Everyman BY M SHELLY CONNER B.A., Tuskegee University, Alabama, 1997 M.A., Concordia University Illinois, 2001 THESIS Submitted as partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in English in the Graduate College of the University of Illinois at Chicago, 2014 Chicago, Illinois Defense Committee: Cris Mazza, Chair and Advisor Christopher Grimes, English Madhu Dubey, English Natasha Barnes, English Jennifer Brier, Gender and Women's Studies TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER I: IN SEARCH OF BEGINNINGS............................................................................. 1 CHAPTER II: COON CHICKEN.................................................................................................13 CHAPTER III: MOTHERLESS CHILD.......................................................................................21 CHAPTER IV: THE HILLBILLY HIGHWAY..............................................................................31 CHAPTER V: MARIE LAVEAU..................................................................................................41 CHAPTER VI: THE USES OF SALT.......................................................................................... 58 CHAPTER VII: THE CHITLIN CIRCUIT............................................................................…...76 CHAPTER VIII: DAMNATIO MEMORIAE.............................................................................. 87 CHAPTER IX: HELL ON WHEELS..........................................................................................105 CHAPTER X: SMALL SOUTHERN SPACES......................................................................... 123 CHAPTER XI: WIVES TALES................................................................................................. 146 CHAPTER XII: UNFIXABLE THINGS................................................................................... 156 CHAPTER XIII: THE WARMTH OF OTHER SUNS...............................................................172 VITA............................................................................................................................................177 ii SUMMARY Raised in Chicago during the Civil Rights era, Every Mann knows nothing of her parents – only the overbearing love of the aunt who has raised her. By her teens, she'd learned to stop asking her aunt questions and remake herself as “Eve” distanced from the strange name bequeathed by her mother's final breath during childbirth. Yet the 1970's brought Black Studies to several college campuses, and Eve's best friend Nelle convinces her to enroll in an effort to connect with an ancestral past if she could not identify with her familial one. To her disdain, Eve's professor is more interested in “Black genealogy and uncovering the unknown 'ne(g)heros' before discovering the African kings and queens to which we all claim relation.” With his encouragement, Eve scavenges her aunt's basement and discovers information that directs her to Macon County, Georgia and the harsh realities of her family's early 19th century living which have culminated into her existence. iii Chapter I: In Search of Beginnings It was 1972 in Chicago. Some remember it for bringing the worst commuter rail crash in the city’s history when the Illinois Central Gulf train overshot the Twenty-Seventh Street Station and received the clearance to back up just as the heavier 720 Express was huffing and puffing its way full-speed ahead on the same track. Forty people were killed and over 300 injured. Elvis fans recall 1972 as the year that the King himself gyrated across the Chicago Stadium stage, debuting the new two-piece suits and flamboyantly ruffled shirts that he would sport in performances for that entire summer before returning to his trademark jumpsuits after a series of wardrobe malfunctions. His new belt made of mirrors interfered with his guitar’s arc from back to full frontal swinging hips. That same year in the Windy City -- as at least 2,000 audience members can attest -- Jesse Jackson, donning a large afro, corduroy trousers, leather vest and Martin Luther King medallion entreated them in call-and-response fashion with the mantra, “I am…somebody.” Even the dope fiends, the poor, and the uneducated were not exempt from its proclamation. No one remembers offhand the Chicago Bears’ five-and-eleven record, although they may recall Pro Bowler “Dick” Butkus for perhaps the most memorable moniker in football. 1972 Chicago hurled events, disasters, and milestones in a fierce competition to memorialize itself in the minds of its citizens against the previous decade’s race riots. It contributed its fair share of blaxploitation movies -- such as Blacula, Across 110th Street, and Shaft’s second installment, Shaft’s Big Score. Later decades would launch criticisms arguing that these flixs pandered to stereotypes of African Americans as pimps, prostitutes, or private eyes that were also in some way working as pimps or prostitutes. Yet 1972 would triumph as a catalyst for individual memories tied to its births, deaths, tragedies and nuptials. 1 2 For Eve Mann, 1972 Chicago placed her in a Black Studies class at one of the city colleges. The class itself wouldn’t be memorable. In fact, Eve didn’t return to it after the first day. He introduced himself as Brother LeRoi -- not LEE-Roy, as many in the class were accustomed to hearing the name, but Luh-ROY. For some reason it sounded more intellectual that way and this Brother LeRoi, by virtue of spelling and syllable shift, was distanced from the Leroys that they knew. “Who are you?” His voice rumbled and encompassed the class with the query. “Who am I?” he continued. “Who are we?” Standing just over six feet tall with the light from the overhead fluorescent bulbs reflecting against his clean-shaven scalp, Brother LeRoi commanded attention and the students at once ceased their knapsack fumbling, nail picking, and first day chattering. The class was silent save for the occasional creak of chairs, unfortunate holdovers from years past. The students were mostly young, black men and women – some too scared to leave the comforts of home and go away to a four-year college. A few had grown up with southern parents who had terrified them with stories of the south and continued to seek refuge in what was still thought of as a land of greater opportunity. Several, like Eve, had actually struck out on their own as prodigal children only to return to their homes, products of having too much of something or not enough of something else. These were the older ones in the class. Ranging from early to mid-twenties, they had acquired just enough maturity to prompt skepticism of Brother LeRoi and silently question whether or not his dashiki was real, as in really from Africa, 3 or one of the Taiwanese knockoffs sold out of the trunks of T-birds on Forty-Seventh Street. Some were taken aback by the contrast of his light skin against clothing that had been long associated with blackness. But they all were mesmerized by the voice that reached out to them -- both beckoning and promising, beseeching and bequeathing connection to a shared legacy. They were a generation that turned towards Pan-Africanism when previous ones shunned it. Brother LeRoi could deliver Africa, a visage that bestowed value upon their westside, southside, Cabrini Green, Ida B. Wells’ housing project existence. They wanted to know the origins of their rhythms. They wanted to know whose children they were before they were the children of slaves. Eve sat in the last row, close to the exit, a view that afforded her the backs of several afros of varying heights, two bobs, a press and curl like her own, and one long blond -- no straightening agents needed. The blond sat in the front of the class, pen scratching out each of Brother LeRoi’s words. Whenever he paused, the blond head turned slightly upward and the strands cascaded away from the face to reveal a pale cheek and angular jaw line. Eve’s weren’t the only thoughts that shifted from Brother LeRoi’s inquiry of “Who am I” to who is she? Brown eyes of various shades periodically grazed over the drop of buttermilk spilled amongst flies. Their gaze demanded to know who is she to infiltrate this space that had been carved out and demarcated for Black Studies, the study of blacks for blacks. And so the burden of proof shifted from Brother LeRoi’s light skin to the blond’s presence in what was becoming a sacred space with every term for blackness that escaped Brother LeRoi’s lips. They listened and each managed a glance as the blond hair pendulumed slightly against the chair and its owner 4 continued to scribble copious pages of notes in a thick, leatherbound journal that would seem more at home in a study filled with mahogany furniture than in the sparsely furnished classroom. The blond’s legs appeared pale between the gold miniskirt and matching platform shoes. A macramé bag rested against her leg. Watching her, Eve absently raked fingers through her own pressed hair. Her hands came away slick with the remnants of Ultra Sheen, that aqua-blue tinged grease that promised to lubricate black hair into submission when slathered on carefully parted scalps. The Proud Lady emblem etched into its glass jars assured “consumers that the product was manufactured by a stronger Black America,” which it found from the shelves of Korean- owned beauty supply stores in their south and westside neighborhoods. Eve rubbed her greasy fingers on the ends of her hair, which always seemed to dry out quicker than her roots, being so far from the Ultra Sheen’s initial point of contact. Brother LeRoi rumbled on about cultural identity as he dropped mimeographed papers onto their desks. They were hot off the press and immediately smudged black ink on fingertips. Eve’s attention returned at the lure of the freshly deposited syllabus and reading list. She was reaching for the syllabus when Brother LeRoi cleared his throat and adjusted the black-rimmed glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose, “But let’s not get too far into things. Back to my first question…who are you? Not as a people. Not yet anyway. Who are you as an individual person? Who are your people as you know them? Mother? Father…” Afros nodded in agreement, blond hair swung, and a quiet but distinct, “Right on,” acknowledged that he had their attention. Brother LeRoi dabbed away a trickle of sweat that ran from under his kofi with a crisp handkerchief -- a mannerism familiar to those who had attended 5 the evangelical or the Baptist or the revivalist services from various churches sans kofi, of course. It subconsciously signaled the impending crescendo in a sermon, a song, or speech. And they responded in kind, with “right on” in lieu of “amen.” Like her classmates, Eve was entranced as Brother LeRoi rattled off bits and pieces about Black genealogy and uncovering the unknown “ne(g)heros” before discovering “the African kings and queens to which we all claim relation.” Brother LeRoi slowly exhaled the decreasing cadence of his lecture, “Before we get into all this theory, let’s start with a little genealogy project of our own.” He explained that they would be tracing their own genealogies by gathering information from their relatives. They would be looking for family pictures, legal documents and obituaries. “Careful though,” Brother LeRoi warned. “Obits don’t always contain accurate information. They share only the information that the relative providing it wants the public to know.” The blond lifted manicured fingertips and giggled, “Brother?” “Sister…?” “Amy,” the blond supplied. “Yes, Sister Amy?” Amy blushed before continuing, “Then why use them? Obituaries, I mean. If they’re inaccurate?” Brother LeRoi sighed, “Because some of us, Sister Amy, don’t have birth certificates, family wills, or the luxury of legality.” 6 Eve’s smirk quickly disappeared with the realization that she would be unable to complete this first assignment or any if they involved speaking with family members. In her case, it was family member – singular. Her attention waned and like church parishioners who hung their heads when the collection plate circulated, Eve busied herself sketching a similar scene on the backside of the syllabus, no doubt inspired by subconscious connections. Eve had sketched a fairly accurate likeness of Brother LeRoi standing in front of a pulpit. She had converted his dashiki into a flowing robe. Instead of desks and chairs, Eve had drawn pews in which her classmates sat with their afros framing their upturned faces like halos. The cadence of his voice, the concurring murmurs that rippled around her, and exalting gawks from her classmates created a messianic aura whose fervor could have swept Eve if not for that first assignment. Oblivious to the rapidly emptying classroom, she continued to sketch. In it the blond’s halo was held in place by horns protruding from the forehead. It wasn’t until a blue- jeaned bell bottom whipped past her ankle that Eve noticed the dismissal. “Well, that’s a bit of a dramatic interpretation, don’t you think?” Brother LeRoi peered over Eve’s shoulder. She stammered, “Oh, um…this is something else.” Eve quickly closed her notebook over the drawing. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair-desk combo and for a fleeting moment felt herself relapse into her childhood as Every Mann -- dark, chubby and always squeezing into and out of spaces built for smaller bodies. Brother LeRoi’s eyes shone brightly behind his glasses. A smattering of freckles adorned his cheekbones. He waited as Eve silently debated with herself. She hadn’t enrolled in the class 7 just to give up on the first day. She had known that it would place her face to face with the gaps of her family history. In fact, she had counted on it, although she hadn’t realized that it would occur so soon. Eve struggled with forming the words that would open one of her deepest internal conflicts to this stranger. She wanted to share but not overshare. Not that she had enough information to constitute an overshare. “Well, Mr. LeRoi…” “Please, Brother LeRoi.” He interjected. “Ah, right. Brother LeRoi, I’m not sure how successful I’ll be with this first assignment. My…” Eve stopped short as she caught sight of movement from the door, a flash of blond hair and a, no, the macramé bag that she had admired earlier. Brother LeRoi followed her gaze and cleared his throat. His eyes returned to Eve but his tone was clipped, impatient. “Look, sista….um?” “Eve.” She stood, compelled by his sudden urgency yet not fully understanding its motivation. He smiled, “Sister Eve, first woman, I like that. See me during office hours tomorrow. It’s on the syllabus. I’m sure we can work through whatever hesitations or problems you’re having with the assignment.” Brother LeRoi’s eyes darted quickly towards the exit, still he waited with raised eyebrow until Eve smiled and agreed. He then covered the distance from Eve’s seat to the exit in a few long strides. As Eve packed her bag she glimpsed the simultaneous departure of gold platform shoes and the macramé bag.