Ralph Ellison - Invisible man

But no, it wasn't Woodridge. "More human" ... Did I mean that I had become less of what I was, less a Negro, or that I was less a being apart; less an exile from down home, the South? ... But all this is negative. To become less -- in order to become more? Perhaps that was it, but in what way more human? Even Woodridge hadn't spoken of such things. It was a mystery once more, as at the eviction I had uttered words that had possessed me.

I thought of Bledsoe and Norton and what they had done. By kicking me into the dark they'd made me see the possibility of achieving something greater and more important than I'd ever dreamed. Here was a way that didn't lead through the back door, a way not limited by black and white, but a way which, if one lived long enough and worked hard enough, could lead to the highest possible rewards. Here was a way to have a part in making the big decisions, of seeing through the mystery of how the country, the world, really operated. For the first time, lying there in the dark, I could glimpse the possibility of being more than a member of a race. It was no dream, the possibility existed. I had only to work and learn and survive in order to go to the top. Sure I'd study with Hambro, I'd learn what he had to teach and a lot more. Let tomorrow come. The sooner I was through with this Hambro, the sooner I could get started with my work.

Four months later when Brother Jack called the apartment at midnight to tell me to be prepared to take a ride I became quite excited. Fortunately, I was awake and dressed, and when he drove up a few minutes later I was waiting expectantly at the curb. Maybe, I thought, as I saw him hunched behind the wheel in his topcoat, this is what I've been waiting for.

"How have you been, Brother?" I said, getting in.

"A little tired," he said. "Not enough sleep, too many problems."

Then, as he got the car under way, he became silent, and I decided not to ask any questions. That was one thing I had learned thoroughly. There must be something doing at the Chthonian, I thought, watching him staring at the road as though lost in thought. Maybe the brothers are waiting to put me through my paces. If so, fine; I've been waiting for an examination ...

But instead of going to the Chthonian I looked out to discover that he had brought me to Harlem and was parking the car.

"We'll have a drink," he said, getting out and heading for where the neon-lighted sign of a bull's head announced the El Toro Bar.

I was disappointed. I wanted no drink; I wanted to take the next step that lay between me and an assignment. I followed him inside with a surge of irritation.

The barroom was warm and quiet. The usual rows of bottles with exotic names were lined on the shelves, and in the rear, where four men argued in Spanish over glasses of beer, a juke box, lit up green and red, played "Media Luz." And as we waited for the bartender, I tried to figure the purpose of the trip.

I had seen very little of Brother Jack after beginning my studies with Brother Hambro. My life had been too tightly organized. But I should have known that if anything was going to happen, Brother Hambro would have let me know. Instead, I was to meet him in the morning as usual. That Hambro, I thought, is he a fanatic teacher! A tall, friendly man, a lawyer and the Brotherhood's chief theoretician, he had proved to be a hard taskmaster. Between daily discussions with him and a rigid schedule of reading, I had been working harder than I'd ever found necessary at college. Even my nights were organized; every evening found me at some rally or meeting in one of the many districts (though this was my first trip to Harlem since my speech) where I'd sit on the platform with the speakers, making notes to be discussed with him the next day. Every occasion became a study situation, even the parties that sometimes followed the meetings. During these I had to make mental notes on the ideological attitudes revealed in the guests' conversations. But I had soon learned the method in it: Not only had I been learning the many aspects of the Brotherhood's policy and its approach to various social groupings, but the city-wide membership had grown familiar with me. My part in the eviction was kept very much alive, and although I was under orders to make no speeches, I had grown accustomed to being introduced as a kind of hero.

Yet it had been mainly a time for listening and, being a talker, I had grown impatient. Now I knew most of the Brotherhood arguments so well -- those I doubted as well as those I believed -- that I could repeat them in my sleep, but nothing had been said about my assignment. Thus I had hoped the midnight call meant some kind of action was to begin ...

Beside me, Brother Jack was still lost in thought. He seemed in no hurry to go elsewhere or to talk, and as the slow-motion bartender mixed our drinks I puzzled vainly as to why he had brought me here. Before me, in the panel where a mirror is usually placed, I could see a scene from a bullfight, the bull charging close to the man and the man swinging the red cape in sculptured folds so close to his body that man and bull seemed to blend in one swirl of calm, pure motion. Pure grace, I thought, looking above the bar to where, larger than life, the pink and white image of a girl smiled down from a summery beer ad on which a calendar said April One. Then, as our drinks were placed before us, Brother Jack came alive, his mood changing as though in the instant he had settled whatever had been bothering him and felt suddenly free.

"Here, come back," he said, nudging me playfully. "She's only a cardboard image of a cold steel civilization."

I laughed, glad to hear him joking. "And that?" I said, pointing to the bullfight scene.

"Sheer barbarism," he said, watching the bartender and lowering his voice to a whisper. "But tell me, how have you found your work with Brother Hambro?"

"Oh, fine," I said. "He's strict, but if I'd had teachers like him in college, I'd know a few things. He's taught me a lot, but whether enough to satisfy the brothers who disliked my arena speech, I don't know. Shall we converse scientifically?"

He laughed, one of his eyes glowing brighter than the other. "Don't worry about the brothers," he said. "You'll do very well. Brother Hambro's reports on you have been excellent."

"Now, that's nice to hear," I.said, aware now of another bullfight scene further down the bar in which the matador was being swept skyward on the black bull's horns. "I've worked pretty hard trying to master the ideology."

"Master it," Brother Jack said, "but don't overdo it. Don't let it master you. There is nothing to put the people to sleep like dry ideology. The ideal is to strike a medium between ideology and inspiration. Say what the people want to hear, but say it in such a way that they'll do what we wish." He laughed. "Remember too, that theory always comes after practice. Act first, theorize later; that's also a formula, a devastatingly effective one!"

He looked at me as though he did not see me and I could not tell whether he was laughing at me or with me. I was sure only that he was laughing.

"Yes," I said, "I'll try to master all that is required."

"You can," he said. "And now you don't have to worry about the brothers' criticism. Just throw some ideology back at them and they'll leave you alone -- provided, of course, that you have the right backing and produce the required results. Another drink?"

"Thanks, I've had enough."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure."

"Good. Now to your assignment: Tomorrow you are to become chief spokesman of the Harlem District ..."

"What!"

"Yes. The committee decided yesterday."

"But I had no idea."

"You'll do all right. Now listen. You are to continue what you started at the eviction. Keep them stirred up. Get them active. Get as many to join as possible. You'll be given guidance by some of the older members, but for the time being you are to see what you can do. You will have freedom of action -- and you will be under strict discipline to the committee."