I was attempting this morning in a slow, sultry Florida September way those once in awhile cleaning chores, dusting the books in the bookshelves. I have a few bookshelves, both built in and standing, and I realized when I saw the amount of dust that it had been awhile. As I picked up another dusty volume, I happened to note its identity, one of my favorite novels, Just Above My Head, by James Baldwin. I dusted the book and then brought it with me to the sofa and sat down and opened it. I have read it 10 times at least, but my mind wasn't on the James Baldwin's words, but rather on his death, several years ago.
When I learned of Baldwin's death, I was sitting at a bar in Peabody, Massachusetts. I was in my mid-20's and had just left the office. I decided to stop at Brody's to visit with my friend, T.J., the bartender and grill cook. I often made a little detour in order to have a drink and chat with him after work. We were the same age. He had just been dumped by his wife and I had just left my fiance. We were both from Peabody, though I was now living in Marblehead. We had met at Brody's and had become friends. I advised him of legal matters regarding his wife and daughter. He advised me to move on from my fiance. We were chatting about the usual when he left me momentarily to serve customers. I picked up the newspaper, the Peabody Times, that was laying upon the bar. I idly leafed through the pages when a headline on the Obit Page drew my attention. Author, James Baldwin, had died.
The first time that I read James Baldwin was in College. I remember the Professor to this day, a southern middle-aged man who fancied himself extremely amusing and smoked cigarettes in the classroom. It was a class in Modernist writers, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner and Baldwin. Towards the end of the semester, we came to our novel by Baldwin, called Giovanni's Room. This was a short novel and I read in easily in one seating. After finishing the book, I recall that I just sat there for a long spell, digesting it.
At that time, I was 19, and considered myself sophisticated and worldly. After all, I read the Rolling Stone and the Boston Phoenix. I laugh now of how I thought of myself, when in truth, I was immature and unworldly. I had never before read a book about homosexuals. Yes, I had heard comics on TV joke, etc. I was shocked actually by the novel. The story concerned an American man who went for an extended vacation in Europe after finishing college. In spite of his father's pleas to come home, he continued to travel about and became engaged to a Swedish, or Danish woman, but while she was visiting her family, he became involved with an Italian man named Givoanni. Through the narration of the story, it came out that he had had these desires since adolescence. Giovanni's Room is, as I stated above, a short novel, but compelling. Something else compelling: When the professor was discussing the novel with his students, he asked us if the characters were black or white. In this novel, Baldwin had written his characters in a race neutral manner, meaning that most people would assume that they were white, though Baldwin himself was black. It had never occurred to me that Baldwin was black from reading this novel. His other novels are another matter. The semester ended. I received a good grade. In the months that followed, I read every novel that James Baldwin wrote. Most of his other novels concerned obviously "black" characters. That was the point, in fact, to depict black people.
What's so Interesting, T.J asked me. He had finished with his customers and had brought me another drink. James Baldwin died, I answered him. Who's he? A writer, I said. T.J. didn't say anything. Just stood there behind the bar smiling at me. So, James Baldwin is dead. Whoopi doo, said Mary Ellen. I had been so engrossed in my thought that I didn't notice that she had slid into the bar stool beside me. Mary Ellen was T.J.'s twin sister. She didn't like me much. She was jealous of me, to be sure. She was jealous because I was T.J.'s "friend and confidant," not his girlfriend. This had been her role for a long time and she wasn't happy about sharing him. If I had been his girlfriend, she would have more tolerant of me.
Just Above My Head was Baldwin's last novel, his greatest in my opinion. This lengthly story centers upon Harlem in the 1950's and 1960's and a gospel singer and his brother. I was considering reading it yet again, but the day was burning outside of my protective air conditioning. The rest of the books would wait for another day to be dusted. I decided to go to The Lighthouse for a swim and a drink. My husband was working on the computer. I tell him to meet me when he is through with his work.
In this day of Internet and IPOD's, a built in bookcase is still a wonderful thing.
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