lamp light, while a few hearty souls remain drinking Jack Black and arguing about poetics until the sun starts to rim the mountain tops and the mourning doves coo in the pines. But the big question remains: where is Andre Codrescu?