The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man

The next morning I got out of the car at Jacksonville with a stiff and aching body.  I determined to ask no more porters, not even my benefactor, about stopping-places; so I found myself on the street not knowing where to go.  I walked along listlessly until I met a colored man who had the appearance of a preacher.  I asked him if he could direct me to a respectable boarding-house for colored people.  He said that if I walked along with him in the direction he was going, he would show me such a place:  I turned and walked at his side.  He proved to be a minister, and asked me a great many direct questions about myself.  I answered as many as I saw fit to answer; the others I evaded or ignored.  At length we stopped in front of a frame house, and my guide informed me that it was the place.  A woman was standing in the doorway, and he called to her saying that he had brought her a new boarder.  I thanked him for his trouble, and after he had urged upon, me to attend his church while I was in the city, he went on his way.

I went in and found the house neat and not uncomfortable.  The parlor was furnished with cane-bottomed chairs, each of which was adorned with a white crocheted tidy.  The mantel over the fireplace had a white crocheted cover; a marble-topped center table held a lamp, a photograph album and several trinkets, each of which was set upon a white crocheted mat.  There was a cottage organ in a corner of the room, and I noted that the lamp-racks upon it were covered with white crocheted mats.  There was a matting on the floor, but a white crocheted carpet would not have been out of keeping.  I made arrangements with the landlady for my board and lodging; the amount was, I think, three dollars and a half a week.  She was a rather fine-looking, stout, brown-skin woman of about forty years of age.  Her husband was a light-colored Cuban, a man about one half her size, and one whose age could not be guessed from his appearance.  He was small in size, but a handsome black mustache and typical Spanish eyes redeemed him from insignificance.

I was in time for breakfast, and at the table I had the opportunity to see my fellow boarders.  There were eight or ten of them.  Two, as I afterwards learned, were colored Americans.  All of them were cigar makers and worked in one of the large factories—­cigar making is one trade in which the color line is not drawn.  The conversation was carried on entirely in Spanish, and my ignorance of the language subjected me more to alarm than embarrassment.  I had never heard such uproarious conversation; everybody talked at once, loud exclamations, rolling “carambas,” menacing gesticulations with knives, forks, and spoons.  I looked every moment for the clash of blows.  One man was emphasizing his remarks by flourishing a cup in his hand, seemingly forgetful of the fact that it was nearly full of hot coffee.  He ended by emptying it over what was, relatively, the only quiet man at the table excepting myself, bringing from him a volley of language which made the others appear dumb by comparison.  I soon learned that in all of this clatter of voices and table utensils they were discussing purely ordinary affairs and arguing about mere trifles, and that not the least ill feeling was aroused.  It was not long before I enjoyed the spirited chatter and badinage at the table as much as I did my meals—­and the meals were not bad.

I spent the afternoon in looking around the town.  The streets were sandy, but were well-shaded by fine oak trees and far preferable to the clay roads of Atlanta.  One or two public squares with green grass and trees gave the city a touch of freshness.  That night after supper I spoke to my landlady and her husband about my intentions.  They told me that the big winter hotels would not open within two months.  It can easily be imagined what effect this news had on me.  I spoke to them frankly about my financial condition and related the main fact of my misfortune in Atlanta.  I modestly mentioned my ability to teach music and asked if there was any likelihood of my being able to get some scholars.  My landlady suggested that I speak to the preacher who had shown me her house; she felt sure that through his influence I should be able to get up a class in piano.  She added, however, that the colored people were poor, and that the general price for music lessons was only twenty-five cents.  I noticed that the thought of my teaching white pupils did not even remotely enter her mind.  None of this information made my prospects look much brighter.

The husband, who up to this time had allowed the woman to do most of the talking, gave me the first bit of tangible hope; he said that he could get me a job as a “stripper” in the factory where he worked, and that if I succeeded in getting some music pupils, I could teach a couple of them every night, and so make a living until something better turned up.  He went on to say that it would not be a bad thing for me to stay at the factory and learn my trade as a cigar maker, and impressed on me that, for a young man knocking about the country, a trade was a handy thing to have.  I determined to accept his offer and thanked him heartily.  In fact, I became enthusiastic, not only because I saw a way out of my financial troubles, but also because I was eager and curious over the new experience I was about to enter.  I wanted to know all about the cigar making business.  This narrowed the conversation down to the husband and myself, so the wife went in and left us talking.

He was what is called a regalia workman, and earned from thirty-five to forty dollars a week.  He generally worked a sixty-dollar job; that is, he made cigars for which he was paid at the rate of sixty dollars per thousand.  It was impossible for him to make a thousand in a week because he had to work very carefully and slowly.  Each cigar was made entirely by hand.  Each piece of filler and each wrapper had to be selected with care.  He was able to make a bundle of one hundred cigars in a day, not one of which could be told from the others by any difference in size or shape, or even by any appreciable difference in weight.  This was the acme of artistic skill in cigar making.  Workmen of this class were rare, never more than three or four in one factory, and it was never necessary for them to remain out of work.  There were men who made two, three, and four hundred cigars of the cheaper grades in a day; they had to be very fast in order to make a decent week’s wages.  Cigar making was a rather independent trade; the men went to work when they pleased and knocked off when they felt like doing so.  As a class the workmen were careless and improvident; some very rapid makers would not work more than three or four days out of the week, and there were others who never showed up at the factory on Mondays.  “Strippers” were the boys who pulled the long stems from the tobacco leaves.  After they had served at that work for a certain time they were given tables as apprentices.

All of this was interesting to me; and we drifted along in conversation until my companion struck the subject nearest his heart, the independence of Cuba.  He was an exile from the island, and a prominent member of the Jacksonville Junta.  Every week sums of money were collected from juntas all over the country.  This money went to buy arms and ammunition for the insurgents.  As the man sat there nervously smoking his long, “green” cigar, and telling me of the Gómezes, both the white one and the black one, of Macéo and Bandera, he grew positively eloquent.  He also showed that he was a man of considerable education and reading.  He spoke English excellently, and frequently surprised me by using words one would hardly expect from a foreigner.  The first one of this class of words he employed almost shocked me, and I never forgot it; ’twas “ramify.”  We sat on the piazza until after ten o’clock.  When we arose to go in to bed, it was with the understanding that I should start in the factory on the next day.

I began work the next morning seated at a barrel with another boy, who showed me how to strip the stems from the leaves, to smooth out each half leaf, and to put the “rights” together in one pile, and the “lefts” together in another pile on the edge of the barrel.  My fingers, strong and sensitive from their long training, were well adapted to this kind of work, and within two weeks I was accounted the fastest “stripper” in the factory.  At first the heavy odor of the tobacco almost sickened me, but when I became accustomed to it, I liked the smell.  I was now earning four dollars a week, and was soon able to pick up a couple more by teaching a few scholars at night, whom I had secured through the good offices of the preacher I had met on my first morning in Jacksonville.

At the end of about three months, through my skill as a “stripper” and the influence of my landlord, I was advanced to a table and began to learn my trade; in fact, more than my trade; for I learned not only to make cigars, but also to smoke, to swear, and to speak Spanish.  I discovered that I had a talent for languages as well as for music.  The rapidity and ease with which I acquired Spanish astonished my associates.  In a short time I was able not only to understand most of what was said at the table during meals, but to join in the conversation.  I bought a method for learning the Spanish language, and with the aid of my landlord as a teacher, by constant practice with my fellow workmen, and by regularly reading the Cuban newspapers and finally some books of standard Spanish literature which were at the house, I was able in less than a year to speak like a native.  In fact, it was my pride that I spoke better Spanish than many of the Cuban workmen at the factory.

After I had been in the factory a little over a year, I was repaid for all the effort I had put forth to learn Spanish by being selected as “reader.”  The “reader” is quite an institution in all cigar factories which employ Spanish-speaking workmen.  He sits in the center of the large room in which the cigar makers work and reads to them for a certain number of hours each day all the important news from the papers and whatever else he may consider would be interesting.  He often selects an exciting novel and reads it in daily installments.  He must, of course, have a good voice, but he must also have a reputation among the men for intelligence, for being well-posted and having in his head a stock of varied information.  He is generally the final authority on all arguments which arise, and in a cigar factory these arguments are many and frequent, ranging from the respective and relative merits of rival baseball clubs to the duration of the sun’s light and energy—­cigar making is a trade in which talk does not interfere with work.  My position as “reader” not only released me from the rather monotonous work of rolling cigars, and gave me something more in accord with my tastes, but also added considerably to my income.  I was now earning about twenty-five dollars a week, and was able to give up my peripatetic method of giving music lessons.  I hired a piano and taught only those who could arrange to take their lessons where I lived.  I finally gave up teaching entirely, as what I made scarcely paid for my time and trouble.  I kept the piano, however, in order to keep up my own studies, and occasionally I played at some church concert or other charitable entertainment.

Through my music teaching and my not absolutely irregular attendance at church, I became acquainted with the best class of colored people in Jacksonville.  This was really my entrance into the race.  It was my initiation into what I have termed the freemasonry of the race.  I had formulated a theory of what it was to be colored; now I was getting the practice.  The novelty of my position caused me to observe and consider things which, I think, entirely escaped the young men I associated with; or, at least, were so commonplace to them as not to attract their attention.  And of many of the impressions which came to me then I have realized the full import only within the past few years, since I have had a broader knowledge of men and history, and a fuller comprehension of the tremendous struggle which is going on between the races in the South.

It is a struggle; for though the black man fights passively, he nevertheless fights; and his passive resistance is more effective at present than active resistance could possibly be.  He bears the fury of the storm as does the willow tree.

It is a struggle; for though the white man of the South may be too proud to admit it, he is, nevertheless, using in the contest his best energies; he is devoting to it the greater part of his thought and much of his endeavor.  The South today stands panting and almost breathless from its exertions.

And how the scene of the struggle has shifted!  The battle was first waged over the right of the Negro to be classed as a human being with a soul; later, as to whether he had sufficient intellect to master even the rudiments of learning; and today it is being fought out over his social recognition.

I said somewhere in the early part of this narrative that because the colored man looked at everything through the prism of his relationship to society as a colored man, and because most of his mental efforts ran through the narrow channel bounded by his rights and his wrongs, it was to be wondered at that he has progressed so broadly as he has.  The same thing may be said of the white man of the South; most of his mental efforts run through one narrow channel; his life as a man and a citizen, many of his financial activities, and all of his political activities are impassably limited by the ever present “Negro question.”  I am sure it would be safe to wager that no group of Southern white men could get together and talk for sixty minutes without bringing up the “race question.”  If a Northern white man happened to be in the group, the time could be safely cut to thirty minutes.  In this respect I consider the conditions of the whites more to be deplored than that of the blacks.  Here, a truly great people, a people that produced a majority of the great historic Americans from Washington to Lincoln, now forced to use up its energies in a conflict as lamentable as it is violent.

I shall give the observations I made in Jacksonville as seen through the light of after years; and they apply generally to every Southern community.  The colored people may be said to be roughly divided into three classes, not so much in respect to themselves as in respect to their relations with the whites.  There are those constituting what might be called the desperate class—­the men who work in the lumber and turpentine camps, the ex-convicts, the bar-room loafers are all in this class.  These men conform to the requirements of civilization much as a trained lion with low muttered growls goes through his stunts under the crack of the trainer’s whip.  They cherish a sullen hatred for all white men, and they value life as cheap.  I have heard more than one of them say:  “I’ll go to hell for the first white man that bothers me.”  Many who have expressed that sentiment have kept their word, and it is that fact which gives such prominence to this class; for in numbers it is only a small proportion of the colored people, but it often dominates public opinion concerning the whole race.  Happily, this class represents the black people of the South far below their normal physical and moral condition, but in its increase lies the possibility of grave dangers.  I am sure there is no more urgent work before the white South, not only for its present happiness, but for its future safety, than the decreasing of this class of blacks.  And it is not at all a hopeless class; for these men are but the creatures of conditions, as much so as the slum and criminal elements of all the great cities of the world are creatures of conditions.  Decreasing their number by shooting and burning them off will not be successful; for these men are truly desperate, and thoughts of death, however terrible, have little effect in deterring them from acts the result of hatred or degeneracy.  This class of blacks hate everything covered by a white skin, and in return they are loathed by the whites.  The whites regard them just about as a man would a vicious mule, a thing to be worked, driven, and beaten, and killed for kicking.

The second class, as regards the relation between blacks and whites, comprises the servants, the washerwomen, the waiters, the cooks, the coachmen, and all who are connected with the whites by domestic service.  These may be generally characterized as simple, kind-hearted, and faithful; not over-fine in their moral deductions, but intensely religious, and relatively—­such matters can be judged only relatively—­about as honest and wholesome in their lives as any other grade of society.  Any white person is “good” who treats them kindly, and they love him for that kindness.  In return, the white people with whom they have to do regard them with indulgent affection.  They come into close daily contact with the whites, and may be called the connecting link between whites and blacks; in fact, it is through them that the whites know the rest of their colored neighbors.  Between this class of the blacks and the whites there is little or no friction.

The third class is composed of the independent workmen and tradesmen, and of the well-to-do and educated colored people; and, strange to say, for a directly opposite reason they are as far removed from the whites as the members of the first class I mentioned.  These people live in a little world of their own; in fact, I concluded that if a colored man wanted to separate himself from his white neighbors, he had but to acquire some money, education, and culture, and to live in accordance.  For example, the proudest and fairest lady in the South could with propriety—­and it is what she would most likely do—­go to the cabin of Aunt Mary, her cook, if Aunt Mary was sick, and minister to her comfort with her own hands; but if Mary’s daughter, Eliza, a girl who used to run round my lady’s kitchen, but who has received an education and married a prosperous young colored man, were at death’s door, my lady would no more think of crossing the threshold of Eliza’s cottage than she would of going into a bar-room for a drink.

I was walking down the street one day with a young man who was born in Jacksonville, but had been away to prepare himself for a professional life.  We passed a young white man, and my companion said to me:  “You see that young man?  We grew up together; we have played, hunted, and fished together; we have even eaten and slept together; and now since I have come back home, he barely speaks to me.”  The fact that the whites of the South despise and ill-treat the desperate class of blacks is not only explainable according to the ancient laws of human nature, but it is not nearly so serious or important as the fact that as the progressive colored people advance, they constantly widen the gulf between themselves and their white neighbors.  I think that the white people somehow feel that colored people who have education and money, who wear good clothes and live in comfortable houses, are “putting on airs,” that they do these things for the sole purpose of “spiting the white folks,” or are, at best, going through a sort of monkey-like imitation.  Of course, such feelings can only cause irritation or breed disgust.  It seems that the whites have not yet been able to realize and understand that these people in striving to better their physical and social surroundings in accordance with their financial and intellectual progress are simply obeying an impulse which is common to human nature the world over.  I am in grave doubt as to whether the greater part of the friction in the South is caused by the whites’ having a natural antipathy to Negroes as a race, or an acquired antipathy to Negroes in certain relations to themselves.  However that may be, there is to my mind no more pathetic side of this many-sided question than the isolated position into which are forced the very colored people who most need and who could best appreciate sympathetic cooperation; and their position grows tragic when the effort is made to couple them, whether or no, with the Negroes of the first class I mentioned.

This latter class of colored people are well-disposed towards the whites, and always willing to meet them more than halfway.  They, however, feel keenly any injustice or gross discrimination, and generally show their resentment.  The effort is sometimes made to convey the impression that the better class of colored people fight against riding in “Jim Crow” cars because they want to ride with white people or object to being with humbler members of their own race.  The truth is they object to the humiliation of being forced to ride in a particular car, aside from the fact that that car is distinctly inferior, and that they are required to pay full first-class fare.  To say that the whites are forced to ride in the superior car is less than a joke.  And, too, odd as it may sound, refined colored people get no more pleasure out of riding with offensive Negroes than anybody else would get.

I can realize more fully than I could years ago that the position of the advanced element of the colored race is often very trying.  They are the ones among the blacks who carry the entire weight of the race question; it worries the others very little, and I believe the only thing which at times sustains them is that they know that they are in the right.  On the other hand, this class of colored people get a good deal of pleasure out of life; their existence is far from being one long groan about their condition.  Out of a chaos of ignorance and poverty they have evolved a social life of which they need not be ashamed.  In cities where the professional and well-to-do class is large they have formed society—­society as discriminating as the actual conditions will allow it to be; I should say, perhaps, society possessing discriminating tendencies which become rules as fast as actual conditions allow.  This statement will, I know, sound preposterous, even ridiculous, to some persons; but as this class of colored people is the least known of the race it is not surprising.  These social circles are connected throughout the country, and a person in good standing in one city is readily accepted in another.  One who is on the outside will often find it a difficult matter to get in.  I know personally of one case in which money to the extent of thirty or forty thousand dollars and a fine house, not backed up by a good reputation, after several years of repeated effort, failed to gain entry for the possessor.  These people have their dances and dinners and card parties, their musicals, and their literary societies.  The women attend social affairs dressed in good taste, and the men in dress suits which they own; and the reader will make a mistake to confound these entertainments with the “Bellman’s Balls” and “Whitewashers’ Picnics” and “Lime-kiln Clubs” with which the humorous press of the country illustrates “Cullud Sassiety.”

Jacksonville, when I was there, was a small town, and the number of educated and well-to-do colored people was small; so this society phase of life did not equal what I have since seen in Boston, Washington, Richmond, and Nashville; and it is upon what I have more recently seen in these cities that I have made the observations just above.  However, there were many comfortable and pleasant homes in Jacksonville to which I was often invited.  I belonged to the literary society—­at which we generally discussed the race question—­and attended all of the church festivals and other charitable entertainments.  In this way I passed three years which were not at all the least enjoyable of my life.  In fact, my joy took such an exuberant turn that I fell in love with a young school teacher and began to have dreams of matrimonial bliss; but another turn in the course of my life brought these dreams to an end.

I do not wish to mislead my readers into thinking that I led a life in Jacksonville which would make copy for the hero of a Sunday-school library book.  I was a hail fellow well met with all of the workmen at the factory, most of whom knew little and cared less about social distinctions.  From their example I learned to be careless about money, and for that reason I constantly postponed and finally abandoned returning to Atlanta University.  It seemed impossible for me to save as much as two hundred dollars.  Several of the men at the factory were my intimate friends, and I frequently joined them in their pleasures.  During the summer months we went almost every Monday on an excursion to a seaside resort called Pablo Beach.  These excursions were always crowded.  There was a dancing pavilion, a great deal of drinking, and generally a fight or two to add to the excitement.  I also contracted the cigar maker’s habit of riding around in a hack on Sunday afternoons.  I sometimes went with my cigar maker friends to public balls that were given at a large hall on one of the main streets.  I learned to take a drink occasionally and paid for quite a number that my friends took; but strong liquors never appealed to my appetite.  I drank them only when the company I was in required it, and suffered for it afterwards.  On the whole, though I was a bit wild, I can’t remember that I ever did anything disgraceful, or, as the usual standard for young men goes, anything to forfeit my claim to respectability.

At one of the first public balls I attended I saw the Pullman car porter who had so kindly assisted me in getting to Jacksonville.  I went immediately to one of my factory friends and borrowed fifteen dollars with which to repay the loan my benefactor had made me.  After I had given him the money, and was thanking him, I noticed that he wore what was, at least, an exact duplicate of my lamented black and gray tie.  It was somewhat worn, but distinct enough for me to trace the same odd design which had first attracted my eye.  This was enough to arouse my strongest suspicions, but whether it was sufficient for the law to take cognizance of I did not consider.  My astonishment and the ironical humor of the situation drove everything else out of my mind.

These balls were attended by a great variety of people.  They were generally given by the waiters of some one of the big hotels, and were often patronized by a number of hotel guests who came to “see the sights.”  The crowd was always noisy, but good-natured; there was much quadrille-dancing, and a strong-lunged man called figures in a voice which did not confine itself to the limits of the hall.  It is not worth the while for me to describe in detail how these people acted; they conducted themselves in about the same manner as I have seen other people at similar balls conduct themselves.  When one has seen something of the world and human nature, one must conclude, after all, that between people in like stations of life there is very little difference the world over.

However, it was at one of these balls that I first saw the cake-walk.  There was a contest for a gold watch, to be awarded to the hotel head-waiter receiving the greatest number of votes.  There was some dancing while the votes were being counted.  Then the floor was cleared for the cake-walk.  A half-dozen guests from some of the hotels took seats on the stage to act as judges, and twelve or fourteen couples began to walk for a sure enough, highly decorated cake, which was in plain evidence.  The spectators crowded about the space reserved for the contestants and watched them with interest and excitement.  The couples did not walk round in a circle, but in a square, with the men on the inside.  The fine points to be considered were the bearing of the men, the precision with which they turned the corners, the grace of the women, and the ease with which they swung around the pivots.  The men walked with stately and soldierly step, and the women with considerable grace.  The judges arrived at their decision by a process of elimination.  The music and the walk continued for some minutes; then both were stopped while the judges conferred; when the walk began again, several couples were left out.  In this way the contest was finally narrowed down to three or four couples.  Then the excitement became intense; there was much partisan cheering as one couple or another would execute a turn in extra elegant style.  When the cake was finally awarded, the spectators were about evenly divided between those who cheered the winners and those who muttered about the unfairness of the judges.  This was the cake-walk in its original form, and it is what the colored performers on the theatrical stage developed into the prancing movements now known all over the world, and which some Parisian critics pronounced the acme of poetic motion.

There are a great many colored people who are ashamed of the cake-walk, but I think they ought to be proud of it.  It is my opinion that the colored people of this country have done four things which refute the oft-advanced theory that they are an absolutely inferior race, which demonstrate that they have originality and artistic conception, and, what is more, the power of creating that which can influence and appeal universally.  The first two of these are the Uncle Remus stories, collected by Joel Chandler Harris, and the Jubilee songs, to which the Fisk singers made the public and the skilled musicians of both America and Europe listen.  The other two are ragtime music and the cake-walk.  No one who has traveled can question the world-conquering influence of ragtime, and I do not think it would be an exaggeration to say that in Europe the United States is popularly known better by ragtime than by anything else it has produced in a generation.  In Paris they call it American music.  The newspapers have already told how the practice of intricate cake-walk steps has taken up the time of European royalty and nobility.  These are lower forms of art, but they give evidence of a power that will some day be applied to the higher forms.  In this measure, at least, and aside from the number of prominent individuals the colored people of the United States have produced, the race has been a world influence; and all of the Indians between Alaska and Patagonia haven’t done as much.

Just when I was beginning to look upon Jacksonville as my permanent home and was beginning to plan about marrying the young school teacher, raising a family, and working in a cigar factory the rest of my life, for some reason, which I do not now remember, the factory at which I worked was indefinitely shut down.  Some of the men got work in other factories in town; some decided to go to Key West and Tampa, others made up their minds to go to New York for work.  All at once a desire like a fever seized me to see the North again and I cast my lot with those bound for New York.