[Barbara Jordan Scrapbook, July - September, 1974] Page: 52 of 236
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I tried to answer Johnny's remarks by explaining why I
loved jazz so much. The brothers are saying things about
all the hurt they were born with. Every junkie, every hustler
I ever knew was filled with it. That's why they are so cold,
because they just don't know what to do with all that hurt.
Hell, we're all filled with it. We didn't want to go anyplace
they were not singing the blues. In the ghetto, there was
always someone to hurt with. We had to perpetuate the
rape of ourselves in order to be recognized, in order to
escape the consuming awareness of our lack of power.of our lack of power.
"The thing that counts," I told Johnny as the duty whistle
blew, "is that we dug it at that time, and we're free of it now.
We know now that we can change some things-starting with
ourselves.
Johnny nodded.
We had to hurry our good-bys, and he was off to work. I
waved to him as he stood in line waiting for his work detail to
be called. It'll be a long two weeks for him, I thought, as he
pulled his coat collar up around his neck and walked slowly
away.
I picked up my pack and went to headquarters to wait for the
sergeant who was to process my release. I sat the pack on the
floor. A reception room was to my right. I looked through the
door at the guys polishing and waxing the floor, and dusting the
long wooden tables. . . This time I was in a different frame of
mind. So happy, I was . . .
. . I was in the p.x. playing dominoes when I heard my
name called for a visit. "Damn!" I muttered; I was losing. I
went in and got dressed in fresh khakies, all the time wonder-
ing who it was. I'd been in this company, stateside, for a year
and no one had come to visit me. When I got to the orderly
room, I received the note from the company clerk. I looked at
it. It was Tracy, the one person who never crossed my mind. I
had forced myself to forget her after six months of not hearing
from her. It had been hard, but I succeeded.
What got me was the way she had changed. She had changed
her hairstyle, and now wore an afro. She didn't have any make
up on her face. In the old days, she wouldn't have been caught
in a dream without her face, as she called it. I took her hand
and led her to an empty seat.
She kissed me, and before I could say anything, she said, "I
want to ask you something, Frank." She took her coat off and
gave it to me. "Did you think we were really moving when you
were home?" There was a strangeness in her eyes. I mean, there
was a new liveliness in them, and in her voice.
"Yeah," I nodded to her question. "We just had a little bad
luck, Tracy! You'll see! I know all the moves now! Before, I
didn't have it together. I was out of tune, you know, just float-
ing with the tide. But now . . ."
I stopped talking because Tracy was slowly shaking her head
with her eyes closed. What she felt touched her deeply. It was
in her actions, her clothes, her talk. There was a newness, as if
she had emerged a butterfly from the cocoon. An overflow of
words spilled out. She explained how it was with us. We had
never had direction because we had not known which way was
up. That left us running in our own little rut at the bottom of
the ghetto. We had no values simply because we never had
anything to value.When I reminded her we loved each other then, she shook
her head and said, "Love is giving. But we had never given
each other anything. All we had was sex. We took from each
other like we took money from people in the streets, and with
the same meaning. We were like a witch's brew, destroying
each other. It was a revolving treadmill we had mounted, trying
to get something for nothing; ma-king time in the same bad
dream. You've got to break free, Frank" she pleaded.
I had never known her to be so emotional about anything.
She had always been sort of languid. Nothing was really im-
portant, just the pleasure of the moment. Now she was on fire,
caught up in expressing herself.
"You're still don't understand, Frank!" Her hands still flut-
tered when she talked.
She had me confused. She wanted me to get off the treadmill
so that I could move forward? It was my ignorance that made
me angry, and I cursed her. But my sudden outburst left her
undisturbed. She waited until I had finished, then she contin-
ued telling me of all the opporunities there were. "You don't
have to be afraid to leave the ghetto, and you can be a man
without ripping anyone off, if you decide to stay. We can move
together, Frank!"
The more she talked, the angrier I became. It was some one
else she wanted, I thought. What the hell did she expect me to
do. I told her' I didn't want to hear it. If she wanted another
man, she was out there, and all she had to do was go get him.
"I'm no village idiot," I told her. "Go on to your man!"
She was still unruffled as she started getting into her coat.
"You'll dig it, Frank," she said as she picked up her handbag.
She smiled . . .
.. . the corporal pushed the papers across the desk. I
took the pen and signed the release. The flash of his gold wed-
ding band caught my eye as he reached for the pen. Tracy was
married, also. I read about it in the Amsterdam News. It was a
pretty big affair . . . I had to get my mind off Tracy!
We could not leave the company until ten o'clock. So I took
a seat next to the big window. I could look out on the parking
lot, and still remain close to the last door from freedom. The
five other men who were processed along with me were stand-
ing at the door talking with the corporal. I looked out of the
window. It was a brisk morning, and I could see the officers,
off-duty, in civilian dress, their heads bent in the wind, running
to and from the building. It felt good to be going, and yet, kind
of strange. It was all new in the fact that it was a different me
going to the same old place. And yet. . . .
I wondered if I would be able to separate the two. . . the way
I now felt and what I had become from the old environment
... and keep it all in proper perspective. I had my head together
now . . . goals in life and a new knowledge of myself.
"Ten o'clock," the sergeant announced. The men at the door
crowded through. I heard Johnny shouting good-by from a
passing jeep. . . .
Going Home!JULY 1974
59
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[Barbara Jordan Scrapbook, July - September, 1974], book, 1974; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth616583/m1/52/: accessed May 22, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Texas Southern University.