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 JAMES BALDWIN |
She bluffed her way into
an interview with her hero
of TheColumnists.com
It wasn’t supposed to be that easy. Who’d have believed that a meeting with a personal hero could be finagled with just one phone call, some blind faith and the kind of chutzpah that only the very young possess?
At 18, fresh out of high
school and already dancing down the road less traveled, it never
occurred to me that my plan wouldn’t work. At that age,
in that time, my life was orchestrated by a carpe diem
philosophy that not only meant seizing any opportunity, but believing
that good things could happen simply by asking.
In that 18th summer I’d just moved to Greenwich Village,
intent on living the artist’s life. The third-floor walk-up
apartment on Bleecker and McDougal--an area considered the command
post of the Village art and literary scene--cost a king’s
ransom at $70 a month. It was a dive, just a step above hovel,
but had all the amenities of New York life, including hot-and-cold
running roaches, leaky plumbing and brown bath water with more
minerals than a West Virginia strip mine.
My three other roommates
agreed it was perfect. So what if the radiators didn’t work,
the windows wouldn’t close and we had to navigate an obstacle
course of winos on the way up our stairs? It was all part of
the lifestyle, sacrificing everything else for the art. The energy
on the streets, the casual exchange of creative ideas by resident
writers, artists and musicians made any lack of creature comforts
seem a small sacrifice. At 18, it was all about pursuing life
passions.
So when the word on the streets circulated about one of my personal
passions, there was nothing to do but act. At nearby Café
Figaro, all the literati were buzzing about it. James Baldwin,
my favorite author, inspiration and renowned literary lion was
coming home to New York.
As an expatriate living
in the French literary community since 1948, Baldwin returned
often to lecture and teach. This time, his itinerary would bring
him back to the Village, the same place he began work on his
first book, "Go Tell It On The Mountain." Successive
works like "Nobody Knows My Name" and "The Fire
Next Time" only cemented his reputation as one of the most
eloquent and powerful young talents of his time.
While his stories reflected the racial struggles observed throughout
his Harlem childhood, they also portrayed the frailty of human
behavior, including all the conflict and despair and somehow,
impossibly, the glimmer of beauty that existed within. He chose
to write about forgiveness and redemption instead of condemnation,
and the recurring themes throughout his works were about hope
and faith in the possibility of change. An exceptional viewpoint,
considering the conflicts of his personal life - including coming
to terms with his homosexuality, a difficult relationship with
his father, and a community that ostracized him as ‘the
preacher’s crazy faggot kid.’
Although Baldwin wrote about and worked extensively for civil
rights, his novels transcend racial issues. Instead he addressed
the human struggle; those emotional and social minefields where
any of us can become either victim or survivor. In doing that,
he found poetry in the pain, a kind of flawed beauty in our weaknesses,
and a celebration of our spirit. At 18, I’d read all his
books, devoured "Blues For Mister Charlie" and "Going
to Meet the Man" at warp speed, and then spent long hours
analyzing his style, marveling at the power and beauty of his
words. To a young author, James Baldwin was both inspiration
and icon. If he was coming to New York, there was no chance in
hell I’d miss meeting him.
It turned out to be much easier than expected. After some minor
digging, I got a contact name, made some phone calls, misrepresented
myself as an established international author interested in interviewing
‘the Man.’ Lies told with such conviction and verve
I was sure Baldwin would approve, since they fell squarely into
the ‘by whatever means necessary’ category.
Five days later, I was heading up to Harlem for a lunchtime meeting,
the only time slot available in Baldwin’s crowded schedule.
His contact had asked if I was familiar with Sophie’s Rib
Joint on 125th and Lenox, and if I was comfortable meeting there.
No problem, I said. At that point, I would’ve said I was
familiar with Mars.
So what does one wear on a lunch date with a literary god? At
18, externals don’t matter, especially on my budget. And
when I walked into Sophie’s, it was in hiphuggers, a halter
top, and wild Medusa hair spiraling down to my waist.
For the locals strolling by with greasy baskets of wings and
tips, I was more than a
curiosity. In those days, young white girls didn’t hang
in Harlem. They watch me openly, assuming I was some pimp’s
new recruit or a confused hippie who took a wrong turn on Amsterdam
Avenue.
When Baldwin arrived, he was more and less than I ever imagined.
More of a thrill, less of a physical presence with a lean, almost
frail body. Less assuming, nearly reticent, but his eyes were
electric. They sized me up, moved over the gypsy child/fledgling
writer and warmed into a smile even before it reached his mouth.
He’d dressed casually in dark slacks, turtleneck and a worn
tweed jacket. The silk scarf draped rakishly at his neck was
more Left Bank than Sugar Hill, but it was his walk that was
distinctive--choreographed of equal parts ghetto slide and bohemian
statesman.
The man with him was a gold-toothed Kingfish as bodyguard, hefty
body shrink-wrapped in a green sharkskin suit, reeking of sweat
and smoke and Dixie Peach pomade. The body guard clearly wasn't
pleased. He suggested--no, ordered--that I hit the bricks because
Mr. Baldwin had other important agendas on his schedule
But the man himself was
gracious. He offered lunch, laughed at my astonishment that I'd
actually be breaking bread with the great Himself. And over baskets
of tips and slaw and incendiary hot sauce, he asked me questions.
What prompted me going to meet the man who wrote Going to Meet
the Man?
At 18, I had no history, at least nothing that compared to this
man's life, but I
told him anyway, the Chicago west side chronicles where I watched
my city burn on my birthday after Dr. King got killed; my ongoing
struggle to identify and articulate the art within me in various
forms. The music that was my first savior, and then the writing.
And then the discovery of his work, the pulse of it, the raw
accounts of his struggles and heartbreaks that made me understand
pain as motivator instead of deterrent.
And after this swift and very brief rush of information, I waited,
anxious for whatever pearls of wisdom he might impart. Maybe
some gospel according to Baldwin about the importance of responding
to the call of the muse, or that the road less traveled is the
only geography that counts for artists.
Instead, he urged me to eat more. Sophie's had always been one
of his favorite places in Harlem, he said, back from his own
early history.
Finally, when he began to really talk, the river of words flowed
as powerfully as his books. He told me about his early days,
the identities that were bestowed on him as a way of definition
by people with eyes hardened by convention and ignorance. Among
them, 'niggahboy' and 'faggot' and 'that minister’s child
who just ain't right.'
But the same strictures of those conventions also gave him the
power to recognize his own strength and intelligence. He said
he knew he was smart, eventually realized the depth of his purpose.
The observations that illustrated his personal pain became the
compass he used to chart his own 'messenger's course.'
It's all about the fire in our bellies, he told me. Some are
born with it, others are only drawn to the heat. An attraction
they're not even aware of, most times, not until the fire bearer
is elevated to star or celebrity. But the attraction is there
just the same. He said it was instinctive. People are seduced
by the heat of the gifted, want to warm themselves or dance around
the flames that come from true artists, those who offer their
souls, their talents and hearts as a spectator sport. And those
that do are elevated to icons or prophets or stars, depending
on level of public popularity. Other times, they might be branded
as revolutionaries or rebels.
The true artists who embrace their gifts tend their fires and
are the ones who determine their own blaze, he told me. An occurrence
that had nothing to do with trends or accepted culture, only
the true components of the flame. Fire is energy. Baldwin believed
that those who possess that energy have the obligation to stoke
those fires instead of banking them. Without the fires that illuminate
our world, he said our souls would live in darkness.
During our conversation, there was little reference to his past
works or the
circumstances that forged them. He explained his various struggles
endured as just another part of honoring the awareness that to
whom much is given, much is expected, even when it's a debt paid
in blood and tears.
He asked me if, as an aspiring writer, I understood what was
most important. And while I floundered for a suitable answer,
he gave it to me. All I needed to do was tend to my fire and
feed the flames.
"What if it's not enough?" I asked him.
"It will be enough. It will be everything."
©2005 by Gina Gallo. This column first posted on Feb. 7,
2005.
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