Addio zio Tom Page #7

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If you deprive a coyote of its freedom,

you might as well deprive it of air.

An Indian will never be a slave.

No one has ever succeeded

in having them reproduce in captivity.

They don't eat. They don't speak. They

don't sleep and they don't make love.

Look at these bizarre creatures,

neither men nor beasts.

These black and sick projections

of our humanity,

who suddenly ask us to survive

in this world of ours.

They are as ancient as we are,

and yet up until now

they had never seen a wheel.

But in a world like ours,

rich with centuries of civilization,

what could they ever do,

but bask in the reflection of our glory?

Every year in February,

the white people of Louisiana

hold a carnival

draped in black skin.

Today it feels like the parody

of the privilege enjoyed

for one day a year by all the slaves.

That day, the masters would tolerate

insults and threats.

''Further left than any left,

we'll drive against the current.''

But if Cleaver and Bobby Seale,

founder of the Black Panthers,

had lived 1 50 years ago,

the things they yell out every day now,

they could have said them only

on the day of the carnival.

''You whites, who still today wave

your discriminating and racist flags,

we'll put you all up against a wall!''

But the next day, Cleaver and Seale

would have been sold right here,

in the huge slave market, where the rum

ran like a river in the streets.

Then, when the trumpet would sound

the closing of the market,

and the drunken crowd would be

thrown out of the enclosure,

they would have been locked up like

jailbirds in the shacks of the camp,

so they could spend their last night

with their wives and children.

All this is now in the past,

and is part of history.

Any reference to the people

in these images is purely coincidental.

They happened to be walking by here

while our cameras

were filming the site of the

most famous slave market in the south,

where every year, during the carnival,

20,000 slaves were sold.

400, I said 400 and not a penny less.

- No, 200 is as high as I will go.

- I didn't steal him, you know.

- 300, then.

- No.

You can keep your Negro, then.

New Orleans, February, 1 831 .

The son of the sheriff, Tommy Adley,

draws the winning numbers of the state

lottery at the 27 th slave market.

First prize, a quarter mulatto girl

of 1 5 years.

Second prize, a cook, and third prize,

three fat pigs from Virginia.

Together with the Memphis fair,

the fair in New Orleans

is the most important fair in the south,

with a volume of business of more than

40 million dollars a year.

The merchandise is all homegrown,

and comes from farm consortia

in Florida and in Virginia.

The market is on the upswing.

A typical male, that only six years ago

went for $500,

is now worth $1 ,500 plus taxes.

Colonel Bowie,

who only deals in wholesale pups,

can sell them today at up to $1 5/lb.

This year the most popular races

are Ausa, Mandingo, and Turkana.

The Ausa are more graceful,

but more fragile.

The Mandingo are more sturdy,

but not as intelligent.

The Turkana are of smaller build,

more docile and manageable.

They are the most popular

with the religious institutions.

In 1 863, the French Ursuline nuns alone

had 200 of them.

Of all the ones we saw at the market,

this is the loveliest little angel.

He's really a delightful creature.

What should we do, sister?

It's very tempting, but have you seen

the prices this year?

- He's too expensive.

- But he's such an angel.

And he's healthy and strong.

He could help in the kitchen.

Sister, can you imagine what

the Mother Superior would say?

- She's already bought four this year.

- Oh, sister.

He's not that expensive, at $300.

Let's offer them $200.

He got scared

and lost his mother in the crowd.

They can't even get him

to tell them his name.

He just stands there, quiet, frowning,

but a little calmer,

with so many policemen around,

who seem to protect him from those

large white ghosts, who scared him.

After only one day of power,

the Negro king of the carnival

has lost his throne.

His short time

of privilege has expired.

Now it's the white man's turn.

Right here, in the Carr, where the

queens of the neighborhood have gathered,

there once stood

two famous houses of ill repute.

The one called The Two Sisters,

and right across the street, the other,

Mr. Roberts'.

Since at the time there

were only two, distinct genders,

anyone could choose what they liked

in either of the two houses,

without the danger of making mistakes.

At the Two Sisters one could find

anything in the ''normal'' variety,

as it was once thought of.

At Mr. Roberts', instead, there was

the best of the ''other'', as it were,

that which today is considered

the ''normal'' variety.

In fact, the two houses

were not competitors at the time.

Both houses got their wares from

the market, two blocks away from here.

All top quality merchandise,

the genuine article,

what we would think of today as

''good old-fashioned wares.''

In the New Orleans market there was

a secret sector, where the merchandise,

before it was put on display,

was prepared and arranged

by gender, age and quality.

The girls chosen

to become ''fancy girls'',

were given over to a man named Buzz,

described by Hewlett

as a repulsive and obese individual,

always filthy with the grease

which he used to oil the fillies

to make their skin softer.

But the keys to the warehouse where

the pieces for real collectors were kept

were jealously guarded by a funny

little midget known as the General.

Only I have these keys.

I'm the master here.

Get inside, you bastards,

or I'll have you flogged.

I'll show you who's in charge here.

I am the General, you hear?

Come on, follow me.

Open up, it's me, the General.

Open up, you sons of b*tches!

Hurry up!

Hey, white men, look at

the merchandise I'm in charge of.

The General is the guard of the market.

This is the market's safe.

Look, tens of thousands of dollars.

Top quality whores. All virgins.

You, get to work, dirty Negress.

None of them are all Negro.

They all have at least half human blood

in their veins, like me.

They've all been sold,

and are ready for delivery.

Delivered to your doorstep,

luxuriously packaged.

Hey, white men, you can look,

but don't touch.

You know the rules.

It's forbidden to touch

the merchandise on display.

Only I, the General, can touch.

Do you want to see? Here.

This is Cassandra, a half-caste.

She comes from the Harrison estate.

She's the daughter of Zephira

and the great Meatto.

Artemis, three-quarters human blood,

the firmest tits in the warehouse.

$5,000, payment in cash,

comes with a two-year warranty.

Vintage of 1 848.

Imperial Reserve, white or Ros,

guaranteed by the consortium.

This is Eva. You like apples, huh?

Go ahead and eat them,

but stay away from any snakes.

You've never seen anything like this.

Who cares if you've never seen it?

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