Becoming Muhammad Ali Page 2
Me, I loved soda—especially ice-cold in frosty bottles on those hot Louisville summer nights. So did most kids. It tasted soooo good! But Cassius never touched it. Not a single sip. “Sugar and acid ain’t good for you, Lucky,” he said. And that was that.
Focus.
For Cassius, there was no smoking either (“Ain’t gonna put that stuff in my lungs!”). And he always went to bed at ten o’clock, even on Saturday nights. Like he wanted to grow in his sleep.
Focus.
After school, we went everywhere together, the two of us. And whenever we headed downtown, we stuck together tight. Tight like glue. And we kept our eyes wide open. Because going downtown meant crossing over into the white world. And in that world, four eyes were definitely better than two.
All over Louisville, we saw signs that Cassius’s daddy had painted. But the white people who owned the stores under those signs stared at us when we passed by—like they were just waiting for us to do something wrong, or say something fresh, or take something we didn’t pay for.
One day, we passed a bicycle store. There was a line of bikes out front, with bright chrome fenders and front wheels all turned to one side. At the end, one bike stood out past the others. It was a brand-new Schwinn Black Phantom, with white sidewall tires, pinstripes, and sparkly paint. It was the coolest bike either of us had ever seen.
Cassius gave out a low whistle when he saw it.
“Look at that bike, Lucky!” he said. “That’s the kind of bike I should be riding!”
Cassius reached out and stroked the handlebars like he was petting a cat. The chrome gleamed between his fingers.
Then we heard the bike-shop door open. The owner and his wife stood in the doorway, halfway out, at the top of the cement steps. We froze.
“You boys don’t want nothin’ with that bike,” said the man, his face all red and puffy. He started to come down the steps at us, but his wife put a hand on his arm. She seemed a little softer, but still strong enough to stop him. She had reddish-blond hair and a green dress.
“Scoot, now,” she said. “You boys get on home.”
She knew exactly where home was.
Home meant the West End—mostly black Louisville. It was one of the few parts of the city where the Clays and my folks could buy a house. In most parts of town, they couldn’t get a loan to buy a house, couldn’t even walk into most hotels or diners. Whites Only, the signs said. When Mrs. Clay took Cassius downtown as a kid, he got confused because nobody there looked like him.
“Momma Bird,” Cassius would ask, “what did they do with all the colored people?”
One day when Cassius was little, he stood outside the five-and-dime store crying because he was thirsty. When Mrs. Clay went inside to ask for a drink of water, the store guard made her leave.
“If we serve Negroes in here, we lose our jobs,” the guard told her. So Cassius went home thirsty, mad the whole way. Cassius was so young, his momma thought he wouldn’t remember that day.
But he did.
Granddaddy Herman’s Living Room
was always like church
to me.
I was the congregation.
His couch, my pew.
The rhythm and blues on his radio
was the choir, and
Ebony magazine
was his bible.
His sermons were sometimes poems,
other times stories
from history—his and America’s.
But my granddaddy’s sermons always ended
the same way:
Know who you are, Cassius.
And whose you are.
Know where you going
and where you from.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Where I’m From
I am from black Cadillacs,
from plastic-covered sofas
in tiny pink houses.
I am from the one bathroom
we all shared
and the living room
you stayed out of.
I am from Friday fried fish
and chocolate birthday cakes,
from Levy Brothers’ slacks
and shiny white shoes,
from Cash and Bird,
from storytellers
and good looks,
from don’t say you can’t
till you try.
I’m from the Kentucky Derby
and the land of baseball bats,
from the two Cassius Clays before me—one
black, one white.
I am from slavery
to freedom,
from the West End
to Smoketown,
from the unfulfilled dreams
of my father
to the hallelujah hopes
of my momma.
My Momma
smells like vanilla,
is always smiling,
loves cooking,
and I bet could make
a whole Sunday outfit
outta needle and thread.
Odessa “Bird” Clay may be
the smallest
of the Clays,
but her heart is the biggest,
wide as the sea.
And when she sings
at Mount Zion Baptist,
her voice is like water,
soft and sweet
as a hummingbird.
She Says the Day I Was Born
my head
was too big
to come out
on its own,
so the doctors yanked me
with some sharp tongs
that left a small, square bruise
on my cheek.
She says I hurt so much
that I cried
and hollered
most of the night
and into the next day,
which got the other
babies in the ward
screaming too,
but probably I was
sounding a rallying cry
to all my little soldiers
for all the brown babies
in the world
to stand up
and be counted.
After That
I vowed to never
let anyone put a mark
on my pretty face
again.
Cassius Clay vs. Odessa “Bird” Clay
MARCH 14, 1943
My first knockout punch
came at the age of one, when
I accidentally
hit my beautiful
momma in the mouth and knocked
her front tooth clean out.
When Bird Gets Mad
at me about something
I done wrong,
she calls me CASSIUS MARCELLUS CLAY JR.,
but mostly I’m just Gee-Gee
’cause she says
before I could even crawl
I was running my mouth,
and the first sound I made
was the letter G, twice,
but probably I was just dreaming
aloud, foreshadowing
my fate,
trying to voice
my future
as a Golden Gloves
champion.
My Brother, Rudy
came two years after
me, and ever since, we’ve been
like two golden stars
in the northern skies—
inseparable—and our
parents’ brightest hope.
Now, My Daddy
Cassius Marcellus Clay Sr.,
better known
around Louisville
as Cash,
is the opposite
of Bird.
He’s six feet
of bronze
and brawn, and
when he isn’t singing
or scolding
or dancing
or joking
with his Saturday night buddies
way i
nto Sunday morning,
he’s painting masterpieces—old Bible scenes
on church walls,
new billboards, and signs
on storefront windows—and happy
the whole time.
Signs My Father Painted
Open Lunch and Dinner
Dreamland Bar & Soul Food Café
Our Own Community Delicatessen
Best Charcoal Ribs in Louisville
Parking Around Back
Whiskey by the Drink
Serving Fresh Ice Cream
Colored Waiting Room
This Way for Fun—Fontaine Ferry Park
Whites Only
Segregation Is Immoral
There’s No Way Like the American Way
Vote for Progress
We Cut Heads
Percy’s Barbershop
Now Buy Victory Bonds
Rock and Roll Sold Here
Closed on Sundays
Some Sundays
when Papa Cash would stumble in
after being out
all night,
Momma would ask him
when he was gonna fix
the wobbly front porch
or the leak
in the roof,
and he’d ignore her
or start fussin’,
then leave back
out the house
with me and Rudy
tagging right along,
over to Granddaddy Herman’s house,
who would give us
something sweet,
like Black Jack Taffy,
show us magic tricks,
tell us funny
and not-so-funny stories
about famous
and not-so-famous Negroes,
bounce us
on his one good knee,
all while smoking a cigar
and arguing
with my daddy
till they both fell asleep.
Growing Up
When Rudy could walk
we got a pet chicken,
a dog named Rusty,
and a new house
with a brand-new backyard
near the size of a basketball court,
where we would play with Rusty,
and chase
the chicken
and each other
around.
We had a goldfish pond
that I watched Daddy build,
plus a vegetable garden
with snap beans
that I loved
to peel,
and onions
that I loved to eat,
raw.
Everything
was easygoing
and laid-back
on our side
in the West End,
where we lived,
so that’s where
we played
and prayed
and went to school
and grew up
but every now and then
we’d cross a line
and wonder
why we couldn’t stay
and play
on the other side
of it.
The Other Side
When Rudy got old enough
for Bird to let me
take him
out and about,
we ran,
jumped, and
played on every inch
of Chickasaw Park,
’cause it was in our neighborhood
but we’d never been
to Fontaine Ferry Park
even though
it had
amusement rides
and even though
it was right next to our neighborhood.
We were gonna go
to Fontaine
and dare anybody
to stop us.
We told Momma
we were walking over
to Granddaddy Herman’s
to help him
chop some wood,
which was true, but first
we were gonna cross the line
and go have some fun
at Fontaine Park.
The Whites Only sign
met us at the fence
outside the park
and the two police officers
with Colt 45 pistols
made sure
we stayed there.
Later That Day
we chopped wood
in silence
and when we were done
Granddaddy Herman preached
a sermon
that I’ll never forget.
Two Louisvilles
For a Negro boy
in the West End,
you know you can
play tag
in Chickasaw Park
but you better not be caught dead
in Shawnee Park
or Boone Square.
And, no matter how many times
you hear the crackle
of wooden roller-coasters,
smell the hot buttered popcorn,
and watch thousands
of happy white kids
eat cotton candy,
you know you’re not allowed
in Fontaine.
Boys, there’s two Louisvilles:
One where you go school shopping
for clothes
and one where you can’t
try on the clothes
beforehand
or bring ’em back
if they don’t fit.
One where you roller-skate
outside your house
and one where you’re not allowed
inside the local rink.
One where you can go
to some movie theaters
and one where you have to
sit in the balcony
and barely hear
the movie.
One where you got a decent job
with decent pay
and one where you get a raise
but your house payment goes up.
One where you can go
to the amusement park
with your friends
and one where you stand
outside the fence
like a caged bird
singing the summertime blues,
because your skin
is like a crow—black
and unwelcome.
One for whites
and one for blacks.
Know who you are, boys.
And whose you are.
Know where you going
and where you from.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
I Want to Be Rich
I said to
Rudy as we lay
in the backyard
under the stars
talking to the chicken
and each other
about being famous
one day like
Chuck Berry,
that way they’d have to
let us in
their amusement park.
But, since neither one of us
could sing or dance,
and we both loved
to slap-box,
we figured maybe we could
be rich like
Joe Louis instead,
buy the darn park,
and build
the first American Cadillac roller coaster,
candy-apple red,
so that any kid
could get into Clay Park
and ride the rides.
Momma Hollered
from the kitchen,
interrupting
our moonlit dreams and
big ideas.
Gee-Gee, time for you
and Rudy
to wash up,
say your prayers,
and go to bed.
I liked pranks,
so I stood up,
told Rudy,
DON’T MOVE!
There’s a great
big ol’ copperhead snake
in the grass
next to your head,
and he jumped up,
screaming
all the way into next week,
forgetting all about
Fontaine Ferry Park.
But I never did.
ROUND THREE
Did I mention I always wanted to be a writer? Maybe you guessed, since you’re reading this. Written by Lucky. Or I guess I should say, by Lucius Wakely. Sounds more writerly. But luck definitely played a part in me becoming a writer.
Because I was lucky enough to know Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr.
Cassius would be the first to admit that he didn’t like to write—or study. He showed me his report card once. His average grade was 72, which was just about passing. He got a 93 in metalwork, though. I guess you could say he was good with his hands.
I was different. I liked school. In fact, I bawled like a baby if I didn’t get 100 on a test. But Cassius wouldn’t let me cry about stuff like that.
“Dry it up, Lucky!” he said. “School ain’t life.”
Once I got a B on an English essay, and I knew it wasn’t fair. Cassius made me walk right up to the teacher after class and argue with him. I went back and forth with that teacher for a half-hour—but in the end, I got my A.
“You got it ’cause you deserved it,” said Cassius, “and ’cause you didn’t back down.”
Cassius didn’t like to read much either, but he really liked being read to. Sometimes we’d sit together in his front yard with his little brother, Rudy, and I’d read from newspapers or magazines or comic books. Especially Superman comics. Cassius loved Superman. Loved him! He loved that Superman was stronger than everybody else. He loved that he was world-famous. He loved that he defeated villains and that people called him a hero. “Truth, justice, and the American way.” That was Superman’s motto. Cassius loved that part the most!
There were times, growing up in Louisville, when Cassius was my own personal superman. One day, the three of us—me, Rudy, and Cassius—were walking down the street when a car rolled right up next to us. It was so close, I could hear the radio and smell the cigarette smoke inside. The car was filled with young men. White men. And I guess they thought we were on a street we shouldn’t be on.