Author: Herb
Boyd
Issue: Oct-Nov, 1998
"When a griot
dies, it is like having a library burned to the ground," said historian
Leonard Jeffries after the passing of John Henrik Clarke on July 16. "But
Dr. Clarke was a master griot, and so our loss is immeasurable." Clarke's
death unleashed outpouring of praise for the 83-year-old scholar and for his
peerless and inestimable contributions to black studies and Pan-Africanist
thought. There is much to acclaim: prolific research that focused on the lives
of such leaders as Marcus
Garvey, Malcolm X and
Cheikh Anta Diop; the wise and
urgent counsel of his many lectures; and more than 25 books that he wrote or
edited, revealing every sinew of African and African-American history, culture
and politics.
But the force that
propelled Clarke the academic -- his commitment to restoring the missing pages
of history -- has at times eclipsed the dedication and imagination that he
displayed as an author and champion of fiction.
First, Clarke was a
poet, then he was an author, and then, when his own muse commuted from fiction
to history and criticism, he became a generous, insightful editor, gathering
short-story writers -- well known and yet to be known -- into anthologies
through which a canon could be recognized.
James Turner, the
director of Africana studies at Cornell University, was introduced to Clarke's
work in the 1960s, through HARYOU-ACT, an antipoverty agency in Harlem. Clarke
was the director of its Heritage Teaching Program. In time, Turner came to
identify Clarke as "one of the principal intellectual and academic
mentors in Africana studies. He is an incomparable `significant other' for
those of our generation. Dr. Clarke was instrumental in producing many widely
circulated documents and papers on African world history and on
African-American history. His papers provided primary reference sources that
were not usually available in the established literature, in either world
history or American history. These popularly read documents had great impact
on the youth, inspiring them and the community in general."
The fact is that, for
Clarke, it was fantasy that awakened his lifelong relationship with words.
"When I was in the third grade, I was assigned a composition to
write," he recalled in a speech at Cornell University in 1990. "I
was working before and after school, running errands for Army officers, so I
was sleepy and didn't have my composition ready. I got up with a blank piece
of paper and read a complete fabrication. I made the whole thing up.
"The teacher said,
`John, hand that in. This is a good example of fine writing.' I didn't have
anything on the paper, and she decided that instead of punishing me, she would
encourage me to pursue a career as a writer.
"I had never
thought about writing until then, but then I began to seriously think about
it."
Like many beginning
writers, Clarke's first creations were lyrical -- namely poetry and song --
and they explored ideas with which he was most familiar. His hometown of
Columbus, Ga., provided a rich landscape of events and personalities to spark
his imagination. Moreover, he sought teachers in all of the places he
inhabited: while a boy in Georgia, from his classrooms; after he moved to
Harlem (in 1933, at age 18), from the historians and writers and librarians
who shared his curiosity and his vision; and from the books that he read
voraciously.
And he wrote. His first
published short story, "On the Other Side" (1938), appeared in the
National Urban League's journal, Opportunity. His first book, a collection of
poetry titled Rebellion and Rhyme (Dicker Press), was published in 1948.
Two of Clarke's short
stories, "Santa Claus Is a White Man" (1939) and "The Boy Who
Painted Christ Black" (1940), are deemed his most popular. Both were
inspired by his Southern boyhood. In "Santa Claus Is a White Man,"
young Randolph Johnson is on his way Christmas shopping with a quarter when a
gang of white boys confronts him. They call him names and threaten to lynch
him. Randolph hopes that Santa Claus, standing nearby, will come to his
rescue. Santa, however, not only pulls off his beard and helps the mob, but
also takes Randolph's quarter. Though Randolph manages to outmaneuver his
assailants, his belief in Santa Claus is shattered forever.
"The Boy Who
Painted Christ Black" was based on an actual incident, according to
Clarke. It is the story of a boy who paints a picture of Christ that resembles
his father. When the portrait is brought to the attention of the school
district's supervisor, he chastises the student. However, the school's
principal defends the young artist, and as a result, loses his job.
Both stories are
characteristic of Clarke's fiction: realistic in tone and in their manner of
citing actual events, and forceful in their invocation of historic figures,
such as Booker T. Washington, Henry O. Tanner and Father Divine.
It may not be too much
to surmise that Clarke's mastery of the short-story form was a critical step
in his overall development as a writer, for it is amazing how much richness,
how much diversity, he could weave into just a few pages. The deft use of
repetition, clever asides, metaphors and lively prose that made his fiction so
compelling are also in abundance in his nonfiction, particularly in his longer
essays and profiles of notable leaders and artists.
Eventually, Clarke's
penchant for lyricism was overshadowed by the harrowing facts of his reports.
His critics felt that his writing was too polemical, too narrowly concerned
with African-centered themes. Yes, he certainly was preoccupied with those
interests, but the politically charged times in which he lived demanded his
voice in another context. Though he continued to write poetry and short
stories, his students and colleagues began to rely on the penetrating insight
of his remarkable treatises, his speeches, his teaching. Clarke harnessed his
imagination and creativity for the pressing tasks. The griot and seer found
another way to register his wisdom.
In John Henrik Clarke
we lost a great thinker who could wield a pen like a sword, parrying with
sharp retorts, biting humor and awesome revelations.
"One day when
Luther was near th' end of a three week stupor, he wandered into one of Father
Divine's restaurants and sat down at th' bes' table. He thought th' restaurant
was a bar and th' bes' table in th' house meant nothing to him. Now, fellas,
when I say this was the bes, table in th' house, I mean it was th' bes' table
you'd see anywhere. In those days most of Father Divine's restaurants set up a
special table for Father just in case he came in an' wanted to dine in style.
This special table had snow-white linin', th' bes, of silverware, crystal
glasses, th' kind you only see in the homes of millionaires, and a fresh bowl
of flowers. A picture of Father Divine was in front of th' flowers with a
message under it sayin', `Thank you Father.' It was some kind of deadly sin
for anybody but Father Divine and his invited guests to set at this
table."
When I came close to
the picture, I noticed it was painted with the kind of paint you get in the
five and ten cent stores. Its shape was blurred slightly, as if someone had
jarred the frame before the paint had time to dry. The eyes of Christ were
deep-set and sad, very much like those of Aaron's father, who was a deacon in
the local Baptist Church. This picture of Christ looked much different from
the one I saw hanging on the wall when I was in Sunday School. It looked more
like a helpless Negro, pleading silently for mercy.
Herb
Boyd is
the co-editor of Brotherman: The Odyssey of Black Men in America, An
Anthology, and the author of African History for Beginners and Down the Glory
Road.
COPYRIGHT 1998
American Visions Media, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2000 Gale
Group