I Am Not Your Negro Page #7

or size or shape

or lack of ability,

and the problem

is to become a man.

But what I was discussing

was not that problem, really.

I was discussing

the difficulties, the obstacles,

the very real danger of death

thrown up by the society

when a Negro, when a black man,

attempts to become a man.

All this emphasis

upon black man and white,

does emphasize

something which is here,

but it emphasizes,

or perhaps exaggerates it,

and therefore makes us

put people together in groups

which they ought not to be in.

I have more in common

with a black scholar

than I have with a white man

who is against scholarship.

And you have more in common

with a white author

than you have with someone

who is against all literature.

So why must we always

concentrate on color,

or religion, or this?

There are other ways

of connecting men.

I'll tell you this.

When I left this country

in 1948,

I left this country

for one reason only,

one reason...

I didn't care where I went.

I might've gone to Hong Kong,

I might have gone to Timbuktu.

I ended up in Paris,

on the streets of Paris,

with 40 dollars in my pocket

and the theory

that nothing worse

could happen to me there

than had already happened

to me here.

You talk about making it

as a writer by yourself,

you have to be able then

to turn up all the antennae

by which you live,

because once you turn your back

on this society,

you may die.

You may die.

And it's very hard

to sit at a typewriter,

and concentrate on that,

if you are afraid

of the world around you.

The years I lived in Paris

did one thing for me:

they released me from

that particular social terror,

which was not the paranoia

of my own mind,

but a real social danger visible

in the face of every cop,

every boss, everybody.

I don't know what most white

people in this country feel.

But I can only include

what they feel

from that state

of their institutions.

I don't know if white Christians

hate Negroes or not,

but I know we have a

Christian church which is white

and a Christian church

which is black.

I know,

as Malcolm X once put it,

the most segregated hour

in American life

is high noon on Sunday.

That says a great deal for me

about a Christian nation.

It means I can't afford to trust

most white Christians

and I certainly cannot trust

the Christian church.

I don't know whether the

labor unions and their bosses

really hate me.

That doesn't matter,

but I know

I'm not in their unions.

I don't know

if the Real Estate Lobby

has anything against

black people,

but I know the Real Estate Lobby

is keeping me in the ghetto.

I don't know if the board of

education hates black people,

but I know the textbooks

they give my children to read,

and the schools

that we have to go to.

Now, this is the evidence.

You want me to make

an act of faith,

risking myself,

my wife, my woman,

my sister, my children,

on some idealism

which you assure me

exists in America,

which I have never seen.

Hold on a second.

All of the Western nations

have been caught in a lie,

the lie of their pretended

humanism.

This means that their history

has no moral justification,

and that the West

has no moral authority.

"Vile as I am,"

states one of the characters

in Dostoevsky's The Idiot,

"I don't believe in the wagons

that bring bread to humanity.

For the wagons

that bring bread to humanity,

may coldly exclude

a considerable part of humanity

from enjoying what is brought."

For a very long time,

America prospered.

This prosperity cost millions

of people their lives.

Now, not even the people who are

the most spectacular recipients

of the benefits

of this prosperity

are able to endure

these benefits.

They can neither understand

them nor do without them.

Above all, they cannot imagine

the price paid by their victims,

or subjects,

for this way of life,

and so they cannot afford

to know why

the victims are revolting.

Down!

- On the ground!

- Get on the ground, now!

Damn, man!

This is the formula

for a nation

or a kingdom decline.

For no kingdom can

maintain itself by force alone.

Force does not work the way its

advocates think in fact it does.

It does not, for example,

reveal to the victim

the strength of the adversary.

On the contrary,

it reveals the weakness,

even the panic

of the adversary.

And this revelation

invests the victim with passion.

There is a day in Palm Springs

that I will remember forever,

a bright day.

I was based in Hollywood,

working on the screen version

of the autobiography

of Malcolm X.

This was a difficult assignment,

since I had known Malcolm,

after all,

crossed swords with him,

worked with him,

and held him

in that great esteem

which is not

easily distinguishable,

if it is distinguishable,

from love.

Billy Dee Williams

had come to town

and he was

staying at the house.

I very much wanted Billy Dee

for the role of Malcolm.

The phone had been

brought out to the pool,

and now it rang.

And I picked up.

The record player

was still playing.

"He's not dead yet,

but it's a head wound."

I have some very sad news

for all of you,

and I think sad news

for all our fellow citizens

and people who love peace

all over the world.

And that is that

Martin Luther King

was shot and was killed tonight.

I hardly remember

the rest of the evening at all.

I remember weeping, briefly,

more in helpless rage

than in sorrow,

and Billy trying to comfort me.

But I really don't remember

that evening at all.

Mother dear,

May I go downtown

Instead of out to play,

And march the streets

of Birmingham

In a Freedom March today?

But Mother,

I won't be alone

Other children

will go with me,

And march the streets

of Birmingham

To make my country free

The church was packed.

In the pew before me

sat Marlon Brando,

Sammy Davis, Eartha Kitt.

Sidney Poitier nearby.

I saw Harry Belafonte

sitting next to Coretta King.

I have a childhood

hand over thing

about not weeping in public.

And I was concentrating

on holding myself together.

I did not want to weep

for Martin.

Tears seemed futile.

But I may also have been afraid,

and I could not have

been the only one,

that if I began to weep,

I would not be able to stop.

I started to cry,

and I stumbled.

Sammy grabbed my arm.

The story of the Negro

in America

is the story of America.

It is not a pretty story.

What can we do?

Well, I am tired.

I don't know how

it will come about,

I know that no matter

how it comes about,

it will be bloody,

it will be hard.

I still believe that we can do

with this country

something that

has not been done before.

We are misled here

because we think of numbers.

You don't need numbers,

you need passion.

And this is proven

by the history of the world.

The tragedy is that

most of the people

who say they care about it

do not care.

What they care about is

their safety and their profits.

When I was laying in jail

With my back turned

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