Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Two deep breaths.

Some Sundays I can’t wait to get here to church. The sisters look good, they smell good, and what they cook is good. Everything is good.

Tell it.

You must have the audacity of hope. Lord, your church often seems like a boat about to sink, a boat taking in water on every side. In Your fields we see more weeds than wheat. And the soiled garments of Your church throw us into confusion. Yet, we got to remember something. It is ourselves who have soiled the garments.

Preach!

We put holes in the boat.

Yes!

We failed to plant the seeds!

Ready?

We can’t go out and change the world until we’re right. He took some breaths. I wish some of you wouldn’t sing in church.

Ha!

And I wish some of you wouldn’t cook. You got to know what your gifts are.

He lets the organ move about the room. And they start in on a hymn. Then it gets quiet again.

You got to know what your gifts are. You got to put your gifts to use for the church and the nation. And you got to get right.

The organ speaks.

There’s a reason that Blind Tim is here in the church this morning. He ain’t here just to sing. Some of you think that. “When is he gon shut up so Tom can sing and play us some piano?”

Laughter.

The time has come for us to forget and cast behind us our hero worship and adoration of other races, and to start out immediately to create and emulate heroes of our own. We must canonize our own saints, create our own martyrs, and elevate to positions of fame and honor Ethiopian men and women who have made their distinct contributions to our racial history.

But I think I said enough. The Almighty has been fortunate enough to bless us with the presence of one of our heroes, the Original Blind Tom.

The congregation applauds. Before Tom can take his bows the two walk him on legs to the front and sit him at the piano. He doesn’t touch the keys, just feels the wood beneath his hands. He feels the wood for a long time.

Play! Play! Play!

The whole church shouting to the roof, but he keeps feeling the wood. Then Reverend Pastor speaks something and the two walk him on legs to receive the wafer of bread. He takes the thin wafer onto his thick tongue. Take, eat. This is my body.

Be quiet, Reverend Pastor says, grinding the words through his teeth.

They put the cold cup to his mouth.

This is my blood. Drink.

I am one of the greatest men that ever walked the earth.

I’m sure you are. Now drink.

I overcame the earth. Mouth quiet.

They put the cold cup to his lips, and he sips from the chalice filled with blood.

The tasteless water of souls.

What did you say?

The tasteless water of souls.

Then the two take him away and sit him. Then the Reverend Pastor. Words fall from his mouth. Ends his sermon with, Become. New or old, become. Citizen or Freedman, become. Change is the only constant. Become. Don’t die. Multiply.

Let us pray.

Two men (the same two?) take him outside after his mouth settles down. He says it, word for word. My gift is the peace which I leave unto you. Whoever drinks from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become that person. He says it again. And again and again.

Two take him back to the house. Still saying it. Mr. Tabbs isn’t there.

Stay here, one says, until your tongue gets better.

I didn’t afford you prayerful consideration, Wire says. I should have sought your permission first, I will admit that. A revolting expression flamed on his face. I’m actually glad he doesn’t play Christian music. Over the years I have given enough to substantiate my claim of precedence for the Almighty’s natural laws and their marvelous, even incomprehensible working, over any so-called supernatural endowment.

Big sparse drops of rain patter on the window.

But they already have their Tom, Tabbs says. Haven’t you heard? He doesn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

We are a peculiar people, prone to prayer on the one hand, and superstition on the other.

How do we put an end to this? You have to put an end to it. Speak to Double.

Double is of different stock. He was born in a white womb.

Can it be that he and Wire are feeling the same ache?

The rain stops. There is a smell of donkeys and some other very sweet scent. He can see the stones of the gate, the trees by the window, the dark sea. He feels that everything is looking at him and waiting.

Yes, things have gotten out of hand. But can you blame us for trying? The essential things in history begin with small convinced communities. So, the church begins with the twelve Apostles. From these small numbers came a radiation of joy in the world.

But it’s your church, Wire. Why are you giving them, these deacons, this Vigilance Committee, Double — why are you giving them all the power?

Every church in the South, every church in the city, every church in the nation, indeed every church on earth, must, by and by, become nothing but the church and renounce all other aims that are incompatible with the principles of the church. Our only enemy is sin.

But it’s your church.

I know. At least I thought I did. But God has become an exile to Himself. I want to believe that we can save these Freedmen. Lifting as we climb. I want to believe that we can save all of us. But Satan has made his way into our temple through some crack in the roof or some open window.

Urchins shelter in the lee of a crudely constructed command post, while their cohorts taunt and tease the horses, hitched to posts or braced to wagons along the main street, attempting to blacken hooves with their rags and brushes. The horses jerk in their traces.

Their loud overjoyed laughter.

Jay-bird sittin on a swingin limb

Winked at me and I winked at him

Up with a rock and struck him on the chin

God damn yer soul, don’t wink again

One blacker screams at a cohort, I ain’t tellin, Magellan, then jumps out of reach before the other can connect with a lunging punch. These shoe blackers — audacious, fearless, and self-contained. (Mischief always holds the seeds of further disruption and destruction.) Only yesterday Tabbs had declined their barefoot offers with a quick dismissive wave. Blackers with no shoes themselves. Now one points at him with perfunctory disdain. He sees a second’s brow rise and the corners of his lips fall. The boy who approached Tabbs yesterday seems more relaxed today, the look of panic gone (disappeared) from his face, replaced by a flat hurt look. Tabbs somewhat ashamed of his refusal. He should show the urchin some kindness. The boy looks Tabbs’s way, sees that they know each other. He smiles, the sound of sea waves coming at him clearly from the right, but the latter turns his face away, a quiet face, without any of yesterday’s irritation.

Tabbs feels he should amend, pay off this small debt. (No, he is not under sway of doing good deeds, nor the motive of unattributable guilt, the erasing of daily sins. Only wants to make penance for yesterday.) Though he believes that begging is undignified, he pulls a dollar from his pocket, silver big and round, and quickly presses it into the boy’s hand. I don’t need the blacking, he says. Share it among you. Only upon his taking his seat at home thirty minutes later does it occur to him that a few coins would have been sufficient, both to feed and to teach the greater lesson.

Holy bejesus, the boy says.

Hot damn.

Hey, what you got?

Half-change.

A case quarter.

Yall niggers don’t know nothing. That’s a dollar bill.

Gon buy my way into heaven.

Black-robed deacons approach. The coin-wealthy boy pops alive, sees them, and dashes off. Shiners and dancers alike, a few of his cohorts notice his hasty departure, turn to see the why, and off they swoop. Then the remainder of the group — slow learners — catch wind and rush off at breakneck speed.