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THE ETHICS OF LIVING JIM CROW

An Autobiographical Sketch

Richard Wright, Chicago

1

My first lesson in how to live as a Negro came when I was quite small. We were living in

Arkansas. Our house stood behind the railroad tracks. Its skimpy yard was paved with black

cinders. Nothing green ever grew in that yard. The only touch of green we could see was far

away, beyond the tracks, over where the white folks lived. But cinders were good enough for

me, and I never missed the green growing things. And anyhow, cinders were fine weapons.

You could always have a nice hot war with huge black cinders. All you had to do was crouch

behind the brick pillars of a house with your hands full of gritty ammunition. And the first

woolly black head you saw pop out from behind another row of pillars was your target. You

tried your very best to knock it off. It was great fun.

I never fully realized the appalling disadvantages of a cinder environment till one day the

gang to which I belonged found itself engaged in a war with the white boys who lived beyond

the tracks. As usual we laid down our cinder barrage, thinking that this would wipe the white

boys out. But they replied with a steady bombardment of broken bottles. We doubled our

cinder barrage, but they hid behind trees, hedges, and the sloping embankments of their

lawns. Having no such fortifications, we retreated to the brick pillars of our homes. During

the retreat a broken milk bottle caught me behind the ear, opening a deep gash which bled

profusely. The sight of blood pouring over my face completely demoralized our ranks. My

fellow-combatants left me standing paralyzed in the center of the yard, and scurried for their

homes. A kind neighbor saw me and rushed me to a doctor, who took three stitches in my

neck.

I sat brooding on my front steps, nursing my wound and waiting for my mother to come from

work. I felt that a grave injustice had been done me. It was all right to throw cinders. The

greatest harm a cinder could do was leave a bruise. But broken bottles were dangerous; they

left you cut, bleeding, and helpless.

When night fell, my mother came from the white folks’ kitchen. I raced down the street to

meet her. I could just feel in my bones that she would understand. I knew she would tell me

exactly what to do next time. I grabbed her hand and babbled out the whole story. She

examined my wound, then slapped me.

“How come yuh didn’t hide?” she asked me. “How come yuh awways fightin’?”

I was outraged, and bawled. Between sobs I told her that I didn’t have any trees or hedges to

hide behind. There wasn’t a thing I could have used as a trench. And you couldn’t throw very

far when you were hiding behind the brick pillars of a house. She grabbed a barrel stave,

dragged me home, stripped me naked, and beat me till I had a fever of one hundred and two.

She would smack my rump with the stave, and, while the skin was still smarting, impart to me

gems of Jim Crow wisdom. I was never to throw cinders any more. I was never to fight any

more wars. I was never, never, under any conditions, to fight white folks again. And they

were absolutely right in clouting me with the broken milk bottle. Didn’t I know she was

working hard every day in the hot kitchens of the white folks to make money to take care of

me? When was I ever going to learn to be a good boy? She couldn’t be bothered with my

fights. She finished by telling me that I ought to be thankful to God as long as I lived that they

didn’t kill me.

All that night I was delirious and could not sleep. Each time I closed my eyes I saw monstrous

white faces suspended from the ceiling, leering at me.

From that time on, the charm of my cinder yard was gone. The green trees, the trimmed

hedges, the cropped lawns grew very meaningful, became a symbol. Even today when I think

of white folks, the hard, sharp outlines of white houses surrounded by trees, lawns, and

hedges are present somewhere in the background of my mind. Through the years they grew

into an overreaching sym- bol of fear.

It was a long time before I came in close contact with white folks again. We moved from

Arkansas to Mississippi. Here we had the good fortune not to live behind the railroad tracks,

or close to white neighborhoods. We lived in the very heart of the local Black Belt. There

were black churches and black preachers; there were black schools and black teachers; black

groceries and black clerics. In fact, everything was so solidly black that for a long time I did

not even think of white folks, save in remote and vague terms. But this could not last forever.

As one grows older one eats more. One’s clothing costs more. When I finished grammar

school I had to go to work. My mother could no longer feed and clothe me on her cooking

job.

There is but one place where a black boy who knows no trade can get a job. And that’s where

the houses and faces are white, where the trees, lawns, and hedges are green. My first job was

with an optical company in Jackson, Mississippi. The morning I applied I stood straight and

neat before the boss, answering all his questions with sharp yessirs and nosirs. I was very

careful to pronounce my sirs distinctly, in order that he might know that I was polite, that I

knew where I was, and that I knew he was a white man. I wanted that job badly.

He looked me over as though he were examining a prize poodle. He questioned me closely

about my schooling, being particularly insistent about how much mathematics I had had. He

seemed very pleased when I told him I had had two years of algebra.

“Boy, how would you like to try to learn something around here?” he asked me.

“I’d like it fine, sir,” I said, happy. I had visions of “working my way up.” Even Negroes have

those visions.

“All right,” he said. “Come on.”

I followed him to the small factory.

“Pease,” he said to a white man of about thirty-five, “this is Richard. He’s going to work for

us.”

Pease looked at me and nodded.

I was then taken to a white boy of about seventeen.

“Morrie, this is Richard, who’s going to work for us.”

“Whut yuh sayin’ there, boy!” Morrie boomed at me.

“Fine!” I answered.

The boss instructed these two to help me, teach me, give me jobs to do, and let me learn what

I could in my spare time.

My wages were five dollars a week.

I worked hard, trying to please. For the first month I got along O.K. Both Pease and Morrie

seemed to like me. But one thing was missing. And I kept thinking about it. I was not learning

anything, and nobody was volunteering to help me. Thinking they had forgotten that I was to

learn something about the mechanics of grinding lenses, I asked Morrie one day to tell me

about the work. He grew red.

“Whut yuh tryin’ t’ do, nigger, git smart?” he asked.

“Naw; I ain’ tryin’ t’ -it smart,” I said.

“Well, don’t, if yuh know whut’s good for yuh!”

I was puzzled. Maybe he just doesn’t want to help me, I thought. I went to Pease.

“Say, are you crazy, you black bastard?” Pease asked me, his gray eyes growing hard.

I spoke out, reminding him that the boss had said I was to be given a chance to learn

something.

“Nigger, you think you’re white, don’t you?”

“Naw, sir!”

“Well, you’re acting mighty like it!”

“But, Mr. Pease, the boss said . . .”

Pease shook his fist in my face.

“This is a white man’s work around here, and you better watch yourself!”

From then on they changed toward me. They said good-morning no more. When I was just a

bit slow in performing some duty, I was called a lazy black son-of-a-bitch.

Once I thought of reporting all this to the boss. But the mere idea of what would happen to me

if Pease and Morrie should learn that I had “snitched” stopped me. And after all, the boss was

a white man, too. What was the use?

The climax came at noon one summer day. Pease called me to his work-bench. To get to him

I had to go between two narrow benches and stand with my back against a wall.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Richard, I want to ask you something,” Pease began pleasantly, not looking up from his

work.

“Yes, sir,” I said again.

Morrie came over, blocking the narrow passage between the benches. He folded his arms,

staring at me solemnly.

I looked from one to the other, sensing that something was coming.

“Yes, sir,” I said for the third time.

Pease looked up and spoke very slowly.

“Richard, Mr. Morrie here tells me you called me Pease.”

I stiffened. A void seemed to open up in me. I knew this was the show-down.

He meant that I had failed to call him Mr. Pease. I looked at Morrie. He was gripping a steel

bar in his hands. I opened my mouth to speak, to protest, to assure Pease that I had never

called him simply Pease, and that I had never had any intentions of doing so, when Morrie

grabbed me by the collar, ramming my head against the wall.

“Now, be careful, nigger!” snarled Morrie, baring his teeth. “1 heard yuh call ‘im Pease! ‘N’ if

yuh say yuh didn’t, yuh’re callin’ me a lie, see?” He waved the steel bar threateningly.

If I had said: No, sir, Mr. Pease, I never called you Pease, I would have been automatically

calling Morrie a liar. And if I had said: Yes, sir, Mr. Pease, I called you Pease, I would have

been pleading guilty to having uttered the worst insult that a Negro can utter to a southern

white man. I stood hesitating, trying to frame a neutral reply.

“Richard, I asked you a question!” said Pease. Anger was creeping into his voice.

“I don’t remember calling you Pease, Mr. Pease,” I said cautiously. “And if I did, I sure didn’t

mean . . .”

“You black son-of-a-bitch! You called me Pease, then!” he spat, slapping me till I bent

sideways over a bench. Morrie was on top of me, demanding:

“Didn’t yuh call ‘im Pease? If yuh say yuh didn’t, I’ll rip yo’ gut string loose with this f–kin’

bar, yuh black granny dodger! Yuh can’t call a white man a lie ‘n’ git erway with it, you black

son-of-a-bitch!”

I wilted. I begged them not to bother me. I knew what they wanted. They wanted me to leave.

“I’ll leave,” I promised. “I’ll leave right now.”

They gave me a minute to get out of the factory. I was warned not to show up again, or tell the

boss.

I went.

When I told the folks at home what had happened, they called me a fool. They told me that I

must never again attempt to exceed my boundaries. When you are working for white folks,

they said, you got to “stay in your place” if you want to keep working.

2

My Jim Crow education continued on my next job, which was portering in a clothing store.

One morning, while polishing brass out front, the boss and his twenty-year-old son got out of

their car and half dragged and half kicked a Negro woman into the store. A policeman

standing at the corner looked on, twirling his nightstick. I watched out of the corner of my

eye, never slackening the strokes of my chamois upon the brass. After a few minutes, I heard

shrill screams coming from the rear of the store. Later the woman stumbled out, bleeding,

crying, and holding her stomach. When she reached the end of the block, the policeman

grabbed her and accused her of being drunk. Silently I watched him throw her into a patrol

wagon.

When I went to the rear of the store, the boss and his son were washing their hands at the sink.

They were chuckling. The floor was bloody, and strewn with wisps of hair and clothing. No

doubt I must have appeared pretty shocked, for the boss slapped me reassuringly on the back.

“Boy, that’s what we do to niggers when they don’t want to pay their bills,” he said, laughing.

His son looked at me and grinned.

“Here, hava cigarette,” he said.

Not knowing what to do, I took it. He lit his and held the match for me. This was a gesture of

kindness, indicating that even if they had beaten the poor old woman, they would not beat rif I

knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and asked no questions.

After they had gone, I sat on the edge of a packing box and stared at the bloody floor till the

cigarette went out.

That day at noon, while eating in a hamburger joint, I told my fellow Negro porters what had

happened. No one seemed surprised. One fellow, after swallowing a huge bite, turned to me

and asked

“Huh. Is tha’ all they did t’ her?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t tha’ enough?” I asked.

“Shucks! Man, she’s a lucky bitch!” he said, burying his lips deep into a juicy hamburger.

“Hell, it’s a wonder they didn’t lay her when they got through.”

3

I was learning fast, but not quite fast enough. One day, while I was delivering packages in the

suburbs, my bicycle tire was punctured. I walked along the hot, dusty road, sweating and

leading my bicycle by the handle-bars.

A car slowed at my side.

“What’s the matter, boy?” a white man called.

I told him my bicycle was broken and I was walking back to town.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “Hop on the running board.”

He stopped the car. I clutched hard at my bicycle with one hand and clung to the side of the

car with the other.

“All set?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. The car started.

It was full of young white men. They were drinking. I watched the flask pass from mouth to

mouth.

“Wanna drink, boy?” one asked.

I laughed, the wind whipping my face. Instinctively obeying the freshly planted precepts of

my mother, I said:

“Oh, no!”

The words were hardly out of my mouth before I felt something hard and cold smash me

between the eyes. It was an empty whisky bottle. I saw stars, and fell backwards from the

speeding car into the dust of the road, my feet becoming entangled in the steel spokes of my

bicycle. The white men piled out, and stood over me.

“Nigger, ain’ yuh learned no better sense’n tha’ yet?” asked the man who hit me. “Ain’ yuh

learned t’ say sir t’ a white man yet?”

Dazed, I pulled to my feet. My elbows and legs were bleeding. Fists doubled, the white man

advanced, kicking my bicycle out of the way.

“Aw, leave the bastard alone. He’s got enough,” said one.

They stood looking at me. I rubbed my shins, trying to stop the flow of blood. No doubt they

felt a sort of contemptuous pity, for one asked:

“Yuh wanna ride t’ town now, nigger? Yuh reckon yuh know enough t’ ride now?”

“I wanna walk,” I said, simply.

Maybe it sounded funny. They laughed.

“Well, walk, yuh black son-of-a-bitch!”

When they left they comforted me with:

“Nigger, yuh sho better be damn glad it wuz us yuh talked t’ tha’ way. Yuh’re a lucky bastard,

’cause if yuh’d said tha’ t’ somebody else, yuh might’ve been a dead nigger now.”

4

Negroes who have lived South know the dread of being caught alone upon the streets in white

neighborhoods after the sun has set. In such a simple situation as this the plight of the Negro

in America is graphically symbolized. While white strangers may be in these neighborhoods

trying to get home, they can pass unmolested. But the color of a Negro’s skin makes him

easily recognizable, makes him suspect, converts him into a defenseless target.

Late one Saturday night I made some deliveries in a white neighborhood. I was pedaling my

bicycle back to the store as fast as I could, when a police car, swerving toward me, jammed

me into the curbing.

“Get down and put up your hands!” the policemen ordered.

I did. They climbed out of the car, guns drawn, faces set, and advanced slowly.

“Keep still!” they ordered.

I reached my hands higher. They searched my pockets and packages. They seemed

dissatisfied when they could find nothing incriminating. Finally, one of them said:

“Boy, tell your boss not to send you out in white neighborhoods this time of night.”

As usual, I said:

“Yes, sir.”

5

My next job was as hall-boy in a hotel. Here my Jim Crow education broadened and

deepened. When the bell-boys were busy, I was often called to assist them. As many of the

rooms in the hotel were occupied by prostitutes, I was constantly called to carry them liquor

and cigarettes. These women were nude most of the time. They did not bother about clothing

even for bell-boys. When you went into their rooms, you were supposed to take their

nakedness for granted, as though it startled you no more than a blue vase or a red rug. Your

presence awoke in them no sense of shame, for you were not regarded as human. If they were

alone, you could steal sidelong glimpses at them. But if they were receiving men, not a flicker

of your eyelids must show. I remember one incident vividly. A new woman, a huge, snowy-

skinned blonde, took a room on my floor. I was sent to wait upon her. She was in bed with a

thick-set man; both were nude and uncovered. She said she wanted some liquor, and slid out

of bed and waddled across the floor to get her money from a dresser drawer. I watched her.

“Nigger, what in hell you looking at?” the white man asked me, raising himself upon his

elbows.

“Nothing,” I answered, looking miles deep into the blank wall of the room.

“Keep your eyes where they belong, if you want to be healthy!”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

6

One of the bell-boys I knew in this hotel was keeping steady company with one of the Negro

maids. Out of a clear sky the police descended upon his home and arrested him, accusing him

of bastardy. The poor boy swore he had had no intimate relations with the girl. Nevertheless,

they forced him to marry her. When the child arrived, it was found to be much lighter in

complexion than either of the two supposedly legal parents. The white men around the hotel

made a great joke of it. They spread the rumor that some white cow must have scared the poor

girl while she was carrying the baby. If you were in their presence when this explanation was

offered, you were supposed to laugh.

7

One of the bell-boys was caught in bed with a white prostitute. He was castrated, and run out

of town. Immediately after this all the bell-boys and hall-boys were called together and

warned. We were given to understand that the boy who had been castrated was a “mighty,

mighty lucky bastard.” We were impressed with the fact that next time the management of the

hotel would not be responsible for the lives of “trouble-makin’ niggers.”

8

One night, just as I was about to go home, I met one of the Negro maids. She lived in my

direction, and we fell in to walk part of the way home together. As we passed the white

nightwatchman, he slapped the maid on her buttock. I turned around, amazed. The watchman

looked at me with a long, hard, fixedunder stare. Suddenly he pulled his gun, and asked:

“Nigger, don’t yuh like it?”

I hesitated.

“I asked yuh don’t yuh like it?” he asked again, stepping forward.

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

“Talk like it, then!”

“Oh, yes, sir!” I said with as much heartiness as I could muster.

Outside, I walked ahead of the girl, ashamed to face her. She caught up with me and said:

“Don’t be a fool; yuh couldn’t help it!”

This watchman boasted of having killed two Negroes in self-defense.

Yet, in spite of all this, the life of the hotel ran with an amazing smoothness. It would have

been impossible for a stranger to detect anything. The maids, the hall-boys, and the bell-boys

were all smiles. They had to be.

9

I had learned my Jim Crow lessons so thoroughly that I kept the hotel job till I left Jackson for

Memphis. It so happened that while in Memphis I applied for a job at a branch of the optical

company. I was hired. And for some reason, as long as I worked there, they never brought my

past against me.

Here my Jim Crow education assumed quite a different form. It was no longer brutally cruel,

but subtly cruel. Here I learned to lie, to steal, to dissemble. I learned to play that dual role

which every Negro must play if he wants to eat and live.

For example, it was almost impossible to get a book to read. It was assumed that after a Negro

had imbibed what scanty schooling the state furnished he had no further need for books. I was

always borrowing books from men on the job. One day I mustered enough courage to ask one

of the men to let me get books from the library in his name. Surprisingly, he consented. I

cannot help but think that he consented because he was a Roman Catholic and felt a vague

sympathy for Negroes, being himself an object of hatred. Armed with a library card, I

obtained books in the following manner: I would write a note to the librarian, saying: “Please

let this nigger boy have the following books.” I would then sign it with the white man’s name.

When I went to the library, I would stand at the desk, hat in hand, looking as unbookish as

possible. When I received the books desired I would take them home. If the books listed in the

note happened to be out, I would sneak into the lobby and forge a new one. I never took any

chances guessing with the white librarian about what the fictitious white man would want to

read. No doubt if any of the white patrons had suspected that some of the volumes they

enjoyed had been in the home of a Negro, they would not have tolerated it for an instant.

The factory force of the optical company in Memphis was much larger than that in Jackson,

and more urbanized. At least they liked to talk, and would engage the Negro help in

conversation whenever possible. By this means I found that many subjects were taboo from

the white man’s point of view. Among the topics they did not like to discuss with Negroes

were the following: American white women; the Ku Klux Klan; France, and how Negro

soldiers fared while there; French women; Jack Johnson; the entire northern part of the United

States; the Civil War; Abraham Lincoln; U. S. Grant; General Sherman; Catholics; the Pope;

Jews; the Republican Party; slavery; social equality; Communism; Socialism; the 13th and

14th Amendments to the Constitution; or any topic calling for positive knowledge or manly

self-assertion on the part of the Negro. The most accepted topics were sex and religion.

There were many times when I had to exercise a great deal of ingenuity to keep out of trouble.

It is a southern custom that all men must take off their hats when they enter an elevator. And

especially did this apply to us blacks with rigid force. One day I stepped into an elevator with

my arms full of packages. I was forced to ride with my hat on. Two white men stared at me

coldly. Then one of them very kindly lifted my hat and placed it upon my armful of packages.

Now the most accepted response for a Negro to make under such circumstances is to look at

the white man out of the corner of his eye and grin. To have said: “Thank you!” would have

made the white man think that you thought you were receiving from him a personal service.

For such an act I have seen Negroes take a blow in the mouth. Finding the first alternative

distasteful, and the second dangerous, I hit upon an acceptable course of action which fell

safely between these two poles. I immediately-no sooner than my hat was lifted-pretended

that my packages were about to spill, and appeared deeply distressed with keeping them in my

arms. In this fashion I evaded having to acknowledge his service, and, in spite of adverse

circumstances, salvaged a slender shred of personal pride.

How do Negroes feel about the way they have to live? How do they discuss it when alone

among themselves? I think this question can be answered in a single sentence. A friend of

mine who ran an elevator once told me:

“Lawd, man! Ef it wuzn’t fer them polices ‘n’ them of lynchmobs, there wouldn’t be nothin’

but uproar down here!”