Viewing page 37 of 100

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

LOOK HOMEWARD BABY    HARRINGTON

the Indians in theirs, and as his paid mercenaries were obediently applying the formula all over Indo-China. At least, that is what he stupidly thought.

A few days later, on my way to visit old friends in Vermont the train slithered into a bleakly lit station. I'd been dozing and when the discreet squealing of the brakes jerked me awake I looked at my wristwatch. It was three AM and there were wisps of fog swirling along the vapored window panes. Outside in the gloomy light filtering through the windows there was this cat weaving under his load of Old Grand Dad or something. He'd evidently climbed down out of one of the train's rear cars and was stumbling along just outside my window. A blurry white face was turned up to me and I saw the mouth move soundlessly. I shoved the window up a bit and he teetered precariously trying to focus. Then he pointed his finger at me and I heard his ask, "Shhhay buddie—WHERE ARE YOU?" I couldn't see a station sign or anything and so I told him that I'd be damned if I knew. He blinked fuzzily for a second, put his head down, mumbling, "God dammed fuckin' dumb nigger," and staggered off into the darkness,  presumably back to his own coach. Now I knew where I was. I was home Baby!

But home wasn't what it used to be. There HAD been some changes made. My old and very dear friends Henry Winston and Jim Jackson, along with John Pittman, had brought up the notion of my helping out in the circulation drive the Daily World was putting on. This meant traveling around the country a bit. "It would be a great opportunity for you to get the feel of things again," Winnie suggested which I realized was absolutely true, not only for grabbing hold of what's been happening but there'd also be the visual thing which, of course, is extremely important to a graphic artist.

A week later I was in Nashville. Now let me tell you about Nashville in 1948, the last time I was there. My job then was public relations director in the national office of the NAACP in New York, a post I'd accepted after much soul-searching. It was terribly difficult giving up art but one day when I'd heard about the South Carolina cops gouging out both eyes of a Black veteran, Isaac Woodward, that ended the debate. Or as my wartime buddies used to say, "That's all she wrote!" But sitting in a beautifully appointed office in West 40th Street watching the pigeons do their thing atop the classical facades of the main New York Public Library tends to develop a lot of fat around the brain. This sad condition was painfully brought to my attention at the Nashville Airport when I scampered into the

211

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2024-02-26 14:32:46 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2024-02-26 14:43:55