Search for a Street Prophet

By William Charles Henderson

Mans gift from the creator in art
terms is a masterpiece! The creation,
of a masterpiece lies in the artists
capacity for supreme imagination
and execution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781493169542

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by William Charles Henderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica]

Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved. Website

Rev. date: 10/05/2015

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Epochal African-American Artist

William Charles Henderson

Artist and Teacher

CREATIVE SUMMARY

Focuse on illuminating,

writings, and the likely success of ideas

in relationship to given situations.

Designers sense of precision,

scale models and drawings.

Flexible and innovative with creative and color

theories, techniques and applications.

My strength on course is range

Studies:

Linden Academy High School (Diploma)

Alabama State University (BS)

Cranbrook Academy of Art (MFA)

Awards:

The Martin Luther King, Jr., Cultural Arts Award

Academic of Italy with Gold Metal

Great Ideas of Western Man

Two Awards, one honorable mention

Workshops:

Howard University

Grinnell College

New College

Duke University

GMI Engineering and Management Institute

One Man Shows

The University of Michigan at Flint

The University of Wisconsin

The University of North Florida

The State University of Iowa

Fine Printmaker

Sun Valley Center for Arts and Humanities, Idaho

Florida Endowment for the Arts

Teacher:

Florida A and M University

University of North Florida

Mississippi Valley State University

Alabama State University

Designer:

Mantex Corporation, Oxford, Michigan

National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, DC

Sojourn:

Haiti, French West Indies

Senegal, West Africa

Non-Profit Organizations:

Community Bridges Incorporated, Biloxi, MS

Executive Director, 1997 to 2005.

Youth oriented organization specialization in

creative media. Focus on "Youth Cultural

Radio" in conjunction with WBSL 1190 A.M.

Oral histories in conjunction with the Mississippi

Humanities Council with a three volume, 42

tape collection published by the University of

Southern Mississippi. Grant funding by

City of Biloxi, Harrison County.

National/International Competitions

Gallerie Interdationale, NYC

Artist USA, PA

Rebuttal to The Whitney, NYC

Ultimate Concerns, OH

National Drawing and Small Sculpture Show, IL

Atlanta University Exhibition for Black Artist, GA

Ringling Museum, FL

Tougaloo College, Mississippi

Organized the First Annual Arts Colony for

artists and arts organizations. Twelve visiting artists.

Other Grants:

Florida A and M University, Alabama State University

Reviews:

The intaglio prints on William Henderson are unusual

and well executed… The Saginaw News.

The technical adroitness of William C. Henderson’s

works are the first thing that strikes the eye. A virtuosic

draftsman… The Flint Journal.

A handsome, slender volume of 46 poems… is

handsomely bound in striking cover art by

William C. Henderson… The Tallahassee Democrat.

Noteworthy entries by first time International exhibitors

include Native Son, a powerful pen and ink drawing of

figure caught in a web of cross-hatching… Park East

In one work Henderson’s highly control clean lines detail

the figure of a guerilla fighter… it may be effectively interpreted

with either head upright… Times Union and Journal.

Finally, one of the real stars of the show was the colorfully

imaginative, visually delightful (Hansel and Gretel) set design

by William C. Henderson… The Montgomery Advisor.

Currently:

Search for a Street Prophet, an autobiographical

exploration into cross-cultural spirituality.

Summarizing…

Man’s gift from the creator in art

terms is a masterpiece! The creation,

of a masterpiece lies in the artists’

capacity for supreme imagination

and execution.

To Australia

CHAPTER 1

Comes now I in my time to walk the earth, to seek a fading light that asks how can I contain what I am? Like the sojourner whose point of origin is not a mega-City like New York, but still awed and inspired by the cultural and racial diversity of people living there. But as for my likes for me? My self-worth began on black dirt in the heart of the Black Belt, in the Old Confederacy where tunes like Dixie was written. Is it a just situation or nothing else much? I have no answer. But its arm swings like a long pendulum across central Alabama into northern Mississippi to shape a lucky fertile crescent Yes sir, that’s where I am born, right here in the heart of the Western World where we create the myths, and when myths become facts? We choose to print the myths.

Be it imaginary or real? It always happens in the homeland of lost cause mythologies when the ‘encouraged’ must go beyond its boundaries for the jelly The clarity for which this direction happens, happened to me just 100 miles east of my birthplace, in my 18th year, in Montgomery. Lay it on being just plain dumb, but fate has a way of always greeting the crossroads. In its explosion of happiness, Francois Dominique L’Ouverture ‘the imaginary?’ and Hayward Louis Oubre, Junior, ‘the real?’ integrated the principles of choices into the new birth of my mythoform. And it all happened right here at home, to close to my-being and to far from what I am?

In two heroes with two lessons to teach, If you choose to bridge? You must bring land over water. If you choose to build bridges? You must go where the rivers are. Now he who stands along in the streets is prepared for the long sweep of the ancients’ from the Greek City-States to Christian Spirituality. But what about that Some Thing that truly said inside of me You don’t me careful? Cause you ain’t born to follow? Now later, as I take leave from my wife of irreconcilable differences and involuntarily leaving my lovely daughter in whose future I hope to reappear, the chase begins. Where now is the seven, and the eleven? Where you sir, alone with me, shall now crossover?

Into this drifting atmosphere enters my earthly mother, spiritually a searching vessel? and my father whom I barely knew. In my 10th year he was forced-haste departed? Leaving a fresh opening into my life, to be redefined, or to be explained in the context of the life in which he had to live. In that same year I clearly remember mounting a quarter-horse, pointing it away from home, lashing it across the romp when Oh Hell broke loose? It was not a ride! We jumped a ditch including a picket wire fence, where I lost the ‘right rein?’ At full gallop with only fate in the ‘left hand’. I decided to pull, she quickly obliged until her head pointed away from home, and then, oh my God!

We jumped the back picket wire fence to race full-length strait through the white folks graveyard, disturbing anything at peace? Imagine a mare at almost 16-hands floating around gray marble tombstones while cutting a trail with loud sloppy hoof-beats between restful white oaks. Then with the audacity to exit the front gate opposite Sheriff Honeycuts’ house? Hanging a tight right turn then seriously scatting another half-mile along Highway 38 to make a sudden sit-down stop! . . . at home.

Can’t believe that, can you sir? Well I do. I was mounted on that hellacious mare and her name is MayLou! The undisputed cowpony in my section of the cow country, and she belonged to Zeke Glass, a living legend for society. But did they called him Cowboy Zeke? No! It is said that godly deception attracts the simple happy life, I am not ‘a great rider?’ Just someone who simply mounted up and with one rein in the left hand, she carried me at one speed, faster than fast, worked herself into a soaked lather, and was put away wet. When all I ever wanted to be was an artist, so what did they call me, Cowboy Billy?

Whatever happened to old Zeke in the early 1950s? He became a subject of my early youth mysteries when young black boys remained silent, and Heavenly Father had to knowingly and mercifully protect me. Some things I did learn. There is no life as untouchable as when imagination meets reality? To avoid further cultural impositions I began using my ‘sight,’ not my faith to guide me to the source for only God knows what is? My flesh bears the scars of this fate, as I withdrew from many who may have walked freely with me.

Shall I go further, cause this narrative ain’t sterile? I’m just talking facts sir. I was born the second of 3 boys between 2 girls, maybe at the crossroads? On the 3rd day of that month before we entered the 2nd World War, cause the Japanese would not be tolerated? And, neither will abstract artists because where is Jackson Pollock, and the other great doings? There is not one dammed ‘modern American artist’ on the whole damn scene? My kind is as neurotic as 4F broken down by pre-association, the least being multiple diversity? So then, break me down as born into multiple spirits with more than ‘one side’ to me: I be Dogon, to receive the Word at ‘face value’ in simple knowledge, then the ‘word from the side,’ then the ‘word from behind.’ If concurrently the three becomes one, what about the one from the side? And the one from behind? If we are to believe the nursury rhime, it’s snakes, sneales, and puppy dog tales. If we followed Marvin Gays que, I’ll be dog-gone or I’ll be lone-gone. If the elders should decide to give me the ‘clear word?’ maybe I will understand the sacred knowledge in the nature of creation, and the initiation into the reasons for human existence.

Until then, in ritual my spirit will never rest, maybe yet unveiled because it is not meant yet for all eyes to see? This strangeness is like seeking the need for a ‘street prophet?’ A prophesy, a bard sir? Maybe unlike the Celtic Order of singing poets, but the toughest damn spirit South of the picket wire. How else can be reveal the exceptionalities of my Father’s children in His Age?

The Apostle said Slaves, obey your masters? but the faithful Apostle was not a slave. The cost of the style shatters, fragmenting new births into more intensely and diverse generations? Still, we dare not consider our way as sin less we confront our own guilt? The individual-self dwindles into insignificance and shall never live to master life and death, luxury or poverty? So what’s up?

Got to find me an angel, sings Aretha Franklin. But can you understand that cowboy? Like an angel in the jungle? If you have ever seen an angel? Or seen a gentle woman? Like nighting gales and faritales, what else is worth singing too? Even for cowboys shit happens. Is it in this cause that I am prepared to kill? Fortunately not yielding, but I came close to it before realizing that neither temptation nor I alone can redeem my ancestors’ honor? This thorn in my flesh seeks correction, but in the promise of my Father as I sojourn in His space and time. Besides, it is the only promise that can make Billy a good cowhand lest he completely separates from me?

As a youth I was labeled with incorrect behavior, destined to visit the ranks of many spirits with many gods. But being different ain’t that bad if you can forge sacred ground around mutual sacrifice? If you believe your soul is weak surrounded by a void of discontent? If to set a goal and accomplish it means to dream, and accomplish it again and again? But then when your belief becomes self-gratification and turns on you as mine did, then its time to seek your Father’s spirituality? If Babylon comes falling down, I have paid her back twice as much as she gave me? Now I live to renew this new life being renewed inside me? Like anybody’s, whose can be worst than mine?

CHAPTER 2

My ex-wife, irreconcilable?

A relationship exists between the Father, the Son, and the man in the street. My Father is omnipotent and His Son is made perfect. Then I bare the burden of the remnants. Some say Kalfou? Born in the midst of fire and rage, and to live within its proper context. This completeness includes evil but a spirit that possess the rage against it The witness in nurturing secrecy, told so as distinguished by pig sacrifices. The artist of the gospel, of mojo and blues, jazz, voudoun, fetishes, gold watches, chains, rings and things. To teach however careful to mortal man, a destiny remains for whatever what is? But by grace is my gift placed at the crossroads to make straight my path through contextual blame.

When my biological father ran like his farmer father, I clearly remember staring at the horizon, that nexus between the spiritual and physical worlds. As an older surviving relative and direct maternal descendent through three bloodlines, my grandmother introduced me to The Four Gospels? Not once did I request additional history, even after being told by others that she was willing to do so. Folk narratives of bonded ancestors with hands being cut off simply because they learned to read or write, was too much for me to hear. To many ‘abstracts’ zigzagging down, through, and even into the modern; to many connections giving way for too many interactions…

Bigmama crossed her major hurdle early-on, our first generation college graduate, then seemly spent most of her time making very loud cries to God even in my presence, to keep us under His protection. In the name of Jesus she admonished all she perceived as evil, in her time my inspiration reached humble beginnings in art and culture, only to meet with strong oppositions. But what talked to me? Bigmama issued only one caution, ‘Artists starve, and little black boys being who you are? Will starve twice.’ As I observed her patience for spirits, her emphasis on discipline, and her significance in being known only by her works, she became a sweet and blooming flower for my season?

Meanwhile back in New York other significant events are grabbing hold, Spirits kept alive in the crowded basements of Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, and the Bronx? While down home many are still interpreting my silence as evil, my speaking in quiet tones as my portrait in frustration? Why are you talking to yourself? they would ask, who are you talking too? I refuse to answer because if I do? you are going to say You don’t even know what you’re talking about! Whenever not long, some voluntary soul will respond in my behalf, Oh never mind him honey, he’s crazy in this Southern heat. Plus that weird art stuff! Not one of them ever said Well I’ll be damn, a potential Rembrandt? Take me to your etchings? Tell me I’m not where I belong when it is not myself to whom I am talking? And, what talks back to me is intensifying the Southern heat to which I am responding? This is my first act in seeing and I still feel the rage implied in what I saw.

Folk dance companies continued to migrate from the small island in this decade, supported by drum ensembles to provide the means for skilled artists to live. But what did the talking drum voices say? Word came to my small village of a world-class artist-professor less than 100 miles away, a soul surviving New Orleans transport who has seen some mighty rough times to become a rare breed, and a man worth knowing. Now, are we talking spirits or just plain dumb luck? When Bigmama, a public school teacher, can financially assist me to study under him? The preparation attained by her example came in to completion through a man from a different place. A clarity and intensity to challenge effectively in larger numbers, spirits like mine? Now we, the face of the young and tragic, are no longer the talent drain solely for consumption by more sophisticated spirits.

At first sight my master artist-teacher issues his first challenge, Come into the front of this class, and leave me knowing how to think? I accepted in silent obedience, continuing to be know only by my works. In so doing summoned up all the energy inside me. This was only the first of his 4-year challenge-and-response pedagogy, that placed me in a vicarious renaissance. In the second act he, with my Father’s permission, allowed me too, instead of starving? Celebrate my 22nd birthday as a full-time teacher at a neighboring State University.

Then I left Alabama for the first time, with a promise on my back to never forget the ‘raging fire deep down in my soul to see whatever I had to see?’ In this renewed challenge, many of my students were older than I, as was all of my associates. But I was permitted to attained greater heights in both the arts and teaching. The younger spirit was my different blessing, the fresh burst of energy of a relevant disciplinarian for all that would listen. This was deeply engrained in me long before meeting you. The point being made is every man has a gift from the Father, and mine is in this manner as given to me by Him.

Concerning our marriage and your position of irreconcilable differences, I counted my blessings including our beloved daughter before righteous indignation. But somehow I knew that you were already gone. We read each others’ minds and our courses was chartered, your right to feel differently is justifiable because you are not under bondage. The two of us can stand separately on both sides of our beloved daughter, so it can be done this way as well. In hindsight I see opportunities where I should have been more assertive and was not, just as I see opportunities when your sudden, independent actions, were without due process. Such is the paragon of reason when I have been told such reasoning no longer exists. But I will not curse my talent, nor accept how it should be applied from another human being. I am still in my Father’s grace and must abide freely within His will. On such edicts I shall not compromised.

At 11 years old, our daughter is thriving with excellent academic and life learning skills, in my absence there is no question of your love for her. Here, in my new place, I am blessed and growing. Just as with you and our daughter, it is being accomplished at a great sacrifice. I will admit that working here is more productive as it affords me to grow more rapidly in my solitude, and too miss my daughter even more. I look forward to graciously bridging whatever I can into her future.

During childhood I remember being told a legend about Cudjo? In this context he was the last African slaveholder recently located to the Americas when the emancipation bell rang. To the left of Cudjo was the painful face-to-face reality of who he was, what he was, and the new demands of his newly introduced world? At dawn the next morning, he loaded his bonded people on his boat and began his slow, up-river paddle. As they each pointed to lands of choice, he rowed to the riverbank. They jumped off and upon planting both feet on solid ground, let out an un-bonded scream, Free? At last I’m free!

At this her time his former slave and beautiful wife departed. Cudjo saw something in her eyes that was different, a refreshed kind of smile Inside he loosened, something unraveled, and renewed, and he found himself smiling back at her. He saw and accepted her new found peace, after all it was through her blessings by Him, that He shall now pray for her to abide in the grace and protection of His Father… forever. Men like me, maybe we don’t get to keep women like you?

To My beloved daughter,

from the sandpits?

You know what I’m going to say don’t you? ‘Yes, take care of Mommy?’ She has much to share with you. Remember, your best friends are not always those who you like, but also those who have your best interest in mind. Something very special remains in your eyes, maybe the presence of a newfound will. Lay it to the song lyricist who wrote When I look at you the world’s alright with me, cause I know its going to be a lovely day. With pride, cry in the blessings of the promise of your God, Suffer little children and come unto me, for great is your reward in heaven. This well travel path never leave you alone as I recall ‘the sandpits’ at about your age. It was physical and spiritual, and taught me that any obstacle regardless of power and size, can be overcome through long and serious work and dedication to your reasons for being. Give it your always, and you will never lose.

As the smallest of my friends I became the undisputed captain of the football team. It is all about consistent dedication and quality of sportsmanship. They chose me because I was without fear, led by fair example, and loved them because they loved me. The most difficult lesson to learn in teamwork, especially among friends, is how to avoid personal favoritism and to anticipate individual temperament. Both can lead to mistakes because ‘hounds cannot hunt with foxes?’ Call them out? Be patient, clear in both mind and emotions, always wait, seek, and at the best opportunity, strike with the most consistency of talent you and your team mates can offer.

A team is like a body with many parts, each part must perform at 100% in unified body and spirit to meet its full challenge. So freedom is not free my daughter, ‘only one part can signal the time and type of action to take? And conversely, must accept the full responsibility for its success or failure. These qualities make for a good captain. You will be exposed to two different worlds, your mother’s and my own. I am your biological father and bare full responsibility for what happened to our pride. I bare its full shame in the presence of Almighty God and ask for His forgiveness. In your sojourn, you are God’s child first and study to improve yourself onto Him. Walk forward unafraid in spirit and grace, and He will tell you what to do next.

Life in the sandpits was an intermediate, unsupervised step to challenge and learn from nature. The turf, dense swamps, in the heart of the Black Belt just outside our village where we dared to explore and challenge our sense for survival. Elders who hunted there often cautioned us to travel in groups and look for the dangers of quicksand, suck holes, and such. But swamps have spring drinking water, small ponds and waterways, delicious wild fruits and poisonous plants? We chased ‘king cutters’ and climbed the tallest trees, took sport in killing rattlesnakes and chasing water moccasins from our favorite swimming hole.

And finally, there was the sandpits. A six foot deep winding water wash sided by steep red clay banks rising above bleach-white, 2 foot deep sands. An overall maze of angles and curves with various widths and traps… awaiting any barefoot boy willing to play sport on over-heated sands. Her record spoke for itself? Numerous known sprained ankles, open cuts, fractures, and sometimes broken bones. An open invitation for the light-footed and graceful, the high spirited young that can take a hit, fall and break it with the greatest of ease or with a quick burst of speed avoid being entrapped against her unforgiving red clay banks. You see my daughter it is also about lateral vision, the ‘instinctive’ sense of place in the game?

The complement was two comprehensive workbooks given to me by ‘Willie D’ at the Academy upon entering the 7th grade. This was my supervised study on how to freehand technical drawings and illustrations, perspective, foreshortening, and how to master lights and darks. At my most vulnerable Willie D stepped-in to teach me the difference between being a female teacher’s pet, and falling into an experienced teachers’ love trap? Well young man he said, you’ve been hit. Getting up? Now that’s left up to you. Academic and life learning was one in the same with Willie D, who always had a new project at hand, and somehow the tools and materials to build it with.

Maturing in high school was filled with mixed emotions, objectivity was thrust upon me. I had to live separate from and apart of my teammates and friends emotional chemistry. Truth of conduct ruled, and on my small shoulders was placed the responsibility to deliver my friends. But on my much favored subjective side, I simply wanted to be happy and enjoy life as they did? Commencement Day I wept helplessly. When asked why, I had to remain in silence in respect for a true emotion that I was unable to express. It was the only way that I knew how to say good-by. The past had become the present and I was to travel alone from here, never to play on this beloved team again.

CHAPTER 3

But even prior to that there was my Uncle Charlie, and as rumors go, I proudly carried his name. Was he my idol? Maybe. Was he my best friend, definitely yes, and my general help-mate? This period is still open for further discussions. My Uncle Charlie loved baseball, and Jackie Robinson was his idol. And Jackie Robinson, stealing home plate, against the New York Yankees in the world series? Was completely and absolutely unheard off.

But equally as important to me is the fact that he was always there. Yes I, seemingly with the strangest of taste, became a declared fit. Seemingly again, my Uncle Charlie was custom made to fit my bill. You see sir, seemingly at birth I became a synthesizer, or should I say a very strange and enchanted boy. Maybe a little shy, and sad of eye. But what I am now, I was at the very beginning. As for the thank-you’s that are in me, I will remain with that energy until the end. Just as I have not progressed, I will not grow old.

Our Uncle Charlie was stabled. He worked midnights, 11 to 7, at Tennessee Coal and Iron. Which meant that on many occasions, between his humble hair-cutting business and himself being a pitcher, he could always discuss baseball with me.

Midnight represents a single, tangible result of our long and rewarding relationship. Midnight, black all over, was our cocker spaniel that was only to be shared with my baby sister, Jackie. But fate has its personal rewards, and midnight was simply to damn frisky.

As the artist in me began its initial maturity, my craft followed the order in which I experienced it. In that order it all began with baseball. Somehow his chosen name for me was ‘Dusty’ and seemingly all that we had was Uncle Charlie. Now Grandmama, that presented an entirely different situation. But could she ever cook a cake; make you knock your mama down. But what of yes, and in reality, ‘ba-brother, you dirty-ass shit, get in that number 3 tub and don’t stop scrubbin.’ Every day, every single day, it was me in that number 3 tub. But every summer, every single summer, we looked forward to our reunion: me, Uncle Charlie, Grandmama, and baseball. That is, until Shody shows up…

That’s right, ‘Shody Dody’ is what they called him. My first and only serious creative competitor. Who flavored a taste for cocoa and sugar, with no chaser. Me, being the most recent arrival at Linden Academy, meant that I was without a friend. My teacher, Ms. Josephine Glover, definitely did not fit that bill. In fact, I do not believe that she even liked me. But Boo Johnson, a repeating forth grader and swamp boy, replaced her as my best friend. Bigmama, with here second to none library, and a someone-teaches-someone philosophy, quickly propelled me through the ‘fractions’ and into the freedom to roam; and roaming I did. Because with Grandmama, I remained that ‘little dirty-ass shit’ and was constantly hitting that number 3 tub. But situations do vary, for example in the fifth grade, my Tee Hattie was in control. Thats Aunt Hattie, my mothers half-sister, alone with new found Grace and reason for the new season. By Christmas, I had found a new love, photography and I cound’t hardly wait to tell Uncle Charlie. What? A flash camera? What that dirty-ass shit needs is a bath in a number 3 tub. Junior need a topcoat, and that’s what that shit needs. Somehow the dust was settled. The next time you git cold, you git that damn flast camera. But the winters were unusaully warm, and I got to meet a new friend,

Chief Young Eagle

Dancing and prancing in full regalia, in our gym. As I alone was presently shooting with my new flash camera.

Boo was big, double-jointed as they say. Wilum Charles, dat’s a king snake, don’t bother him, or That’s a water moccasin, be careful, but kill dem sonbitches and there was joyful times, like Thomas Ned, caught by his head by a root in our favorite swimming hole, or what about Ms. Bete T. at church, they crucified him, and he never said a mumblin word, they pierce him in his side, and he never said a mumblin word, they spit in his face what? And I wouda spoke goddamit or bust.

Then with Boo was those private moments, sometimes absolutely hilarious but not to be spoken. A brief eye contact, a glance was sufficient, as if we could read each others thoughts. In reflecting, I recall similar experieces establishing a sense of place, that connectivity into instinctiveness. As a growing young man and armed with a declaration of war I experience a different kind of priviledge. It began with receiving a certificate of merit, national 4-H leadership program at Tuskegee University. My cousin Truitt, also a member, on his final day was preparing his poetic presentation by Contee Cullen and enters now this embarressment to my cousin’s delivery. My ambition is to be an artist, not a poet. Truitt is a potential speaker with execellant delivery. The verbal assault was okay, but then he physically attacted Truitt by mauling him by the collar, now that was to much. Selectively, I credited him with four inches taller than I, but no big matter. Selectively, I took him apart with three or four blows. As my friend Boo later asked did ya kick his ass good Wilum Charles. Yes I did. That’ll teach him.

Yes, my uncle Charlie, and my new friend, Boo Johnson as my new team mate.

CHAPTER 4

The Oubre Experiment:

All modern art is not good,

but all good art is Modern?

Popular art has nothing to do with art, at all? When the past and present are the same, there is no change. In the Southern spirit of Jackson Davis, the namesake for our dormitory, where veterans, athletes, homosexuals, sons and daughters of laborers, teachers and professionals, you name it? Even young aspiring artists like me was all trapped into its three floors during the aftermath of the Montgomery Bus Boycott. But I loved this place, I loved being immune to its distained which somehow never threaten my innocence? I fell in step with a tight and unusual circle that honored its word. What was unusual seemingly became the usual. With 500+ freshmen in my class, I was unfettered by it all because I was the country boy with no money, and with Bigmama it was to tight to mention. I worked very hard to do well, completing my first academic year as a top ten student.

The remaining 3 years were different. With only one thing left to prove, I turned my focus to art, history, and political science to successfully complete every art class in the curriculum because I had a ‘very decent human being to work with, Professor Hayward L. Oubre, applied an ‘open studio concept’ permitting students to work with upper classman after the Freshman year, advancing as fast as our young growing talent will carry us. It was the most exciting learning situation I have ever been in, and I worked hard to excell in his competitive environment. He mold me with diversity: from art history to interdisciplinary art theory, then drawing and design, multimedia and clarified approaches to color mixing and color relationships.

After pouring my heart into each challenge, his criticism always seemed to summarized my performance with, You are very talented, but you are not yet performing to the best of your ability? Remember, all modern art is not good, but all good art is modern. I suppose it was meant to remind me of courage, and how wearing it will provide protection for me?

As a forethough, somewhere between deeds, dreams, and chinaberry trees, at my 24th birthway the marine corps abruptly entered my life. This was not a fantasy… it was Parris Island. So, in addressing the need for fresh material, how do you respond? Peach fuzz private? You talk to me ’bout peach fuzz? What you having peach fuzz fur? Now shave all dat shit off! All of it, now! An here I am, with a gilette blue blade and not knowing what to do next? I learned quickly, a gilette blue blade is a dangerous weapon, as I bleed profusely.

Now how was I to soon to learn that no love is lost between Mrs. Auto and big mama’s brother, Robert Miller? If bad blood is rooted in money, ours is a classic example. Uncle Robert loans Bigmama $500, and from here, the unpaid bill remains unpaid… Thus creating vast, un-intertwined reactions. Mr. Oubre has a subject for that, entangelment, 1947, a pencil drawing.

Since the time of Bigmama’s date of birth, around 1880, seventeen years after emancipation, the threat is still alive and well.

How perceptive, Bigmama, living to almost 100 years, along with it’s blessings. Now what of Agnus Clara, or Agnus Clearer? All pointing to entanglement. A simple pencil drawing executed in 1947 by Hayward L. Oubre, incidentily, less than 5 years after my birth.

Now comes Robert Miller Jr., Audrey and Michell, and straight black hair. Did I say straight black? I believe I did. As to the great aunts, that will be aunts’ Tad and Missy. Missing of course is Yates Burrell, that’s Bigmama’s first husband. According to Mrs. Auto, he died of acute indesgestion, this was prior to refrigeration. Dating that incident possibly around 1900.

First the only folly in managing soft hair is to ‘learn’ how to manage it. As for me it was routine: wet it thoroughly in the morning, shape it carefully before it sets. And then, never touch it until the next morning. Then repeat.

Mrs. Auto had a raw, redish hair, requiring a different technique. It was soft and curley. Jackie’s hair, however, was curley in the back, then straight. Worth noting is the fact that she had no hair in her armpits. All tracing, I suppose, to Choctaw heritage?

But the remotest on the matrileaneal side is Agnas Clara, big mama’s mama. Or Agnas Clearer, which seems more appropriable. However it be, stems a lack of clarity. The