Stagg R. Leigh Character Analysis

“The line is, you’re not black enough,” my agent said.

“What’s that mean, Yul? How do they even know I’m black? Why does it matter?”

“We’ve been over this before. They know because of the photo on your first book. They know because they’ve seen you. They know because you’re black, for crying out loud.”

“What, do I have to have my characters comb their afros and be called niggers for these people?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

I was stunned into silence.

I look at my hands and they all covered wif blood and I realize I don’t know what goin on. So, I stab Mama again. I stab her cause I scared. I stab Mama cause I love her. I stab Mama cause I hate her. Cause I love her. Cause I hate her. Cause I ain’t got no daddy. Then I walk out the kitchen and stand outside, leavin Mama crawlin round on the linolum tryin to hold in her guts. I stands out on the sidewalk just drippin blood like a muthafucka. I look up at the sky and I try to see Jesus, but I cain’t.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“You ain’t shit,” I say.

“Well, you is shit,” Yellow say.

I can feel the rage swell up inside me. I hates this man. I hates my mama. I hates myself. I’m seein my face in his. I see the ape that stupid girls say they be fraid of. [...] I see Mama bleedin in my dream. I see my babies. I see Rexall, wifout a brain, growin up and axing “Why not me?” I see my daddy. I see myself. I shoot the muthafucka. Pop! In the gut.

Willy double over and he look at me like to say, “Why?” I yell at him. I be standin over him yellin at the back of his head. “Cause you aint shit!” I say. “Cause you made me, muthafucka! Cause I aint shit!” I be cryin now and I think I hear sumpin out at the street. I run again.

I looks up and see the cameras. I get kicked again while I’m bein pulled to my feet. But I dont care. The cameras is pointin at me. I be on the TV. The cameras be full of me. I on TV. I say, “Hey, Mama.” I say, “Hey, Baby Girl. Look at me. I on TV.”

The news of the money came and I breathed an ironic and bitter sigh of relief. Maybe I felt a bit of vindication somewhere inside me. Certainly, I felt a great deal of hostility toward an industry so eager to seek out and sell such demeaning and soul-destroying drivel.

I tried to distance myself from the position where the newly sold piece-of-shit novel had placed me vis-à-vis my art. It was not exactly the case that I had sold out, but I was not, apparently, going to turn away the check. I considered my woodworking and why I did it. In my writing my instinct was to defy form, but I very much sought in defying it to affirm it, an irony that was difficult enough to articulate, much less defend. But the wood, the feel of it, the smell of it, the weight of it. It was so much more real than words. The wood was so simple. Damnit, a table was a table was a table.

“Have you ever known anybody who talks like they do in that book?” I could hear the edge on my voice and though I didn’t want it there, I knew that once detected, it could never be erased.

Somewhere in Hollywood, Wiley Morgenstein smoked a cigar and contemplated the commercial value of My Pafology. He sat poolside with a big man from New Jersey with whom he attended two years of school at Passaic Junior College thirty years earlier.

Wiley smiled and relit his cigar. “They go to the movies now, these people. There’s an itch and I plan to scratch it.”

The fear of course is that in denying or refusing complicity in the marginalization of “black” writers, I ended up on the very distant and very “other” side of a line that is imaginary at best. [...] I never tried to set anybody free, never tried to paint the next real and true picture of the life of my people, never had any people whose picture I knew well enough to paint. […] But the irony was beautiful. I was a victim of racism by virtue of my failing to acknowledge racial difference and by failing to have my art be defined as an exercise in racial self-expression. So, I would not be economically oppressed because of writing a book that fell in line with the very books I deemed racist. And I would have to wear the mask of the person I was expected to be.

“God, I just love that,” Kenya says, shaking her head. “Now, I know some of you at home are thinking that some of the language is kinda rough, but let me tell you, it doesn’t get any more real than this. With this kinda talent, chile, don’t you think we ought to forgive our guest’s intense bashfulness?”

Audience applause, approval, endorsement, blessing.

I chose one of the TV cameras and stared into it. I said, “Egads, I’m on television.”

“The line is, you’re not black enough,” my agent said.

“What’s that mean, Yul? How do they even know I’m black? Why does it matter?”

“We’ve been over this before. They know because of the photo on your first book. They know because they’ve seen you. They know because you’re black, for crying out loud.”

“What, do I have to have my characters comb their afros and be called niggers for these people?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

I was stunned into silence.

I look at my hands and they all covered wif blood and I realize I don’t know what goin on. So, I stab Mama again. I stab her cause I scared. I stab Mama cause I love her. I stab Mama cause I hate her. Cause I love her. Cause I hate her. Cause I ain’t got no daddy. Then I walk out the kitchen and stand outside, leavin Mama crawlin round on the linolum tryin to hold in her guts. I stands out on the sidewalk just drippin blood like a muthafucka. I look up at the sky and I try to see Jesus, but I cain’t.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Fuck you,” Yellow say.

“You ain’t shit,” I say.

“Well, you is shit,” Yellow say.

I can feel the rage swell up inside me. I hates this man. I hates my mama. I hates myself. I’m seein my face in his. I see the ape that stupid girls say they be fraid of. [...] I see Mama bleedin in my dream. I see my babies. I see Rexall, wifout a brain, growin up and axing “Why not me?” I see my daddy. I see myself. I shoot the muthafucka. Pop! In the gut.

Willy double over and he look at me like to say, “Why?” I yell at him. I be standin over him yellin at the back of his head. “Cause you aint shit!” I say. “Cause you made me, muthafucka! Cause I aint shit!” I be cryin now and I think I hear sumpin out at the street. I run again.

I looks up and see the cameras. I get kicked again while I’m bein pulled to my feet. But I dont care. The cameras is pointin at me. I be on the TV. The cameras be full of me. I on TV. I say, “Hey, Mama.” I say, “Hey, Baby Girl. Look at me. I on TV.”

The news of the money came and I breathed an ironic and bitter sigh of relief. Maybe I felt a bit of vindication somewhere inside me. Certainly, I felt a great deal of hostility toward an industry so eager to seek out and sell such demeaning and soul-destroying drivel.

I tried to distance myself from the position where the newly sold piece-of-shit novel had placed me vis-à-vis my art. It was not exactly the case that I had sold out, but I was not, apparently, going to turn away the check. I considered my woodworking and why I did it. In my writing my instinct was to defy form, but I very much sought in defying it to affirm it, an irony that was difficult enough to articulate, much less defend. But the wood, the feel of it, the smell of it, the weight of it. It was so much more real than words. The wood was so simple. Damnit, a table was a table was a table.

“Have you ever known anybody who talks like they do in that book?” I could hear the edge on my voice and though I didn’t want it there, I knew that once detected, it could never be erased.

Somewhere in Hollywood, Wiley Morgenstein smoked a cigar and contemplated the commercial value of My Pafology. He sat poolside with a big man from New Jersey with whom he attended two years of school at Passaic Junior College thirty years earlier.

Wiley smiled and relit his cigar. “They go to the movies now, these people. There’s an itch and I plan to scratch it.”

The fear of course is that in denying or refusing complicity in the marginalization of “black” writers, I ended up on the very distant and very “other” side of a line that is imaginary at best. [...] I never tried to set anybody free, never tried to paint the next real and true picture of the life of my people, never had any people whose picture I knew well enough to paint. […] But the irony was beautiful. I was a victim of racism by virtue of my failing to acknowledge racial difference and by failing to have my art be defined as an exercise in racial self-expression. So, I would not be economically oppressed because of writing a book that fell in line with the very books I deemed racist. And I would have to wear the mask of the person I was expected to be.

“God, I just love that,” Kenya says, shaking her head. “Now, I know some of you at home are thinking that some of the language is kinda rough, but let me tell you, it doesn’t get any more real than this. With this kinda talent, chile, don’t you think we ought to forgive our guest’s intense bashfulness?”

Audience applause, approval, endorsement, blessing.

I chose one of the TV cameras and stared into it. I said, “Egads, I’m on television.”