BLACK BOY

I held a series of jobs for short periods, quitting some in disgust, being fired from others because of my attitude, my speech, or the look in my eyes. I was no nearer than ever to my goal of saving enough money to leave town. At times I doubted if I ever could.

One jobless morning I went to my old classmate, Griggs, who worked for a Capitol Street jeweller. He was washing the windows of the store when I came up to him.

"Do you know where I can find a job?" I asked. He looked at me with scorn.

"Yes, I know where you can find a job," he said, laughing.

"Where?"

"But I wonder if you can hold it," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Where's the job?"

"Take your time," he said. "Dick, you've been trying to keep a job all summer, and you can't. Why? Because you're impatient. That's your big fault."

"Well," I said, eagerly encouraging him to continue.

He grew serious. "There's an optical company upstairs, and the boss is a northerner from Illinois. He wants a boy to work all day in summer, mornings and evenings in winter. He wants to start a colored boy in the optical trade. You know algebra, and you'd be good at this. I'll tell Mr. Crane about you and get in touch with you."

"Do you suppose I could see him now?" I asked.

"For God's sake, take your time!" he thundered at me.

"Maybe that's what's wrong with Negroes," I said. "They take too much time. I don't want a job sweeping floors. I plan to make something of myself!"

I thanked him and left. After a week I gave up hope. Then one afternoon Griggs came to my house.

"It looks as if you've got a job," he said. "You're going to have a chance to learn a trade. But remember to keep your head. Remember you're black; you're working for Whites. You start tomorrow."

"What will I get?"

"Five dollars a week to start with; they'll raise you if they like you," he explained.

My hopes grew. I would have a chance to learn a trade. And I need not give up school. I told him I would take the job, that I would be humble and respectful to Whites. "You'll be working for a White Yankee, and you'll have to try really hard to get along," he said.

The next morning I was outside the office of the optical company long before it opened. I was reminding myself that I must be polite, must think before I spoke, must think before I acted, must say "yes, sir or no, sir," that I must behave myself so that White people wouldn't think that I thought I was so good as they. Suddenly a White man came up to me.

"What do you want?" he asked me.

"I'm reporting for a job, sir," I said.

"O.K. Come on."

I followed him up a flight of steps and he unlocked the door of the office. I was a little nervous, but the young White man's manner put me at ease, and I sat and held my hat in my hand. A White girl came in and began punching the typewriter. Soon another White man, thin and gray, entered and went into the hack room. Finally, a tall, red-faced White man arrived, shot me a quick glance, and sat down at his desk. His brisk manner told me he must be a Yankee.

"You're the new boy, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me get my mail out of the way, and I'll talk with you," he said pleasantly.

"Yes, sir."

I even tried to keep the tone of my voice low, trying to rob it of any suggestion or overtone of aggressiveness.

Half an hour later Mr. Crane called me to his desk and questioned me closely about my schooling, about how much mathematics I had had. He seemed pleased when I told him that I had had two years of algebra.

"How would you like to learn this trade?" he asked.

"I'd like it fine, sir. I'd like nothing better." I said. He was treating me so well, being so good to me.

He told me that he wanted to train a Negro boy in the optical trade; he wanted to help him, guide him. I tried to answer in a way that would let him know that I would try to be worthy of what be was doing. This was the chance I'd been waiting for—a chance to learn a trade and make something of myself. After introducing me to the other people in the firm, Mr. Crane said, "Now, boy, let's see how dean you can get this place ... "