the exact color of a bruise. Mine was
painted bright red to match one
of my boxing costumes. Ain’t that
something? As I passed him, I nodded
politely, puffed a bit of smoke skyward
so my cigar worked like a locomotive
stack. Ketchel had other ideas, uptight
on that church pew of a seat. When
he sped up to pass me, I picked it up, too.
The day Jack Johnson doesn’t go faster
than another man is the day you should
plug your ears because the trumpets
are coming directly. We took a left
at the same time onto Main, then
a quick right. I tossed my cigar once
I saw how game he was for a race.
We were going near sixty miles an hour
in the middle of Colma, Ketchel gritting
his teeth, his glasses all dusty, his scarf
twisting in the air like a hopscotcher’s
braids. The police officers loitering
near their bicycles in front of the bakery
didn’t even bother trying to catch us.
PHOTOGRAPHY
Etta Duryea
Papa’s head shines like a wheel
with no tread. Beautiful man,
mi amore. He shines like Lake
Michigan in July heat. He heats
me up: a black dress on a sunny
day. In the sun, we almost look
the same when the photographer’s
flash leaves powder on my face.
Color doesn’t matter. When
he bites, Papa’s teeth flash
like a shark’s teeth. After the sports
& photographers get bored
with us, we are almost the same.
“A STRUGGLE BETWEEN A DEMON AND A GRITTY LITTLE DWARF”
The longer a fight lasts, the more the moving
picture rights are worth. That’s the reason I kept
Ketchel off the canvas. He might have called
himself “The Assassin,” but I played with him
in the ropes like a cat does a mouse, lacing him
just enough to bring blood for the show. That’s
what prize fighting is: a show. The better man
almost always wins, but we all play our part
in the spectacle. Ketchel’s handlers dressed
him up for his part as a heavyweight
by using high boots & extra coats. Underneath
it all, he was strictly a middleweight & I picked
him up, held him high so his feet dangled
like a Sunday chicken on that special morning.
Then I smiled at the only colored in the crowd,
hatless next to all those whites in their bowlers
& bright-ribboned fedoras. I heard Ketchel’s
second slap canvas & yell, Now then, Stanley,
but I didn’t see the double cross coming until
Ketchel’s hook stung me behind the ear. I dropped,
stopped my fall with a glove before I hit canvas.
The referee started counting & the buzzing
sounds started inside my ears like a crowd
before the fight. All of those spectators hoping
Ketchel put me down. The crowd quieted when
I smiled my gold smile, punched the dust off
of my gloves. Quiet enough to hear me hit
Ketchel so hard we both fell down. Quiet
enough to hear one, two, three of his teeth hitting
canvas like chicken scratch. Two of his uppers
got stuck in my glove. Quiet as Ketchel sprawled
like he was counting the clouds, the referee
counting him out slowly for fear of his own skin.
I didn’t show I was scared, but I was. I leaned
casually on the top rope, waiting for a twitch,
a breath—any sign the man would be a man again.
THE SHADOW KNOWS
You’re not fooling me
by quoting Shakespeare,
Mr. Champion of the Negro
World. No matter how
carefully you enunciate,
Tiny was a slave
& the condition of the son
follows the condition
of the mother. Emancipation
didn’t change a thing.
Ask John L., ask Jeffries,
ask Gentleman Jim or any
of the other color-line-
calling white fighters.
Better yet, ask Tiny.
Your ex-chattel mama
will tell you all about
the unconditionalness
of blackness. You can
wreck an auto & buy
a new one the next day,
but you can’t buy equality.
You can change clothes
five times a day while
speaking Italian & playing
the viol in that fancy
classical way, but you
can’t change your skin.
What do you know, Shadow?
I’m bettering myself.
COLOR LINE
Tommy Burns, Jim Jeffries,
& every other white fighter
who drew the color line did it
out of fear. They knew what
the outcome would be when
we traded fists, & questioning
a black fighter’s stamina
is better than admitting yellow.
I am not drawing the line
with Sam Langford. The last
time we fought, I beat the man
squarely & left the ring without
a bruise in return. I don’t care
how many times he challenges
my manhood: it’s business.
There is no money in colored
fighters mixing it up. Especially
when they’re as unevenly
matched as we are. The fact
I am champion is no more likely
to change our skin than it is
to improve Langford’s fists.
FRIENDSHIP
Etta Duryea
Papa’s mouth is full of words
like a crisp newspaper on a room
service tray. Don’t believe a single
thing he says, the friend who
introduced us tells me. Now no one
in my family says a single thing
to me. Papa & I are a family after
the broke sports have gone back
to wherever they sleep. That’s when
his mouth moves like a speedometer
without numbers big enough to keep
up. I don’t believe him when he
says my skin looks like hotel china.
“MACHINE CONTAINING JOHNSON’S FRIENDS WRECKED”
I’m so skilled with these machines,
I’ve got a patent on a wrench that’s
only good for fixing Flyers. Moriaraty
knew he had no more chance of keeping
up with me in a race than a turtle has
of catching a Bakersfield jackrabbit.
Belle & the rest of the girls believed
his fast talk & piled into his auto
like a congregation into a church.
I was in the lead from the start, but
I knew Moriaraty was close because
I could hear the girls cheering him on.
I have my driving glasses on & I’m
seeing things the fa
ster I go: a warm
pail of water on a porch in Galveston,
thunderclouds over Ballarat soft
like the mattresses in the Everleigh
Club. A canvas as clean as Saturday
washing except for a wet outline:
a sweat angel on the spot Tommy
Burns might have dropped if I’d let
him fall. I wiped the dirt from my glasses
in time to see a rabbit hurrying across
the road & pulled hard on the brake.
That’s when Moriaraty tried a pass.
His wheels skidded on gravel & his back
axle snapped like a rib. I’ve wrecked
many machines & walked away whole,
but this was different. The wheels
of his auto unhinged & Moriaraty’s
motorcar smashed into the back of mine.
I wasn’t familiar with the girl sitting
beside him, but she flew: past me, past
the still-hurrying rabbit, past Tiny’s
water pail back home that couldn’t
move even if it wanted to.
ALIAS
John Arthur Johnson. Jack Johnson.
’Lil Artha. Jack Johnson. Tiny’s boy,
Jack. Yellow-streak nigger. Bold
Mistah Johnsingh. Jack Johnson.
The Big Smoke. Jack Johnson. Flash
nigger. The Big Cinder. Black animal.
Jack. Texas Watermelon Picaninny.
Mr. Johnsing. Colored man with cash.
Colored Champion. The Colored Winner.
Gentleman Jack. Jack Johnson. Galveston
Giant. The Heavyweight Champion.
Smoke. The Big Ethiopian. Fresh nigger.
The Man They All Dodge. Papa Jack.
Champion Jack. Johnson. Papa. Jack?
HOSTILITIES
Belle & I returned after a fine supper
of roasted quail in the Crystal Dining
Room. Hattie was waiting in the mauve
hallway right outside our rooms.
She was angry & rigid like one
of those Buckingham guards when
it’s raining. I don’t know why she came
to San Francisco, but she wore the black
lace dress I bought for her in London.
The hem was ripped from some stumble
along the way & the smell of sweat
& beer hung on every word: Can we talk,
Papa? That’s when she saw Belle.
Naturally, there was a state of warfare
between the women & like Napoleon,
I smartly stayed out of the conflict. Belle
laughed at Hattie, but kept an eye open
while she did it. She was not concerned
with Drunk Hattie’s words. She just
wasn’t interested in meeting Drunk
Hattie’s straight-razor accompaniment.
FISTICUFF DIFFICULTY
Excerpt from Belle Schreiber’s interview with Agent T. S. Marshall. October 30, 1912
When did Mr. Johnson begin beating you?
The first time, it was a Sunday morning. He was on top. He thrust into me with all his weight, then slapped me because he said I didn’t love him enough.
How often did he beat you?
Not every day. But the last time, he beat me with the tool for his Flyer until I was willing to let him do what he wanted.
Since he’s a Negro and a prize fighter, you knew he had a violent temperament.
I knew violence was in him, but I didn’t know what he was capable of. One time, he took me to see Etta in the hospital. She was asleep and her face was lumpy like a sack of potatoes. He told me, “This is what happens if you don’t do what Papa says.”
Did you ever fear for your life?
There were times I thought he loved me enough to kill me. When he was on top, he would squint his eyes like he was looking into the sun. As soon as his gold teeth started grinding against his bottom teeth, I covered my face with my arms. Papa never said he was sorry after he beat me. He’d smile that gold smile and say, “I am a prince, ain’t I?” Then he’d go soak his hands in cold water.
BET YOUR LAST COPPER
GOLD SMILE
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou camest to bite the world:
—Henry VI
They call teeth dent in France, & the name
makes sense the way teeth do what they do
to bacon & shoulders & cakes. The French
word for gold is or, so when the folks in Paris
describe my smile it sounds like what
happens when I punch a door: dents d’or.
Dents d’or, the French children say when
I open wide. Dents d’or, Etta says when she
locks herself in the powder room. Tommy
Burns said dents d’or when I was hooking him
into asking for forgiveness. His people back
in Canada would have said the same thing
if they were in Sydney to witness our spectacle.
Before we got into the ring, I told Tommy
the only reason I got gold uppers was to make
every bite of my food twice as expensive.
FIDELITY
Etta Duryea
Papa loves Il Trovatore,
so he understood what I
meant when I said, Di
He grabbed my arm
like it was an engine wrench
& began to twist. His face
screwed up like an engine
wrench. He said, I’m leaving
this, & did quickly, the same
way an engine unhinged
from its automobile
leaves everything it loves.
LETTER TO BELLE (DECEMBER 3, 1910)
Belle,
I do not think you are pregnant but only you know the truth. That is why I did not cut you at the hotel. Pretending like you were not scared. I saw it. I wanted to take my razor and cut your smile like a summer melon. No imaginary baby can stop Papa from marrying Etta. She is society and that is what he wants. None of the tricks the Everleigh sisters showed you can make you a real lady. Papa has been good to us. Leave them be.
Hattie
OUT OF THE BATH
Etta thinks I’m out driving & she gets
out of the bath to reach the towel I moved
as a joke. I didn’t expect to be in our rooms
when she finished bathing. But I am,
watching while her foot searches marble
uncertainly, like a foal working the hard
way up to standing. Etta is singing, Donna
s’avanza, donna s’avanza, from “Stride
la vampa.” Her voice sounds like the water
dripping on marble, only with a breeze
pushing it. The other foot follows, adds
more water around the bathtub’s feet.
Hotel baths always leak. Bathwater drips
down her leisurely, the same way my fingers
touch her leg under the table during dinner.
Etta wraps a towel around her middle
& I want to pull it off. Those white towels
are the real reason we stay in hotels
that will have us, even when we have to pay
the colored tax. Fresh from her bath, Etta
sings, Lieta in sembianza, & I could
accompany her if I had my bass. She is
drying her left knee, then her right, on up
to the insides of her thighs. La tetra fiamma
che s�
�alza, che s’alza al ciel. She saves the hair
down there for last, & now water covers all
the marble around the bath. That is when
Etta sees me watching & colors the same
red as a sunset—What are you looking at?—
before dashing behind the dressing screen.
“CAREFREE AS A PLANTATION DARKY IN WATERMELON TIME”
Jim Jeffries worked the corner the night
I fought his little brother, Jack. He saw up
close how my fists can put a man to sleep
like the sun going down. The younger
Jeffries was a game fighter, but he had
no elasticity & limited self-knowledge.
I knew he couldn’t stand in the ring
with me & decided before the fight
to knock him out in the fifth round. I sealed
my prediction in an envelope & gave it
to a reporter for safekeeping. As I predicted,
I put Jack down at the beginning of Round
Five. Naturally, I was surprised to find I was
a ten-to-four underdog to the older Jeffries.
The same man who retired immediately
after he saw me in action. I don’t care if Jim
did keep a grizzly as a pet: I’m going
to make a whole lot of money betting on
myself. If I felt any better, I’d be afraid
of myself. I’m so fast I only got my shadow
to spar with & most times, it don’t keep
up either. So I shoot craps to train my fists.
I play the fiddle to train my eyes.
I play baseball to get ready for bed.
When I drive my Flyer over the red rises
into that Reno sunset, everybody from
Philadelphia to Australia will see Jack
Johnson is taking his machine for a ride.
SHADOW BOXING
If it was my decision, I would
drive my Flyer instead of doing
this roadwork. It’s not just
the training I’ve lost interest in.
It is the ring itself. Shadow,
you look bored, too. Every day,
the great, uphill battle of medicine