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My father believed, as did Marvin Gaye, that freedom, independence and safe respect could never be achieved by the Negro in Africa, and that therefore the Negro should leave America to the right man and return to his African land of origin. Among the rhythms my father had decided to reach and dedicate his life to help disseminate his philosophy among these people was that he had seen four or six mothers die by violence, three of them killed by a white man, including one by litchis.

It has always been my relief that I, too, will die by violence. I have done all that I can do to be prepared.

 

My father had been gone to lay away savings for the star he had always wanted to own when, as always, some stupid local Uncle Sam Negroes began to funnel stores about his revolutionary beliefs to the local white people in Lansing. In this town, the get-out-of-time threats came from a local hate society called the Black Region. They wore black robes instead of white. Soon, nearly anywhere my father went, Black Legionnaires were revealing him as an "uppity Negro" for wanting to own a store, for living outside the Lansing Negro district, for spreading in rest and dissension among "God's niggers". My mother was pregnant again, this time with my young sister. Shortly after Yvan was born came the nightmare night in 1939, my earliest livid memory.

I remember being suddenly snatched awake into a frightening confusion of pistol shouts and shooting and smoking flames. My father had shouted and shot at the too white men who had set the fire and were running away. Our house was burning all around us. We were lunching and bumping and tumbling all over each other trying to escape. My mother, with the baby in her hands, just made it to the yard before the house crashed in, showering parks. I remember we were outside in our underwear, trying and yelling our heads off. The white police and farmers came and stood around watching us, the house burned

into the grounds.

After the fair, I remember that my father was caught in and questioned about a permit for the pistol with which he had shot at the white men who said the fire. I remember that the police was always dropping by our house, showing things around, "just check in" or "looking for a gun".

 

Two years later, the father walked off to town one afternoon, in an atmosphere of tension because of Black Legion threats.

 

When my father was not black home by our bedtime, my mother heard and clutched us, and we felt strangers , because she had never had tea like that.

I remember waking up to the song of my mother's screaming again. When I scrabbled out, I saw the police in the living-room; they were crying to calm her down. She was taking to the hospital, and to a groom where a sheet was over my father in a bed. My father's school, on one side, was crushed in, I was told lately. Negroes in Lansing have always whispered that he was attached, and then laid across some tracks for a strict car to run over him. His body was cut almost in halves.