A more worthwhile effort would have been a thorough and comprehensive study of the methods of the current Hoodoo doctors of the area. Since in Mules and Men I substituted other names for the real ones, Tallant only mentions the name of one of the more successful ones of the present, and that because Rockford Lewis was arrested, and got his name in the papers.6 There is no study of the current Hoodooists of New Orleans. There are merely some rumors about them. What their methods and procedures are, the author does not tell us. He does favor us with excerpts from the cards that many of the drugstores in the Negro section pass out so freely. However, if the author had witnessed every ceremony of Hoodoo in Louisiana as he claims, the story would have been different. In order to witness the ceremony, he would have had to be a Hoodooist himself. If he had been “in” and become a “Two-Headed Doctor” himself, he would have known about the Hoodoo supply house, been assigned a number and given a list to order from.7 He would not have had to depend upon the spurious cards from the drugstores, nor the advertisements in Negro newspapers. He would not have fallen into the errors about High John de Conquer, whom he flippantly speaks of as “Johnny.”8

  5. The author offers not one valid source of information for a serious work on folklore. About a matter that is by nature secret, he offers no evidence from the practitioners themselves. Those on whom he relies are: 1. The local press past and present, whose sources of information are alien to the people under study; 2. The stories of a few well-known fiction writers, none of whom were Hoodooists; and 3. The Writers Project of the WPA.9 The author obviously assumes that being “on relief” automatically qualifies one for the discriminating task of recognizing and collecting material, and endows one with the knowledge and skill to evaluate and winnow it. Not only are all the scientists who have spent years in the African, Santo Domingan, and American fields ignored, but even the Hoodooists themselves. The author evidently prefers to hear something about them, than from the practitioners of Hoodoo. It is clearly the popular and sensational rather than the serious and valid approach. Or perhaps he did the best that he could with what he was able to find. Perhaps nothing more definite was available to him.

  Tallant would have done well to have been more familiar with even the European background of sympathetic magic. If he had known even that, he would not have thrown in the “inevitable boiling cauldron” (p. 13), wax effigy (p. 14), serpents, frogs and bats (p. 16) which belong to Europe and not to Hoodoo. A casual acquaintance with Shakespeare would have made him more familiar. His Haitian borrowings of the Zombi (Magic Island and Tell My Horse), and the little coffin of the Sect Rouge (Tell My Horse), and the translation of the invocation to Legba (Tell My Horse, p. 103) do not escape the notice of the trained eye, though nowhere does the author acknowledge his indebtedness.10

  6. The historical background is not to be trusted since the author is not even informed about matters that are in the common school histories of the United States. He states (p. 9): “Voodoo came to the Americas a little over two hundred years ago. The raids on the African Slave Coast began about 1724.” It is well established that African slavery had been introduced into Santo Domingo by 1520, and soon spread over all of the Spanish colonies, and a little later, the French Antilles. The first Negro slaves were brought to the English Colonies of North America in 1619. And with the coming of the first slaves came their African beliefs, by necessity always secret. There does not now exist, nor has there ever existed any organized cult of Voodoo in the United States. With the disruption of the African background, it has persisted in the Americas, as fragmentary, individualistic efforts. In New Orleans as well as in the rest of the United States, each “doctor” is a law unto him or herself. Marie Leveau nor anyone else has ever been the ruler of a Voodoo cult. From all accounts, she ran the social dances in Congo Square, and she was the best known Voodoo doctor in the United States. It is not to be ignored that the Negro slaves in other parts of the South were permitted to hold their dances too, and their “white folks” looked on also and enjoyed the singing and the dancing.

  7. The author arrives at no conclusion.

  Voodoo in New Orleans is totally exterior so far as Hoodoo is concerned. There is no revelation of any new facts, nor any analysis of what is already known. It is rather a collection of the popular beliefs about Hoodoo from the outside. The snake-worship sex-orgies, Greek Pythonesses, and goat-sacrifices, proceeding from false premises, and governed by hasty generalizations. It offers no opportunity for serious study, and should be considered for just what it is, a creative-journalistic appeal to popular fancy.

  The late Lyle Saxon says in the foreword, “. . . So much nonsense has been written about Voodoo in New Orleans. . . .” Voodoo in New Orleans in no way tends to abate the nuisance.11

  What White Publishers Won’t Print

  I have been amazed by the Anglo-Saxon’s lack of curiosity about the internal lives and emotions of the Negroes, and for that matter, any non-Anglo-Saxon peoples within our borders, above the class of unskilled labor.

  This lack of interest is much more important than it seems at first glance. It is even more important at this time than it was in the past. The internal affairs of the nation have bearings on the international stress and strain, and this gap in the national literature now has tremendous weight in world affairs. National coherence and solidarity is implicit in a thorough understanding of the various groups within a nation, and this lack of knowledge about the internal emotions and behavior of the minorities cannot fail to bar out understanding. Man, like all the other animals, fears and is repelled by that which he does not understand, and mere difference is apt to connote something malign.

  The fact that there is no demand for incisive and full-dress stories around Negroes above the servant class is indicative of something of vast importance to this nation. This blank is NOT filled by the fiction built around upper-class Negroes exploiting the race problem. Rather, it tends to point it up. A college-bred Negro still is not a person like other folks, but an interesting problem, more or less. It calls to mind a story of slavery time. In this story, a master with more intellectual curiosity than usual, set out to see how much he could teach a particularly bright slave of his. When he had gotten him up to higher mathematics and to be a fluent reader of Latin, he called in a neighbor to show off his brilliant slave, and to argue that Negroes had brains just like the slave-owners had, and given the same opportunities, would turn out the same.

  The visiting master of slaves looked and listened, tried to trap the literate slave in Algebra and Latin, and failing to do so in both, turned to his neighbor and said: “Yes, he certainly knows his higher mathematics, and he can read Latin better than many white men I know, but I cannot bring myself to believe that he understands a thing that he is doing. It is all an aping of our culture. All on the outside. You are crazy if you think that it has changed him inside in the least. Turn him loose, and he will revert at once to the jungle. He is still a savage, and no amount of translating Virgil and Ovid is going to change him. In fact, all you have done is to turn a useful savage into a dangerous beast.”

  That was in slavery time, yes, and we have come a long, long way since then, but the troubling thing is that there are still too many who refuse to believe in the ingestion and digestion of western culture as yet. Hence the lack of literature about the higher emotions and love life of upper-class Negroes and the minorities in general.

  Publishers and producers are cool to the idea. Now, do not leap to the conclusion that editors and producers constitute a special class of un-believers. That is far from true. Publishing houses and theatrical promoters are in business to make money. They will sponsor anything that they believe will sell. They shy away from romantic stories about Negroes and Jews because they feel that they know the public indifference to such works, unless the story or play involves racial tension. It can then be offered as a study in Sociology, with the romantic side subdued. They know the skepticism in general about the complicated emotions in the minorities. The average American just cannot conceive of it, and would be apt to reject the notion, and publishers and producers take the stand that they are not in business to educate, but to make money. Sympathetic as they might be, they cannot afford to be crusaders.

  In proof of this, you can note various publishers and producers edging forward a little, and ready to go even further when the trial balloons show that the public is ready for it. This public lack of interest is the nut of the matter.

  The question naturally arises as to the why of this indifference, not to say scepticism, to the internal life of educated minorities.

  The answer lies in what we may call THE AMERICAN MUSEUM OF UNNATURAL HISTORY. This is an intangible built on folk belief. It is assumed that all non-Anglo-Saxons are uncomplicated stereotypes. Everybody knows all about them. They are lay figures mounted in the museum where all may take them in at a glance. They are made of bent wires without insides at all. So how could anybody write a book about the non-existent?

  The American Indian is a contraption of copper wires in an eternal warbonnet, with no equipment for laughter, expressionless face and that says “How” when spoken to. His only activity is treachery leading to massacres. Who is so dumb as not to know all about Indians, even if they have never seen one, nor talked with anyone who ever knew one?

  The American Negro exhibit is a group of two. Both of these mechanical toys are built so that their feet eternally shuffle, and their eyes pop and roll. Shuffling feet and those popping, rolling eyes denote the Negro, and no characterization is genuine without this monotony. One is seated on a stump picking away on his banjo and singing and laughing. The other is a most amoral character before a share-cropper’s shack mumbling about injustice. Doing this makes him out to be a Negro “intellectual.” It is as simple as all that.

  The whole museum is dedicated to the convenient “typical.” In there is the “typical” Oriental, Jew, Yankee, Westerner, Southerner, Latin, and even out-of-favor Nordics like the German. The Englishman “I say old chappie” and the gesticulating Frenchman. The least observant American can know them all at a glance. However, the public willingly accepts the untypical in Nordics, but feels cheated if the untypical is portrayed in others. The author of Scarlet Sister Mary complained to me that her neighbors objected to her book on the grounds that she had the characters thinking, “and everybody know that Nigras don’t think.”1

  But for the national welfare, it is urgent to realize that the minorities do think, and think about something other than the race problem. That they are very human and internally, according to natural endowment, are just like everybody else. So long as this is not conceived, there must remain that feeling of unsurmountable difference, and difference to the average man means something bad. If people were made right, they would be just like him.

  The trouble with the purely problem arguments is that they leave too much unknown. Argue all you will or may about injustice, but as long as the majority cannot conceive of a Negro or a Jew feeling and reacting inside just as they do, the majority will keep right on believing that people who do not look like them cannot possibly feel as they do, and conform to the established pattern. It is well known that there must be a body of waived matter, let us say, things accepted and taken for granted by all in a community before there can be that commonality of feeling. The usual phrase is having things in common. Until this is thoroughly established in respect to Negroes in America, as well as of other minorities, it will remain impossible for the majority to conceive of a Negro experiencing a deep and abiding love and not just the passion of sex. That a great mass of Negroes can be stirred by the pageants of Spring and Fall; the extravaganza of summer, and the majesty of winter. That they can and do experience discovery of the numerous subtle faces as a foundation for a great and selfless love, and the diverse nuances that go to destroy that love as with others. As it is now, this capacity, this evidence of high and complicated emotions, is ruled out. Hence the lack of interest in a romance uncomplicated by the race struggle has so little appeal.

  This insistence on defeat in a story where upper-class Negroes are portrayed, perhaps says something from the subconscious of the majority. Involved in western culture, the hero or the heroine, or both, must appear frustrated and go down to defeat, somehow. Our literature reeks with it. Is it the same as saying, “You can translate Virgil, and fumble with the differential calculus, but can you really comprehend it? Can you cope with our subtleties?”

  That brings us to the folklore of “reversion to type.” This curious doctrine has such wide acceptance that it is tragic. One has only to examine the huge literature on it to be convinced. No matter how high we may seem to climb, put us under strain and we revert to type, that is, to the bush. Under a superficial layer of western culture, the jungle drums throb in our veins.

  This ridiculous notion makes it possible for that majority who accept it to conceive of even a man like the suave and scholarly Dr. Charles S. Johnson to hide a black cat’s bone on his person, and indulge in a midnight Voodoo ceremony, complete with leopard skin and drums if threatened with the loss of the presidency of Fisk University, or the love of his wife.2 “Under the skin . . . better to deal with them in business, etc., but otherwise keep them at a safe distance and under control. I tell you, Carl Van Vechten, think as you like, but they are just not like us.”

  The extent and extravagance of this notion reaches the ultimate in nonsense in the widespread belief that the Chinese have bizarre genitals, because of that eye-fold that makes their eyes seem to slant. In spite of the fact that no biology has ever mentioned any such difference in reproductive organs makes no matter. Millions of people believe it. “Did you know that a Chinese has. . . .” Consequently, their quiet contemplative manner is interpreted as a sign of slyness and a treacherous inclination.

  But the opening wedge for better understanding has been thrust into the crack. Though many Negroes denounced Carl Van Vechten’s Nigger Heaven because of the title, and without ever reading it, the book, written in the deepest sincerity, revealed Negroes of wealth and culture to the white public.3 It created curiosity even when it aroused scepticism. It made folks want to know. Worth Tuttle Hedden’s The Other Room has definitely widened the opening.4 Neither of these well-written works take a romance of upper-class Negro life as the central theme, but the atmosphere and the background is there. These works should be followed up by some incisive and intimate stories from the inside.

  The realistic story around a Negro insurance official, dentist, general practitioner, undertaker and the like would be most revealing. Thinly disguised fiction around the well known Negro names is not the answer, either. The “exceptional” as well as the Ol’ Man Rivers has been exploited all out of context already. Everybody is already resigned to the “exceptional” Negro, and willing to be entertained by the “quaint.” To grasp the penetration of western civilization in a minority, it is necessary to know how the average behaves and lives. Books that deal with people like in Sinclair Lewis’ Main Street is the necessary metier.5 For various reasons, the average, struggling, non-morbid Negro is the best-kept secret in America. His revelation to the public is the thing needed to do away with that feeling of difference which inspires fear, and which ever expresses itself in dislike.

  It is inevitable that this knowledge will destroy many illusions and romantic traditions which America probably likes to have around. But then, we have no record of anybody sinking into a lingering death on finding out that there was no Santa Claus. The old world will take it in its stride. The realization that Negroes are no better nor no worse, and at times just as boring as everybody else, will hardly kill off the population of the nation.

  Outside of racial attitudes, there is still another reason why this literature should exist. Literature and other arts are supposed to hold up the mirror to nature. With only the fractional “exceptional” and the “quaint” portrayed, a true picture of Negro life in America cannot be. A great principle of national art has been violated.

  These are the things that publishers and producers, as the accredited representatives of the American people, have not as yet taken into consideration sufficiently. Let there be light!

  Part Three

  On Race and Gender

  The Hue and Cry About Howard University

  I went to Howard as a Prep in 1918–19.1 I had met May Miller and she liked me and urged me to transfer from Morgan to Howard.2 I still have her little letter of friendship and encouragement. I value it too. That was the beginning of a personal and literary friendship that has lasted.

  The thrill Hannibal got when he finally crossed the Alps, the feeling of Napoleon when he finally placed upon his head the iron crown of Constantine, were nothing to the ecstasy I felt when I realized I was actually a Howardite.3

  We used to have “sings” in Chapel every Monday during services and nobody knows how I used to strive to eradicate all pettiness from my nature so that I might be fit to sing “Alma Mater.” We always finished the service with that. I used to indulge in searching introspection to root out even those little meannesses that put us far below the class of the magnificent transgressor and leave us merely ridiculous.