a bullet in the brain & keep his life,
while some other poor sap dies
from a shot in the leg. It’s all luck
& perspective: pleasure is both to me.
COURTSHIP
Hattie, you are
as delectable & powdered
as a beignet. Your
skin is white enough
to catch a bit of sun
in its own sugar.
Your sweat glints
like the jewels I’ll
buy for you. Don’t you
hear me talking,
pretty lady?
I can play my viol
for you if it
will make you feel
right. We can bathe
in champagne, dry
ourselves with hundred-
dollar bills like those
Rockefellers do.
I’ll take you out
of the sporting house
& into the royal
court. Keep watching
my exhibitions. Keep
hiding that smile:
your gloved hand looks
like a dove’s wing
when you whisper
to your friends.
Did you tell them
the snappy left
that closed Kid’s
eye like a bank on
Saturday was for you?
Did you whisper
that the gut hook dropping
the man to his knees
like a sinner meeting
with Death was for you?
“A GREAT MALTESE CAT TOYING WITH A WHITE MOUSE”
What I told the reporters:
I had no doubt about the outcome
after the first round. The only
surprise was how long
Tommy Burns stayed on his feet.
He was a game man & showed
no inclination whatsoever to quit.
My fists were better in every round
& I landed punches I thought
would bring him down. Like a great
pachyderm, he refused to stop.
& because he was so game, I was glad
the police ended the fight.
I wanted to be heavyweight
champion, not injure Burns seriously.
What I really meant:
That man made me chase him from Texas
to England, then all of the way
to Australia before he would fight me.
Four-flusher. He didn’t win the title.
He just happened to be white & in the right
place, like somebody striking gold. I put him
down, but gently, in the first round so he’d
know what was to come when he got a knee
off the canvas. Once he collected himself,
I bruised him with my right & talked
to him all the while. Walk right into
them, Tommy. Left hook to the gut.
That’s a boy, Tommy. Straight right
to the cheek. Take your medicine nicely.
LETTER TO BELLE (MAY 27, 1909)
Dear Belle,
You will not talk to me and I have things I need to tell you. Papa enjoys my company and I am not going anywhere. I do not mind sharing his attentions with you. We both know the business. He has enough money for both of us. Let us be civil and enjoy Papa’s company while we have it.
Cordially yours,
Hattie
LETTER TO BELLE (MAY 29, 1909)
Dear Belle,
Let me tell you about the night me and Papa met. He came into the club in the kind of fancy clothes sports can only afford for a little while. He was the only black and at least a head taller than any other man in the room. He had on a white suit and the wings on his collars were crisp enough to fly away. The street outside the club was not covered and his spats still shined like a new nickel. I was playing piano and Papa asked me to play Verdi. All the girls laughed and he kept them laughing by ordering champagne for everyone. When he smiled the gold on his uppers was like an open door in a room with no window. The club was not a champagne place and Sideways Mike had to run out to get some. A couple of the colored girls approached Papa and he politely declined. The roll of bills in his waistcoat was so large he struggled to get it out to pay for the bottles of champagne Sideways brought back. Right then I knew Papa and me would be friends. I asked him you ever been with a white? That was the first time I saw his gold dentistry up close.
Cordially yours,
Hattie
CHICKEN & OTHER STEREOTYPES
The officer said, Nigger, where’s
the chicken? & started inspecting
the seats of my automobile before
I could say anything. It was another
one of those cold Chicago days & me
& Hattie were standing in the middle
of Wabash while the officer slapped
the Flyer seats with his straightening
club. I’ll be the first to admit
my automobile has plush seats,
but not plush enough for a chicken
heist. Like I would stash a stolen
hen where I sit. Where I come
from, folks name their fowl
& talk about those birds like old
friends. I offered to pay a fine,
but the police officer—his club
dangling from his wrist like an extra
arm—wouldn’t hear any of it.
He saw I had a money roll the size
of a teacup bulging my waistcoat
& he still kept searching.
I finally told him, “Mr. Officer,
please understand: no stolen chicken
ever passed the portals of my face.
Those chickens see the gleam
in my eye & keep out of my way.”
LETTER TO BELLE (SEPTEMBER 15, 1909)
Dear Belle,
I know you are bothered by his race but it makes no difference to me that Papa is a black. I was with blacks before him and they want the same thing as a white man. The money counts the same and I will tell you this. Papa Jack’s money spends better because there is so much of it. You see the emerald bracelets ruby rings fancy rocks I do not know the name of he tosses around like candy at a parade. I am writing you this because I hate to see it gone. Being with Papa makes me feel important. He does not beat me much either. When we are together he always has one of those big hands on my tit or around my throat. It is just play for us. Make sure it is the same for you.
Yours,
Hattie
MOUTH FIGHTING
Sometimes, the fight is over before we even
split the ropes. A fighter’s glass jaw, the cut
of his costume, the absence of pretty women
in his entourage: all fair game for the mouth
fight. Never mothers or children. Never
wives or crippled relatives, or women at all
unless they are sporting women. There is
always something else to talk about. A civilized
mouth fight is about making a fighter wild
& as soon as I can tell he’s listening,
I know I’ve won. Yellow fighters like Tommy
Burns want to tear out when the talk starts.
You can see their knees knocking as clearly
as spoons in a vaudeville show. Others lose
composure & that’s when it’s over. How
is a fighter supposed to think about defensing
when he’s trying to get at me by whatever
means necessary? That’s why the
mouth
is the most devastating weapon & mine shines
to high heaven every time it takes a swing.
SHADOW BOXING
You know I am all
that I am because
of my mother.
Uh-huh.
I keep her image
before me at all times
& do not exaggerate
when I say she is
the inspiration for all
my successes.
Right, right.
Though she was born
a slave, she told me
I could be president
of these United States.
I told her I wasn’t
interested but would
become something
just as big one day.
I was there, Jack.
I remember.
It is only because
of her wisdom that I
became champion.
I think about her
all the time.
All the time, Mr.
Champion Negro?
Even when you’re
choking Belle out?
COOKING LESSONS
Belle, I wouldn’t put
my hand on you if you’d do
what I say. If you’d just do
what you’re told, I wouldn’t
shake you that way.
I wouldn’t raise a hand.
I wouldn’t have cut my knuckle
on your eyetooth. I wouldn’t
have sparred with a grease fire
in my fist until the cut healed.
No bruises, no cover-up
for the welts. Belle, this
is a good thing when you want
it to be. I love your brown
hair. You want Papa
Jack near, don’t you?
Belle, a woman is still
a woman & the female mind
is much slower than a man’s.
You need reminding.
You need direction.
Shakespeare had a man
play Desdemona, didn’t he?
If you’re Papa Jack’s girl,
you get seal coats from Alaska.
Jewels luminous as the streetlamps
in London. Belle, as long
as you do what I tell you,
you get to cut a swath
with the Heavyweight Champion
of the World. You get to travel
first-class, on steamers
with kings & queens. You get
all your food cooked in butter.
You ever ate shark? If you just
did what Papa say, you would
already know shark fancies most
any other fish. Only with a mean
aftertaste—no matter how much
butter & lemon the cook uses.
INTRODUCTIONS
Excerpt from Belle Schreiber’s interview with Agent T. S. Marshall. October 30, 1912
How did you meet John Arthur Johnson?
At the Everleigh Club, but I wasn’t thrown out like they say. I left because Jack asked me to go with him. I don’t know how he got into the club—Negroes weren’t allowed in the establishment. I was trying to untangle one of my garters and when I looked up, he was there. He was so large he blocked almost all the light from the hall.
Were you comfortable having a relationship with a Negro?
Two of the other girls—Lillian and Jew Bertha—had already been with Papa on the sly. They said he was built for a good time with money to spare. The first night I snuck out with him, he took me for a ride in one of his automobiles. When I wouldn’t be with him in the way he wanted that night, he called on me at the back door of the Everleigh and sent flowers. He even signed a photograph: “To my little sweetheart, Belle, from Papa Jack.”
Did Mr. Johnson give you money for your company?
Once we were together, he rented an apartment for me near the lake. He paid for everything and called me “Mrs. Jack Johnson.” He introduced me that way wherever we went.
Were there other white women in his prostitution enterprise?
There were other women. I didn’t care. Papa kept me from sporting full-time. Hattie McClay was one. You might want to interview her if you can find her sober. Hattie was around almost the entire time I was. After Papa took her jewelry and gave it to me, she started writing me letters. She would slip them under my door. What kind of person does that?
Did Mr. Johnson buy you gifts?
Sometimes, but he promised more than he gave. The day he gave me Hattie’s jewelry, he said, “I’ll buy you some fresh ones soon,” as he poured a string of pearls the size of cherries in my hands. Those were the only pearls I ever got from him.
“TEXAS AUTHORITIES WILL PROSECUTE THE CHAMPION IF HE TAKES WHITE WIFE”
I have the right
to choose who
my mate will be
without the dictation
of any man.
I have eyes & I
have a heart
& when they
fail to tell me
who I should
have for mine,
it is time for me
to be put away
in a lunatic asylum.
KNEE OFF CANVAS
ROADWORK AT SEAL ROCK
On a blue day, the ocean
as clear as smelling
salts. George Little
huffed along, pacing
me like a locomotive
missing its locomotion.
My lungs were a couple
of skillets at breakfast,
but on a day with that
kind of blue, it didn’t
white girls played
hopscotch in the kind
of dresses most folks
keep for Sunday. I gave
them my gold smile,
waved as we passed.
The girls looked frightened
at first, but soon skipped
after us, singing
under a sun as yellow
as salted fish: Nigger,
nigger, never die. Black
face & shiny eye.
RACE RELATIONS
Etta Duryea
There’s no understanding colored
& white. There’s no understanding
why your anvil cheeks say trust
me when you smile. Del sole
un raggio brilla più vivido nel tuo
bicchiere. How sunburned your
smile, filled to the top with gold
like Rockefeller’s watch pocket.
I met him once. He was old & thirsty.
How sitting with you in the Flyer
feels like butterflying in sunshine.
Mi amore, they will all learn:
a man is a man if he is a man.
SHADOW BOXING
I want to gut-punch you
until your eyes come out
like you’ve seen a ghost.
I want to put you out
of the Flyer, watch you
go end over end into the roots
& old leaves like Belle did
last time she sassed. She’d
still be on the side of the road
if I hadn’t wanted a piece
of her that day. I don’t
need anything from you,
so stop trying to keep up
with me. I’m Heavyweight
Champion of the World. You’re
just a shadow of me. You
a
ren’t man enough—you’re
not even a man at all.
More of a man than you,
Mr. Heaviest Negro in
the World. Least I’m honest.
VEDI! LE FOSCHE NOTTURNE
Roadwork. Roadwork.
Shadow box. All’opra,
all’opra! Roadwork.
Shadow box. Dagli, martella!
Medicine ball. Calisthenics.
Medicine ball. All’opra,
all’opra! Chase chickens.
Calisthenics. Dagli, martella!
Smoke cigar. Shadow box.
Smoke cigar. All’opra, all’opra!
Visit Belle. Roadwork. Visit
Hattie. Dagli, martella!
Chi del gitano i giorni
abbella? La zingarella!
LETTER TO BELLE (MARCH 10, 1910)
Dear Belle,
I have been with Papa going on three years. We traveled from one coast to the other. England and way down to Australia. I saw him beat Tommy Burns near to death before the police stopped the fight. I watched the crowd go for the noose before the constables stepped in. I watched the starlight come into Papa’s eyes when he realized they could not take the title back. I dressed in fox furs and posed like Josephine while Papa played Napoleon when we got off the steamer in Vancouver. We listened to Il Trovatore so many times I thought the gramophone would break. I sat outside hotel rooms while he was with another woman both of them howling like death. A few times that woman was you. We do not get along but it is not about who goes with Papa tonight or tomorrow. If you care at all for him you need to understand he loves Etta. That does not mean we cannot have a part in this good thing. Papa loves Etta but he loves what a woman can be even more.
Yours,
Hattie
EQUALITY
I came up on Ketchel driving
to the stadium. His motorcar looked
like a skeleton if the bones were
meant for driving. The steering
wheel & all its turning gears
like a man’s ribs once they’ve been
broken. I could tell by his posture
his seats weren’t soft like mine.
& even though he sported a tasty pink
suit, Ketchel’s automobile was painted