about his future than he did.
While others had their tarot cards, their ouija boards, their I-Ching, their cowrie shells, he had his “writings.” They were his bows and arrows. He was so much against slavery that he had begun to include prose and poetry in the same book, so that there would be no arbitrary boundaries between them. He preferred Canada to slavery, whether Canada was exile, death, art, liberation, or a woman. Each man to his own Canada. There was much avian imagery in the poetry of slaves. Poetry about dreams and flight. They wanted to cross that Black Rock Ferry to freedom even though they had different notions as to what freedom was.
They often disagreed about it, Leechfield, 40s. But it was his writing that got him to Canada. “Flight to Canada” was responsible for getting him to Canada. And so for him, freedom was his writing. His writing was his HooDoo. Others had their way of HooDoo, but his was his writing. It fascinated him, it possessed him; his typewriter was his drum he danced to.
15
C ARPENTER NOTICED HIM AS soon as he entered the house. He left the circle of guests around him and ran up to Quickskill.
“Man, I can’t wait. I’m going to hit all the spots in Toronto. I got this fine suite reserved for me in the King Edward Hotel. It’s advertised in The New York Times. ‘A Gracious Tradition’ it says in the ad. I’m going to get me a good night’s sleep and get up and order me some breakfast. I’m going to have me some golden pancakes and maple syrup, bacon, sausage, ham—I’m going to have all three. Then I’m going to have some marmalade and a big old glass of grapefruit juice. That’s how I’m going to start out. Then I’m going to take in the sights. Up there the Plantation House is just something on display at the Toronto Museum. Don’t have to worry about who’s my friend and who’s my enemy, like it is here. Anybody might turn out to be crazy, I’m always mistaken for a fugitive sl—I … I …”
“That’s all right, Carpenter. You know, I’ll be joining you soon.”
“When you coming up?”
“Soon as I receive the check from the magazine.”
“Man, I’m glad. I didn’t know that writing paid.”
“Yeah, well …”
“Hey, Quickskill, I did a poem once. Maybe you’d look at it. It’s not as professional as your work but maybe you can introduce me to one of them big-time editors and …”
“I’m busy right now. Maybe when I get to Canada, maybe then.”
“Yeah, sure, Quickskill. There’s plenty of time. Think I might crowd out your gig, huh, Quickskill?”
“Sure, Carpenter, sure.” Quickskill managed a weak smile. There was always an air of condescension in the way free slaves related to fugitive slaves. Especially the ones from Louisiana. He was never able to figure that out. The slavemasters in Louisiana often freed their sons by African women. Some of these children became slave owners themselves. But some of them in Emancipation, seeing that there was some money to be made in anti-slavery lecturing, often mounted the platform and talked about their treatment from hickory whips, lashes made of rawhide strands, so convincingly, it was difficult to tell the real sufferers from the phony ones. Carpenter wasn’t like that, though. He had a trade. He could find work anywhere.
“Look, Quickskill,” Carpenter said from that round face which exuded warmth and friendship, “come on in and make yourself comfortable. What did you bring?”
“I brought some Paul Lawrence Dunbar cuisine.”
“Out-of-sight, man. Take it into the kitchen.”
Carpenter returned to his guests. Quickskill entered the parlor in Carpenter’s shotgun house.
They were playing some kind of old-style Spanish dance; the women were wearing flowers behind their ears and doing fancy dips and turns, while the old men wore their mellow California hats, slanted. There was some bending back and some elegant freezes going on; weaving of invisible nets with fingers.
While others had their tarot cards, their ouija boards, their I-Ching, their cowrie shells, he had his “writings.” They were his bows and arrows. He was so much against slavery that he had begun to include prose and poetry in the same book, so that there would be no arbitrary boundaries between them. He preferred Canada to slavery, whether Canada was exile, death, art, liberation, or a woman. Each man to his own Canada. There was much avian imagery in the poetry of slaves. Poetry about dreams and flight. They wanted to cross that Black Rock Ferry to freedom even though they had different notions as to what freedom was.
They often disagreed about it, Leechfield, 40s. But it was his writing that got him to Canada. “Flight to Canada” was responsible for getting him to Canada. And so for him, freedom was his writing. His writing was his HooDoo. Others had their way of HooDoo, but his was his writing. It fascinated him, it possessed him; his typewriter was his drum he danced to.
15
C ARPENTER NOTICED HIM AS soon as he entered the house. He left the circle of guests around him and ran up to Quickskill.
“Man, I can’t wait. I’m going to hit all the spots in Toronto. I got this fine suite reserved for me in the King Edward Hotel. It’s advertised in The New York Times. ‘A Gracious Tradition’ it says in the ad. I’m going to get me a good night’s sleep and get up and order me some breakfast. I’m going to have me some golden pancakes and maple syrup, bacon, sausage, ham—I’m going to have all three. Then I’m going to have some marmalade and a big old glass of grapefruit juice. That’s how I’m going to start out. Then I’m going to take in the sights. Up there the Plantation House is just something on display at the Toronto Museum. Don’t have to worry about who’s my friend and who’s my enemy, like it is here. Anybody might turn out to be crazy, I’m always mistaken for a fugitive sl—I … I …”
“That’s all right, Carpenter. You know, I’ll be joining you soon.”
“When you coming up?”
“Soon as I receive the check from the magazine.”
“Man, I’m glad. I didn’t know that writing paid.”
“Yeah, well …”
“Hey, Quickskill, I did a poem once. Maybe you’d look at it. It’s not as professional as your work but maybe you can introduce me to one of them big-time editors and …”
“I’m busy right now. Maybe when I get to Canada, maybe then.”
“Yeah, sure, Quickskill. There’s plenty of time. Think I might crowd out your gig, huh, Quickskill?”
“Sure, Carpenter, sure.” Quickskill managed a weak smile. There was always an air of condescension in the way free slaves related to fugitive slaves. Especially the ones from Louisiana. He was never able to figure that out. The slavemasters in Louisiana often freed their sons by African women. Some of these children became slave owners themselves. But some of them in Emancipation, seeing that there was some money to be made in anti-slavery lecturing, often mounted the platform and talked about their treatment from hickory whips, lashes made of rawhide strands, so convincingly, it was difficult to tell the real sufferers from the phony ones. Carpenter wasn’t like that, though. He had a trade. He could find work anywhere.
“Look, Quickskill,” Carpenter said from that round face which exuded warmth and friendship, “come on in and make yourself comfortable. What did you bring?”
“I brought some Paul Lawrence Dunbar cuisine.”
“Out-of-sight, man. Take it into the kitchen.”
Carpenter returned to his guests. Quickskill entered the parlor in Carpenter’s shotgun house.
They were playing some kind of old-style Spanish dance; the women were wearing flowers behind their ears and doing fancy dips and turns, while the old men wore their mellow California hats, slanted. There was some bending back and some elegant freezes going on; weaving of invisible nets with fingers.
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