Jesse shook his hand.
– Who are you?
– A friend. You have a lot more of them than you know. ing Jeht='0'›
Yates left the United Nation’s premises before the concert finished. Normally a demonstration wouldn’t have been allowed so close to the headquarters, but redirected to Ralph Bunche Park or Dag Hammarskjold Plaza at 47th Street and 1st Avenue, one block away from the visitors’ entrance, four blocks away from the entrance used by top- level diplomats. The decision to allow the demonstration unprecedented proximity to the United Nations was symbolic, the idea being that unlike the Soviet Union, America had nothing to fear in the face of open criticism. And there he was – Jesse Austin, making full use of the liberties granted by this nation, freedom of speech, a freedom that didn’t exist in the nation he so extolled.
Exiting onto the street, Yates saw a uniformed cop approaching Jesse, interrupting his speech and pointing at the crate he was standing on. Yates hurried forward, grabbing the supervising officer by the arm and shouting over the din:
– Tell your officer to pull back! No one moves Jesse Austin!
– Who is Jesse Austin?
The name meant nothing to this police officer. Yates was pleased.
– The tall man, the Negro standing on the box! He stays where he is!
– He’s not allowed to be so high, not so close to the main entrance.
Yates lost his temper.
– I don’t care about your rules. You listen to me! That man is not to be moved. The Soviets have invited him here hoping that we’ll force him to leave. If we do, he’ll resist and we’ll end up on the front page of every newspaper dragging him away. That’s what he wants! That’s why he’s here! He’s a famous Communist sympathizer, a popular Negro figurehead. Five white police officers manhandling an old Negro singer is not the kind of image we want. We’re in the middle of a propaganda war. I don’t want any displays of force tonight. I don’t care what the provocation is. Do you understand? No one moves that man!
Same Day
Jesse couldn’t believe that the police officer was backing down, walking away, allowing him to remain on the crate. He glanced at Anna. She seemed equally puzzled, but with the press here, their orders must be to show restraint, not to interfere, to allow the demonstration free rein, a tactical decision to show off the notion of American free speech, a cynical decision: but if free speech was being granted, even if it was a one-night-only show, he intended to exploit it.
From the apple crate he could see over the entire demonstration, hundreds of faces, some painted like flowers, others contorted with anger and outrage. Jesse began to speak. Timid at first, no one apart from his wife was listening to him, not even those closest to his crate. It was less like a speech and more like a crazy old man talking to himself.
– I’m here tonight…
A faltering start, unsure whether to read his material or to improvise. Deciding to use the material he’d written in his apartment, he tried to ignore the fact that no one seemed to care and concentrated on a fixed point in the crowd, pretending that he was back on the big stage with an audience of thousands of paying guests. However, his rhythm was thrown out of kilter by the incessant banging of the war protestors’ drums. His words were jumbled: he stopped midway through one point and began making another. He stopped again, returning to his first point only to wonder whether it mattered if he spoke Russian or English since no one was listening anyway. Despondent, he felt Anna take his hand. He looked down at her. She squeezed his palm and advised him:
– Just say what you feel. Talk to them like you talk to me, from the heart, that’s why people have always listened to you. Because you never lie, you never pretend, you only ever say something if you believe in it.
Jesse blocked out the sound of the drums, preparing to speak, raising his hand. Before he said a word a man called out, one of the elderly war protestors with sinewy arms, a scruffy beard and a guitar hanging around his neck. His chest was bare, painted with a red peace symbol.
– Jesse Austin!
Being recognized took him by surprise and Jesse lost his train of thought. Before he could recover, the protestor had pushed through to him, shaking his hand and saying:
– Always loved your music. Tell me, Jesse, did they kill Malcolm X because he opposed the Vietnam War? I’m sure of it. They’ll kill anyone who speaks out against this war. Malcolm X said every black man and woman should support the Vietnamese, not the US soldiers, that’s got to be why they shot him, don’t you think? Who do you support? The Vietnamese or the Americans?
Malcolm X had been shot at the beginning of the year. It had crossed Jesse’s mind that his murder might be more than it seemed. To blame the Nation of Islam was a convenient explanation, and normally when there was a convenient explanation the truth was somewhere else. As he began to answer, the man called out to his friends:
– Hey! It’s Jesse Austin!
Though people hadn’t reacted to the sight of him on a crate, at the sound of his name people turned around and paid attention. Voices shouted out from the anti-Communist crowd, coarse with disgust:
– How come you said America wasn’t your home!
– You said you’d be glad to fight American troops!
The old protestor winked at Jesse.
– Better be careful what you say.
Jesse called back:
– I never said anything of the sort! I believe in peace, not war.
The first accusation had burst a dam, more insidious lies poured out, increasingly extreme, from the group of anti-Communist protestors who knew Jesse better than anyone, as a figure of hate and ridicule.
– Isn’t it true you seduced a bunch of white girls?
– Why don’t you pay taxes?
– Haven’t you been in prison?
– Don’t you cheat on your wife?
– I heayou hit her when you’re drunk!
Jesse couldn’t always see the faces of his accusers, voices disconnected. He struggled to control his anger, in contrast to his accusers, and answered the allegations:
– I pay my taxes! I’ve never spent a day in prison, except to visit those people in need of help. And I never touched any white girl, not like that, just like I never hit a person, let alone my wife, the woman I love more than anyone else. What you’re repeating is nothing more than slander! A campaign of hate and lies!
His voice was trembling. The pain of these lies welled up inside him, the memory of being helpless, watching his reputation being destroyed.
Sensing he was in trouble, Anna stepped up onto the crate with him, putting an arm around his waist to steady herself.
– Would I be standing beside my husband if it were true? Would I have stuck with him when the government took our home? When they took our jobs? When they took our money and the food from our table? We lost everything. Now, you’ve gladly listened to the lies. Let me tell you the facts. Jesse’s never hurt another person in his life. He’s never been in a bar fight, or street altercation. He’s never raised his voice against me! As for war, he couldn’t dream of taking up arms against another soul. He doesn’t believe in violence. He believes in love! He believes in love deeper than anything! He believes in fairness for all men and women, no matter where they’re born or the colour of their skin. You can disagree with what we believe in if you want. You can tell us we’re fools for our ideas. But don’t tell us that we don’t love each other.
As she stepped down from the crate, Jesse saw how her words had turned the crowd in his favour, pulling more attention his way. He regretted his retreat from public speaking. He’d allowed insinuation to fill the silence. It was his duty to put the truth out there even if the mainstream channels were closed to him. It was his duty to stand up to his enemies no matter how heavily the odds were stacked against him. He’d been beaten down into
