finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man/section_2_part_0.txt
The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.chapters 5-6
chapters 5-6
{"name": "Chapters V-VI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180424054150/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-autobiography-of-an-excolored-man/study-guide/summary-chapters-v-vi", "summary": "The next morning, the narrator alights in Jacksonville, tired and achy from his train journey. He asks a kind-looking man whom he assumes to be a preacher for lodging recommendations. The preacher tells the narrator where to go and the narrator finds the the accommodations \"neat and not uncomfortable\". At the breakfast table, he meets his fellow boarders and learns that they are all cigar makers. The landlords are Cuban, and there are several black boarders, but they all speak Spanish, leaving the narrator unable to understand their conversations. Nevertheless, he does enjoy listening to his companions argue animatedly, gesticulating wildly. The landlords inform the narrator that the winter hotels will not open for two months and suggest that he get a job as a \"stripper\", someone who strips the the leaves of tobacco from their stems in the cigar factory. The narrator is energized by this new prospect because he will be able to overcome his financial troubles and is generally \"eager and curious over the new experience\". After speaking with his well-educated and intelligent Cuban landlord at the table for some time, he goes to bed excited for his new job. The narrator quickly becomes the fastest stripper at the factory and takes on a few young African American pupils for music lessons at night. He picks up Spanish and learns that he has a gift for languages as well as music. He is soon is selected to be a \"reader\" in the cigar factory, which is a coveted and respectable position in factories with Spanish-speaking employees. The reader sits on a stool in the middle of the factory and reads from the Spanish papers, works of literature, etc. Readers are always highly intelligent and are well respected by their co-workers, and the narrator is honored to take on this new role and leave the tedious job of cigar-rolling behind. Soon, the narrator is making enough money that he gives up teaching his sporadic music lessons, but he keeps his rented piano. The narrator takes this opportunity to ruminate on the race question, as he feels that his new life in Jacksonville has given him his first major initiation into \"the freemasonry of the race\". He observes that the black man does struggle, though passively, against the race divide in America. He believes that the \"Negro question\" is ever-present, and finds it puzzling how obsessed white men are with the race question. If \"colored\" men see the world through the lens of their race, white men seem to do so as well. He feels it a shame that white men, descended from \"the great historic Americans from Washington to Lincoln... are now forced to use up energies in a conflict as lamentable as it is violent.\" The narrator then divides \"colored\" people into three categories. The first category is the \"desperate class\", which includes ex-convicts, drunks, and loafers. They are full of rage and hate white people, who in turn are afraid of them. While small in number, the narrator thinks these \"desperates\" give the race a bad reputation. The second class is made up of domestic servants, who are generally \"simple, kind-hearted, and faithful\"; they tend to love and respect their white employers who, in turn, become fond of them. The third class is the most complex, and is made up of well-to-do and educated African-Americans. They are almost solely concerned with the race question. White people are suspicious of them. When \"colored\" people are ambitious and successful, their white neighbors often think they are putting on airs. While educated \"colored\" people may feel some kinship with white Americans, they also feel the brunt of prejudice and discrimination, which inspires resentment. However, the narrator makes it a point to note that this class of \"colored\" people joyfully engages in American social gatherings, like dances and society dinners, even though they are segregated from their lighter-skinned counterparts. While there are not too many of this third, educated class of \"colored\" people in Jacksonville, the narrator notes, he finds the few that are there and joins a literary society. His also enjoys spending time with his co-workers and, like them, starts becoming careless with his money - indulging himself in public balls and weekend excursions. He eventually abandons the idea of going back to Atlanta University. At one of the public balls he attends, the narrator encounters the young Pullman porter who brought him down to Jacksonville. Curiously, the porter is wearing a tie very similar to the one that was stolen from the narrator's trunk in the Atlanta boarding house along with all his money. The narrator decides not to vocalize his suspicion. At another public ball, the narrator observes the \"cake-walk\" for the first time. Couples dance elegantly in front of judges, who eliminate the teams one by one based on their skill and performance. The last couple standing receives a \"highly-decorated cake\" as a prize. The narrator is bemused that some \"colored\" people are ashamed of the cake-walk, because he considers it an important ritual, and a major contribution to American culture. He claims that \"some Parisian critics pronounce an acme of poetic motion\" . Meanwhile, the narrator is happy with his life and is toying with idea of marrying a girl in Jacksonville when he learns that the cigar factory is closing down. He spontaneously decides to move to New York with a few of his ex-colleagues, who think they will able to find more work up north. Steaming into the New York Harbor, the narrator waxes poetic on the beauty, glamour, and brutality of the \"fatally fascinating\" city. He falls under its spell almost immediately. When the narrator and his companions arrive, they go to a lodging house on 27th street and 6th Avenue. That evening, they meet some acquaintances who take them to a house which has been converted into a bar. The party is loud and the narrator marvels at how the men call each other \"nigger\" in a casual way, as a substitute for \"fellow\". He observes a poker game and then a boisterous game of craps. He joins the craps table and immediately experiences a hot winning streak, capturing the attention of everyone in the bar. He is energized by the experience, reveling in his fellow players' envy. He is fully seduced by the rush of gambling. While observing the men around him who have not been so lucky, however, the narrator alludes to a future phase of his life in which he becomes an inveterate gambler. Leaving the party, the narrator is too excited to go to sleep, so he and his friends go to a place called \"The Club\". It is also a three-story home, this time with a Chop Suey restaurant in the basement. Inside, the narrator describes the clink of glasses and laughter; the place is alive and full of \"brilliancy\". The group orders drinks and listens to the piano player. The narrator has never heard ragtime music before, as it has just started to become popular in New York. He is transfixed by the pianist's dexterity, and the music inspires a physical response in him. He notes that ragtime music is so influential that white men often copy the improvisations, publish them, and collect small fortunes because of their popularity. The narrator includes an aside on the merits of popular music, which some cultural elites deplore but which he claims has the seeds of greatness and universal appeal. After the ragtime piano-player finishes his tune, the narrator makes a point to speak to him and is surprised that the man has had no formal training. He wonders if the man would have been a musical genius if he had been trained, but supposes that such an innovator would have difficulty excelling as an \"imitator of the great masters\" . By the time the narrator and his friends stumble home and go to bed, daylight is breaking.", "analysis": "After having survived the loss of his savings and the terrible train journey south, the narrator achieves a great deal of success at the cigar factory and further impresses the reader with his seemingly endless skills, this time at rolling cigars and learning foreign languages. He also makes the fateful decision to travel to the North -New York- and enters yet another new world filled with ragtime music, gambling, and parties. Each of the steps on his journey allows him to explore different aspects of racial identity in America, and through the narrator, the reader becomes tuned into the cultural landscape at the time. His views on race noticeably evolve. In these chapters, the narrator criticizes white people for being too consumed by the race question and defends African Americans for their major contributions to the American culture, like the cake-walk, a dance with roots in plantation slavery. However, his rumination on the three different types of \"colored\" people in Jacksonville is matter-of-fact to the point of being reductive. He exhibits the \"white gaze\" again as he dispassionately excoriates the shiftless \"desperate class\" and the \"simple, kind-hearted, and faithful\" domestic class ; his words mirror the racism, sexism, and classism that racist white Americans expressed at the turn of the century. The narrator clearly categorizes himself in third group that is made up of the wealthy, educated African Americans; a group that W.E.B. Du Bois called \"the Talented Tenth\". During the Harlem Renaissance, this \"third group\" set out to be an example for the race and to create a paradigm shift towards the social and political equality of African Americans. However, just as Johnson details in Autobiography, there were certainly tensions between this \"third group\" and other African Americans. One crucial aspect of understanding the context of Autobiography is figuring out which of the narrator's observations match the views of James Weldon Johnson himself. Johnson specifically chose to tell his protagonist's story in the structure of an autobiography; it fit into a long tradition of slave narratives, and was also the preferred format amongst African American writers to depict self-fashioning and demystify the \"other\" for white American readers. Johnson's narrator, however, does not have such a clear agenda, as he often exhibits harsh opinions when describing the American race divide, revealing the complexities of identity formation. The character's eventual decision to pass as white was potentially dangerous for Johnson when the novel was published, because African American authors were expected to create characters who would present positive portrayals of African Americans and help to facilitate the progress and integration of the race. Johnson deals with this expectation by including several authorial intrusions and expressing a variety of viewpoints outside of the narrator's. The critic Heather Russell Andrade has noted several instances in Autobiography where Johnson appears to be revealing his own views. The first example is when the narrator finds out that he is biracial and ruminates on the idea that a \"colored\" man must view the world exclusively through that lens. In the next paragraph, however, a different voice comes forth to champion \"the powerful inscrutability of blackness\", reflecting Du Bois's theory of double consciousness. The second example is when Johnson expresses his views through the narrator's millionaire patron instead of the narrator himself. The millionaire tells the narrator that race has to be \"acted\" out and that it is a construct; he also describes the dispossession of African Americans. The millionaire, who says little up until that point, suddenly becomes a spokesman for the race. The third example of Johnson expressing his own views is also through a supporting character - the old Union soldier on the train, who expatiates on the great contributions of other non-white races to the progress of mankind. Johnson believed that many traditional aspects of African American culture should be regarded as true American art forms, such as the Uncle Remus stories, the cake-walk, and spiritual hymns. The narrator shares these views as well, noting that these creative modes of expression \"have originality and artistic conception\" and African Americans have \"the power of creating that which can influence and appeal universally\" . An embodiment of this sentiment is the passage where the narrator discovers ragtime. He muses, \"one thing cannot be denied; it is music which possesses at least one strong element of greatness: it appeals universally\" ."}


The next morning I got out of the car at Jacksonville with a stiff
and aching body. I determined to ask no more porters, not even my
benefactor, about stopping-places; so I found myself on the street not
knowing where to go. I walked along listlessly until I met a colored
man who had the appearance of a preacher. I asked him if he could
direct me to a respectable boarding-house for colored people. He said
that if I walked along with him in the direction he was going, he
would show me such a place: I turned and walked at his side. He proved
to be a minister, and asked me a great many direct questions about
myself. I answered as many as I saw fit to answer; the others I evaded
or ignored. At length we stopped in front of a frame house, and my
guide informed me that it was the place. A woman was standing in the
doorway, and he called to her saying that he had brought her a new
boarder. I thanked him for his trouble, and after he had urged upon,
me to attend his church while I was in the city, he went on his way.

I went in and found the house neat and not uncomfortable. The parlor
was furnished with cane-bottomed chairs, each of which was adorned
with a white crocheted tidy. The mantel over the fireplace had a
white crocheted cover; a marble-topped center table held a lamp, a
photograph album and several trinkets, each of which was set upon a
white crocheted mat. There was a cottage organ in a corner of the
room, and I noted that the lamp-racks upon it were covered with
white crocheted mats. There was a matting on the floor, but a
white crocheted carpet would not have been out of keeping. I made
arrangements with the landlady for my board and lodging; the amount
was, I think, three dollars and a half a week. She was a rather
fine-looking, stout, brown-skin woman of about forty years of age. Her
husband was a light-colored Cuban, a man about one half her size, and
one whose age could not be guessed from his appearance. He was small
in size, but a handsome black mustache and typical Spanish eyes
redeemed him from insignificance.

I was in time for breakfast, and at the table I had the opportunity
to see my fellow boarders. There were eight or ten of them. Two, as
I afterwards learned, were colored Americans. All of them were cigar
makers and worked in one of the large factories--cigar making is one
trade in which the color line is not drawn. The conversation was
carried on entirely in Spanish, and my ignorance of the language
subjected me more to alarm than embarrassment. I had never heard such
uproarious conversation; everybody talked at once, loud exclamations,
rolling "_carambas_," menacing gesticulations with knives, forks, and
spoons. I looked every moment for the clash of blows. One man was
emphasizing his remarks by flourishing a cup in his hand, seemingly
forgetful of the fact that it was nearly full of hot coffee. He ended
by emptying it over what was, relatively, the only quiet man at the
table excepting myself, bringing from him a volley of language which
made the others appear dumb by comparison. I soon learned that in all
of this clatter of voices and table utensils they were discussing
purely ordinary affairs and arguing about mere trifles, and that not
the least ill feeling was aroused. It was not long before I enjoyed
the spirited chatter and _badinage_ at the table as much as I did my
meals--and the meals were not bad.

I spent the afternoon in looking around the town. The streets were
sandy, but were well-shaded by fine oak trees and far preferable to
the clay roads of Atlanta. One or two public squares with green grass
and trees gave the city a touch of freshness. That night after supper
I spoke to my landlady and her husband about my intentions. They told
me that the big winter hotels would not open within two months. It can
easily be imagined what effect this news had on me. I spoke to them
frankly about my financial condition and related the main fact of my
misfortune in Atlanta. I modestly mentioned my ability to teach music
and asked if there was any likelihood of my being able to get some
scholars. My landlady suggested that I speak to the preacher who had
shown me her house; she felt sure that through his influence I should
be able to get up a class in piano. She added, however, that the
colored people were poor, and that the general price for music lessons
was only twenty-five cents. I noticed that the thought of my teaching
white pupils did not even remotely enter her mind. None of this
information made my prospects look much brighter.

The husband, who up to this time had allowed the woman to do most of
the talking, gave me the first bit of tangible hope; he said that he
could get me a job as a "stripper" in the factory where he worked,
and that if I succeeded in getting some music pupils, I could teach
a couple of them every night, and so make a living until something
better turned up. He went on to say that it would not be a bad thing
for me to stay at the factory and learn my trade as a cigar maker, and
impressed on me that, for a young man knocking about the country, a
trade was a handy thing to have. I determined to accept his offer and
thanked him heartily. In fact, I became enthusiastic, not only because
I saw a way out of my financial troubles, but also because I was eager
and curious over the new experience I was about to enter. I wanted
to know all about the cigar making business. This narrowed the
conversation down to the husband and myself, so the wife went in and
left us talking.

He was what is called a _regalia_ workman, and earned from thirty-five
to forty dollars a week. He generally worked a sixty-dollar job; that
is, he made cigars for which he was paid at the rate of sixty dollars
per thousand. It was impossible for him to make a thousand in a week
because he had to work very carefully and slowly. Each cigar was made
entirely by hand. Each piece of filler and each wrapper had to be
selected with care. He was able to make a bundle of one hundred cigars
in a day, not one of which could be told from the others by any
difference in size or shape, or even by any appreciable difference in
weight. This was the acme of artistic skill in cigar making. Workmen
of this class were rare, never more than three or four in one factory,
and it was never necessary for them to remain out of work. There were
men who made two, three, and four hundred cigars of the cheaper grades
in a day; they had to be very fast in order to make a decent week's
wages. Cigar making was a rather independent trade; the men went to
work when they pleased and knocked off when they felt like doing so.
As a class the workmen were careless and improvident; some very rapid
makers would not work more than three or four days out of the week,
and there were others who never showed up at the factory on Mondays.
"Strippers" were the boys who pulled the long stems from the tobacco
leaves. After they had served at that work for a certain time they
were given tables as apprentices.

All of this was interesting to me; and we drifted along in
conversation until my companion struck the subject nearest his heart,
the independence of Cuba. He was an exile from the island, and a
prominent member of the Jacksonville Junta. Every week sums of money
were collected from juntas all over the country. This money went to
buy arms and ammunition for the insurgents. As the man sat there
nervously smoking his long, "green" cigar, and telling me of the
Gomezes, both the white one and the black one, of Maceo and Bandera,
he grew positively eloquent. He also showed that he was a man of
considerable education and reading. He spoke English excellently, and
frequently surprised me by using words one would hardly expect from
a foreigner. The first one of this class of words he employed almost
shocked me, and I never forgot it; 'twas "ramify." We sat on the
piazza until after ten o'clock. When we arose to go in to bed, it was
with the understanding that I should start in the factory on the next
day.

I began work the next morning seated at a barrel with another boy, who
showed me how to strip the stems from the leaves, to smooth out each
half leaf, and to put the "rights" together in one pile, and the
"lefts" together in another pile on the edge of the barrel. My
fingers, strong and sensitive from their long training, were well
adapted to this kind of work, and within two weeks I was accounted
the fastest "stripper" in the factory. At first the heavy odor of the
tobacco almost sickened me, but when I became accustomed to it, I
liked the smell. I was now earning four dollars a week, and was soon
able to pick up a couple more by teaching a few scholars at night,
whom I had secured through the good offices of the preacher I had met
on my first morning in Jacksonville.

At the end of about three months, through my skill as a "stripper" and
the influence of my landlord, I was advanced to a table and began to
learn my trade; in fact, more than my trade; for I learned not only
to make cigars, but also to smoke, to swear, and to speak Spanish. I
discovered that I had a talent for languages as well as for music.
The rapidity and ease with which I acquired Spanish astonished my
associates. In a short time I was able not only to understand most
of what was said at the table during meals, but to join in the
conversation. I bought a method for learning the Spanish language, and
with the aid of my landlord as a teacher, by constant practice with
my fellow workmen, and by regularly reading the Cuban newspapers and
finally some books of standard Spanish literature which were at the
house, I was able in less than a year to speak like a native. In fact,
it was my pride that I spoke better Spanish than many of the Cuban
workmen at the factory.

After I had been in the factory a little over a year, I was repaid for
all the effort I had put forth to learn Spanish by being selected as
"reader." The "reader" is quite an institution in all cigar factories
which employ Spanish-speaking workmen. He sits in the center of the
large room in which the cigar makers work and reads to them for a
certain number of hours each day all the important news from the
papers and whatever else he may consider would be interesting. He
often selects an exciting novel and reads it in daily installments. He
must, of course, have a good voice, but he must also have a reputation
among the men for intelligence, for being well-posted and having in
his head a stock of varied information. He is generally the final
authority on all arguments which arise, and in a cigar factory these
arguments are many and frequent, ranging from the respective and
relative merits of rival baseball clubs to the duration of the sun's
light and energy--cigar making is a trade in which talk does not
interfere with work. My position as "reader" not only released me from
the rather monotonous work of rolling cigars, and gave me something
more in accord with my tastes, but also added considerably to my
income. I was now earning about twenty-five dollars a week, and was
able to give up my peripatetic method of giving music lessons. I hired
a piano and taught only those who could arrange to take their lessons
where I lived. I finally gave up teaching entirely, as what I made
scarcely paid for my time and trouble. I kept the piano, however, in
order to keep up my own studies, and occasionally I played at some
church concert or other charitable entertainment.

Through my music teaching and my not absolutely irregular attendance
at church, I became acquainted with the best class of colored people
in Jacksonville. This was really my entrance into the race. It was my
initiation into what I have termed the freemasonry of the race. I had
formulated a theory of what it was to be colored; now I was getting
the practice. The novelty of my position caused me to observe and
consider things which, I think, entirely escaped the young men I
associated with; or, at least, were so commonplace to them as not to
attract their attention. And of many of the impressions which came
to me then I have realized the full import only within the past few
years, since I have had a broader knowledge of men and history, and
a fuller comprehension of the tremendous struggle which is going on
between the races in the South.

It is a struggle; for though the black man fights passively, he
nevertheless fights; and his passive resistance is more effective at
present than active resistance could possibly be. He bears the fury of
the storm as does the willow tree.

It is a struggle; for though the white man of the South may be too
proud to admit it, he is, nevertheless, using in the contest his best
energies; he is devoting to it the greater part of his thought and
much of his endeavor. The South today stands panting and almost
breathless from its exertions.

And how the scene of the struggle has shifted! The battle was first
waged over the right of the Negro to be classed as a human being with
a soul; later, as to whether he had sufficient intellect to master
even the rudiments of learning; and today it is being fought out over
his social recognition.

I said somewhere in the early part of this narrative that because the
colored man looked at everything through the prism of his relationship
to society as a _colored_ man, and because most of his mental efforts
ran through the narrow channel bounded by his rights and his wrongs,
it was to be wondered at that he has progressed so broadly as he has.
The same thing may be said of the white man of the South; most of his
mental efforts run through one narrow channel; his life as a man and
a citizen, many of his financial activities, and all of his political
activities are impassably limited by the ever present "Negro
question." I am sure it would be safe to wager that no group of
Southern white men could get together and talk for sixty minutes
without bringing up the "race question." If a Northern white man
happened to be in the group, the time could be safely cut to thirty
minutes. In this respect I consider the conditions of the whites more
to be deplored than that of the blacks. Here, a truly great people, a
people that produced a majority of the great historic Americans from
Washington to Lincoln, now forced to use up its energies in a conflict
as lamentable as it is violent.

I shall give the observations I made in Jacksonville as seen through
the light of after years; and they apply generally to every Southern
community. The colored people may be said to be roughly divided into
three classes, not so much in respect to themselves as in respect to
their relations with the whites. There are those constituting what
might be called the desperate class--the men who work in the lumber
and turpentine camps, the ex-convicts, the bar-room loafers are all in
this class. These men conform to the requirements of civilization much
as a trained lion with low muttered growls goes through his stunts
under the crack of the trainer's whip. They cherish a sullen hatred
for all white men, and they value life as cheap. I have heard more
than one of them say: "I'll go to hell for the first white man that
bothers me." Many who have expressed that sentiment have kept their
word, and it is that fact which gives such prominence to this class;
for in numbers it is only a small proportion of the colored people,
but it often dominates public opinion concerning the whole race.
Happily, this class represents the black people of the South far below
their normal physical and moral condition, but in its increase lies
the possibility of grave dangers. I am sure there is no more urgent
work before the white South, not only for its present happiness, but
for its future safety, than the decreasing of this class of blacks.
And it is not at all a hopeless class; for these men are but the
creatures of conditions, as much so as the slum and criminal elements
of all the great cities of the world are creatures of conditions.
Decreasing their number by shooting and burning them off will not be
successful; for these men are truly desperate, and thoughts of death,
however terrible, have little effect in deterring them from acts the
result of hatred or degeneracy. This class of blacks hate everything
covered by a white skin, and in return they are loathed by the whites.
The whites regard them just about as a man would a vicious mule, a
thing to be worked, driven, and beaten, and killed for kicking.

The second class, as regards the relation between blacks and whites,
comprises the servants, the washerwomen, the waiters, the cooks,
the coachmen, and all who are connected with the whites by domestic
service. These may be generally characterized as simple, kind-hearted,
and faithful; not over-fine in their moral deductions, but intensely
religious, and relatively--such matters can be judged only
relatively--about as honest and wholesome in their lives as any other
grade of society. Any white person is "good" who treats them kindly,
and they love him for that kindness. In return, the white people with
whom they have to do regard them with indulgent affection. They come
into close daily contact with the whites, and may be called the
connecting link between whites and blacks; in fact, it is through them
that the whites know the rest of their colored neighbors. Between this
class of the blacks and the whites there is little or no friction.

The third class is composed of the independent workmen and tradesmen,
and of the well-to-do and educated colored people; and, strange to
say, for a directly opposite reason they are as far removed from the
whites as the members of the first class I mentioned. These people
live in a little world of their own; in fact, I concluded that if a
colored man wanted to separate himself from his white neighbors, he
had but to acquire some money, education, and culture, and to live in
accordance. For example, the proudest and fairest lady in the South
could with propriety--and it is what she would most likely do--go to
the cabin of Aunt Mary, her cook, if Aunt Mary was sick, and minister
to her comfort with her own hands; but if Mary's daughter, Eliza, a
girl who used to run round my lady's kitchen, but who has received an
education and married a prosperous young colored man, were at death's
door, my lady would no more think of crossing the threshold of Eliza's
cottage than she would of going into a bar-room for a drink.

I was walking down the street one day with a young man who was born in
Jacksonville, but had been away to prepare himself for a professional
life. We passed a young white man, and my companion said to me: "You
see that young man? We grew up together; we have played, hunted, and
fished together; we have even eaten and slept together; and now since
I have come back home, he barely speaks to me." The fact that the
whites of the South despise and ill-treat the desperate class of
blacks is not only explainable according to the ancient laws of human
nature, but it is not nearly so serious or important as the fact that
as the progressive colored people advance, they constantly widen the
gulf between themselves and their white neighbors. I think that the
white people somehow feel that colored people who have education and
money, who wear good clothes and live in comfortable houses, are
"putting on airs," that they do these things for the sole purpose of
"spiting the white folks," or are, at best, going through a sort
of monkey-like imitation. Of course, such feelings can only cause
irritation or breed disgust. It seems that the whites have not yet
been able to realize and understand that these people in striving to
better their physical and social surroundings in accordance with their
financial and intellectual progress are simply obeying an impulse
which is common to human nature the world over. I am in grave doubt as
to whether the greater part of the friction in the South is caused by
the whites' having a natural antipathy to Negroes as a race, or an
acquired antipathy to Negroes in certain relations to themselves.
However that may be, there is to my mind no more pathetic side of this
many-sided question than the isolated position into which are forced
the very colored people who most need and who could best appreciate
sympathetic cooperation; and their position grows tragic when the
effort is made to couple them, whether or no, with the Negroes of the
first class I mentioned.

This latter class of colored people are well-disposed towards the
whites, and always willing to meet them more than halfway. They,
however, feel keenly any injustice or gross discrimination, and
generally show their resentment. The effort is sometimes made to
convey the impression that the better class of colored people fight
against riding in "Jim Crow" cars because they want to ride with white
people or object to being with humbler members of their own race. The
truth is they object to the humiliation of being forced to ride in
a _particular_ car, aside from the fact that that car is distinctly
inferior, and that they are required to pay full first-class fare. To
say that the whites are forced to ride in the superior car is less
than a joke. And, too, odd as it may sound, refined colored people get
no more pleasure out of riding with offensive Negroes than anybody
else would get.

I can realize more fully than I could years ago that the position of
the advanced element of the colored race is often very trying. They
are the ones among the blacks who carry the entire weight of the race
question; it worries the others very little, and I believe the only
thing which at times sustains them is that they know that they are in
the right. On the other hand, this class of colored people get a good
deal of pleasure out of life; their existence is far from being one
long groan about their condition. Out of a chaos of ignorance and
poverty they have evolved a social life of which they need not be
ashamed. In cities where the professional and well-to-do class is
large they have formed society--society as discriminating as the
actual conditions will allow it to be; I should say, perhaps, society
possessing discriminating tendencies which become rules as fast
as actual conditions allow. This statement will, I know, sound
preposterous, even ridiculous, to some persons; but as this class of
colored people is the least known of the race it is not surprising.
These social circles are connected throughout the country, and a
person in good standing in one city is readily accepted in another.
One who is on the outside will often find it a difficult matter to
get in. I know personally of one case in which money to the extent of
thirty or forty thousand dollars and a fine house, not backed up by
a good reputation, after several years of repeated effort, failed
to gain entry for the possessor. These people have their dances
and dinners and card parties, their musicals, and their literary
societies. The women attend social affairs dressed in good taste, and
the men in dress suits which they own; and the reader will make a
mistake to confound these entertainments with the "Bellman's Balls"
and "Whitewashers' Picnics" and "Lime-kiln Clubs" with which the
humorous press of the country illustrates "Cullud Sassiety."

Jacksonville, when I was there, was a small town, and the number of
educated and well-to-do colored people was small; so this society
phase of life did not equal what I have since seen in Boston,
Washington, Richmond, and Nashville; and it is upon what I have more
recently seen in these cities that I have made the observations just
above. However, there were many comfortable and pleasant homes in
Jacksonville to which I was often invited. I belonged to the literary
society--at which we generally discussed the race question--and
attended all of the church festivals and other charitable
entertainments. In this way I passed three years which were not at all
the least enjoyable of my life. In fact, my joy took such an exuberant
turn that I fell in love with a young school teacher and began to have
dreams of matrimonial bliss; but another turn in the course of my life
brought these dreams to an end.

I do not wish to mislead my readers into thinking that I led a life
in Jacksonville which would make copy for the hero of a Sunday-school
library book. I was a hail fellow well met with all of the workmen
at the factory, most of whom knew little and cared less about social
distinctions. From their example I learned to be careless about money,
and for that reason I constantly postponed and finally abandoned
returning to Atlanta University. It seemed impossible for me to save
as much as two hundred dollars. Several of the men at the factory were
my intimate friends, and I frequently joined them in their pleasures.
During the summer months we went almost every Monday on an excursion
to a seaside resort called Pablo Beach. These excursions were always
crowded. There was a dancing pavilion, a great deal of drinking, and
generally a fight or two to add to the excitement. I also contracted
the cigar maker's habit of riding around in a hack on Sunday
afternoons. I sometimes went with my cigar maker friends to public
balls that were given at a large hall on one of the main streets. I
learned to take a drink occasionally and paid for quite a number that
my friends took; but strong liquors never appealed to my appetite. I
drank them only when the company I was in required it, and suffered
for it afterwards. On the whole, though I was a bit wild, I can't
remember that I ever did anything disgraceful, or, as the usual
standard for young men goes, anything to forfeit my claim to
respectability.

At one of the first public balls I attended I saw the Pullman car
porter who had so kindly assisted me in getting to Jacksonville. I
went immediately to one of my factory friends and borrowed fifteen
dollars with which to repay the loan my benefactor had made me. After
I had given him the money, and was thanking him, I noticed that he
wore what was, at least, an exact duplicate of my lamented black and
gray tie. It was somewhat worn, but distinct enough for me to trace
the same odd design which had first attracted my eye. This was enough
to arouse my strongest suspicions, but whether it was sufficient for
the law to take cognizance of I did not consider. My astonishment and
the ironical humor of the situation drove everything else out of my
mind.

These balls were attended by a great variety of people. They were
generally given by the waiters of some one of the big hotels, and were
often patronized by a number of hotel guests who came to "see the
sights." The crowd was always noisy, but good-natured; there was much
quadrille-dancing, and a strong-lunged man called figures in a voice
which did not confine itself to the limits of the hall. It is not
worth the while for me to describe in detail how these people acted;
they conducted themselves in about the same manner as I have seen
other people at similar balls conduct themselves. When one has seen
something of the world and human nature, one must conclude, after all,
that between people in like stations of life there is very little
difference the world over.

However, it was at one of these balls that I first saw the cake-walk.
There was a contest for a gold watch, to be awarded to the hotel
head-waiter receiving the greatest number of votes. There was some
dancing while the votes were being counted. Then the floor was cleared
for the cake-walk. A half-dozen guests from some of the hotels took
seats on the stage to act as judges, and twelve or fourteen couples
began to walk for a sure enough, highly decorated cake, which was in
plain evidence. The spectators crowded about the space reserved for
the contestants and watched them with interest and excitement. The
couples did not walk round in a circle, but in a square, with the men
on the inside. The fine points to be considered were the bearing of
the men, the precision with which they turned the corners, the grace
of the women, and the ease with which they swung around the pivots.
The men walked with stately and soldierly step, and the women with
considerable grace. The judges arrived at their decision by a process
of elimination. The music and the walk continued for some minutes;
then both were stopped while the judges conferred; when the walk began
again, several couples were left out. In this way the contest was
finally narrowed down to three or four couples. Then the excitement
became intense; there was much partisan cheering as one couple or
another would execute a turn in extra elegant style. When the cake
was finally awarded, the spectators were about evenly divided between
those who cheered the winners and those who muttered about the
unfairness of the judges. This was the cake-walk in its original
form, and it is what the colored performers on the theatrical stage
developed into the prancing movements now known all over the world,
and which some Parisian critics pronounced the acme of poetic motion.

There are a great many colored people who are ashamed of the
cake-walk, but I think they ought to be proud of it. It is my opinion
that the colored people of this country have done four things which
refute the oft-advanced theory that they are an absolutely inferior
race, which demonstrate that they have originality and artistic
conception, and, what is more, the power of creating that which can
influence and appeal universally. The first two of these are the Uncle
Remus stories, collected by Joel Chandler Harris, and the Jubilee
songs, to which the Fisk singers made the public and the skilled
musicians of both America and Europe listen. The other two are ragtime
music and the cake-walk. No one who has traveled can question the
world-conquering influence of ragtime, and I do not think it would be
an exaggeration to say that in Europe the United States is popularly
known better by ragtime than by anything else it has produced in a
generation. In Paris they call it American music. The newspapers have
already told how the practice of intricate cake-walk steps has taken
up the time of European royalty and nobility. These are lower forms of
art, but they give evidence of a power that will some day be applied
to the higher forms. In this measure, at least, and aside from the
number of prominent individuals the colored people of the United
States have produced, the race has been a world influence; and all of
the Indians between Alaska and Patagonia haven't done as much.

Just when I was beginning to look upon Jacksonville as my permanent
home and was beginning to plan about marrying the young school
teacher, raising a family, and working in a cigar factory the rest of
my life, for some reason, which I do not now remember, the factory at
which I worked was indefinitely shut down. Some of the men got work
in other factories in town; some decided to go to Key West and Tampa,
others made up their minds to go to New York for work. All at once a
desire like a fever seized me to see the North again and I cast my lot
with those bound for New York.





We steamed up into New York Harbor late one afternoon in spring. The
last efforts of the sun were being put forth in turning the waters of
the bay to glistening gold; the green islands on either side, in spite
of their warlike mountings, looked calm and peaceful; the buildings of
the town shone out in a reflected light which gave the city an air of
enchantment; and, truly, it is an enchanted spot. New York City is the
most fatally fascinating thing in America. She sits like a great witch
at the gate of the country, showing her alluring white face and
hiding her crooked hands and feet under the folds of her wide
garments--constantly enticing thousands from far within, and tempting
those who come from across the seas to go no farther. And all these
become the victims of her caprice. Some she at once crushes beneath
her cruel feet; others she condemns to a fate like that of galley
slaves; a few she favors and fondles, riding them high on the bubbles
of fortune; then with a sudden breath she blows the bubbles out and
laughs mockingly as she watches them fall.

Twice I had passed through it, but this was really my first visit to
New York; and as I walked about that evening, I began to feel the
dread power of the city; the crowds, the lights, the excitement, the
gaiety, and all its subtler stimulating influences began to take
effect upon me. My blood ran quicker and I felt that I was just
beginning to live. To some natures this stimulant of life in a great
city becomes a thing as binding and necessary as opium is to one
addicted to the habit. It becomes their breath of life; they cannot
exist outside of it; rather than be deprived of it they are content to
suffer hunger, want, pain, and misery; they would not exchange even a
ragged and wretched condition among the great crowd for any degree of
comfort away from it.

As soon as we landed, four of us went directly to a lodging house in
Twenty-seventh Street, just west of Sixth Avenue. The house was run
by a short, stout mulatto man, who was exceedingly talkative and
inquisitive. In fifteen minutes he not only knew the history of
the past life of each one of us, but had a clearer idea of what
we intended to do in the future than we ourselves. He sought this
information so much with an air of being very particular as to whom he
admitted into his house that we tremblingly answered every question
that he asked. When we had become located, we went out and got supper,
then walked around until about ten o'clock. At that hour we met a
couple of young fellows who lived in New York and were known to one of
the members of our party. It was suggested we go to a certain place
which was known by the proprietor's name. We turned into one of the
cross streets and mounted the stoop of a house in about the middle of
a block between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. One of the young men whom
we had met rang a bell, and a man on the inside cracked the door a
couple of inches; then opened it and let us in. We found ourselves in
the hallway of what had once been a residence. The front parlor had
been converted into a bar, and a half-dozen or so well-dressed men
were in the room. We went in and after a general introduction had
several rounds of beer. In the back parlor a crowd was sitting and
standing around the walls of the room watching an exciting and noisy
game of pool. I walked back and joined this crowd to watch the game,
and principally to get away from the drinking party. The game was
really interesting, the players being quite expert, and the excitement
was heightened by the bets which were being made on the result. At
times the antics and remarks of both players and spectators were
amusing. When, at a critical point, a player missed a shot, he was
deluged, by those financially interested in his making it, with a
flood of epithets synonymous with "chump"; While from the others
he would be jeered by such remarks as "Nigger, dat cue ain't no
hoe-handle." I noticed that among this class of colored men the word
"nigger" was freely used in about the same sense as the word "fellow,"
and sometimes as a term of almost endearment; but I soon learned that
its use was positively and absolutely prohibited to white men.

I stood watching this pool game until I was called by my friends, who
were still in the bar-room, to go upstairs. On the second floor there
were two large rooms. From the hall I looked into the one on the
front. There was a large, round table in the center, at which five
or six men were seated playing poker. The air and conduct here were
greatly in contrast to what I had just seen in the pool-room; these
men were evidently the aristocrats of the place; they were well,
perhaps a bit flashily, dressed and spoke in low modulated voices,
frequently using the word "gentlemen"; in fact, they seemed to be
practicing a sort of Chesterfieldian politeness towards each other. I
was watching these men with a great deal of interest and some degree
of admiration when I was again called by the members of our party, and
I followed them on to the back room. There was a door-keeper at this
room, and we were admitted only after inspection. When we got inside,
I saw a crowd of men of all ages and kinds grouped about an old
billiard table, regarding some of whom, in supposing them to be white,
I made no mistake. At first I did not know what these men were doing;
they were using terms that were strange to me. I could hear only a
confusion of voices exclaiming: "Shoot the two!" "Shoot the four!"
"Fate me! Fate me!" "I've got you fated!" "Twenty-five cents he don't
turn!" This was the ancient and terribly fascinating game of
dice, popularly known as "craps." I myself had played pool in
Jacksonville--it is a favorite game among cigar makers--and I had seen
others play cards; but here was something new. I edged my way in to
the table and stood between one of my new-found New York friends and a
tall, slender, black fellow, who was making side bets while the dice
were at the other end of the table. My companion explained to me the
principles of the game; and they are so simple that they hardly need
to be explained twice. The dice came around the table until they
reached the man on the other side of the tall, black fellow. He lost,
and the latter said: "Gimme the bones." He threw a dollar on the table
and said: "Shoot the dollar." His style of play was so strenuous that
he had to be allowed plenty of room. He shook the dice high above his
head, and each time he threw them on the table, he emitted a grunt
such as men give when they are putting forth physical exertion with a
rhythmic regularity. He frequently whirled completely around on his
heels, throwing the dice the entire length of the table, and talking
to them as though they were trained animals. He appealed to them in
short singsong phrases. "Come, dice," he would say. "Little Phoebe,"
"Little Joe," "'Way down yonder in the cornfield." Whether these
mystic incantations were efficacious or not I could not say, but, at
any rate, his luck was great, and he had what gamblers term "nerve."
"Shoot the dollar!" "Shoot the two!" "Shoot the four!" "Shoot the
eight!" came from his lips as quickly as the dice turned to his
advantage. My companion asked me if I had ever played. I told him no.
He said that I ought to try my luck: that everybody won at first. The
tall man at my side was waving his arms in the air, exclaiming: "Shoot
the sixteen!" "Shoot the sixteen!" "Fate me!" Whether it was my
companion's suggestion or some latent dare-devil strain in my blood
which suddenly sprang into activity I do not know; but with a thrill
of excitement which went through my whole body I threw a twenty-dollar
bill on the table and said in a trembling voice: "I fate you."

I could feel that I had gained the attention and respect of everybody
in the room, every eye was fixed on me, and the widespread question,
"Who is he?" went around. This was gratifying to a certain sense of
vanity of which I have never been able to rid myself, and I felt that
it was worth the money even if I lost. The tall man, with a whirl on
his heels and a double grunt, threw the dice; four was the number
which turned up. This is considered as a hard "point" to make. He
redoubled his contortions and his grunts and his pleadings to the
dice; but on his third or fourth throw the fateful seven turned up,
and I had won. My companion and all my friends shouted to me to follow
up my luck. The fever was on me. I seized the dice. My hands were so
hot that the bits of bone felt like pieces of ice. I shouted as loudly
as I could: "Shoot it all!" but the blood was tingling so about my
ears that I could not hear my own voice. I was soon "fated." I threw
the dice--sevens--I had won. "Shoot it all!" I cried again. There was
a pause; the stake was more than one man cared to or could cover. I
was finally "fated" by several men taking each a part of it. I then
threw the dice again. Seven. I had won. "Shoot it all!" I shouted
excitedly. After a short delay I was "fated." Again I rolled the dice.
Eleven. Again I won. My friends now surrounded me and, much against
my inclination, forced me to take down all of the money except five
dollars. I tried my luck once more, and threw some small "point" which
failed to make, and the dice passed on to the next man.

In less than three minutes I had won more than two hundred dollars, a
sum which afterwards cost me dearly. I was the hero of the moment and
was soon surrounded by a group of men who expressed admiration for my
"nerve" and predicted for me a brilliant future as a gambler. Although
at the time I had no thought of becoming a gambler, I felt proud of my
success. I felt a bit ashamed, too, that I had allowed my friends to
persuade me to take down my money so soon. Another set of men also got
around me and begged me for twenty-five or fifty cents to put them
back into the game. I gave each of them something. I saw that several
of them had on linen dusters, and as I looked about, I noticed that
there were perhaps a dozen men in the room similarly clad. I asked the
fellow who had been my prompter at the dice table why they dressed
in such a manner. He told me that men who had lost all the money and
jewelry they possessed, frequently, in an effort to recoup their
losses, would gamble away all their outer clothing and even their
shoes; and that the proprietor kept on hand a supply of linen dusters
for all who were so unfortunate. My informant went on to say that
sometimes a fellow would become almost completely dressed and then,
by a turn of the dice, would be thrown back into a state of
semi-nakedness. Some of them were virtually prisoners and unable
to get into the streets for days at a time. They ate at the lunch
counter, where their credit was good so long as they were fair
gamblers and did not attempt to jump their debts, and they slept
around in chairs. They importuned friends and winners to put them back
in the game, and kept at it until fortune again smiled on them. I
laughed heartily at this, not thinking the day was coming which would
find me in the same ludicrous predicament.

On passing downstairs I was told that the third and top floor of the
house was occupied by the proprietor. When we passed through the bar,
I treated everybody in the room--and that was no small number, for
eight or ten had followed us down. Then our party went out. It was now
about half past twelve, but my nerves were at such a tension that I
could not endure the mere thought of going to bed. I asked if there
was no other place to which we could go; our guides said yes, and
suggested that we go to the "Club." We went to Sixth Avenue, walked
two blocks, and turned to the west into another street. We stopped in
front of a house with three stories and a basement. In the basement
was a Chinese chop-suey restaurant. There was a red lantern at the
iron gate to the area way, inside of which the Chinaman's name was
printed. We went up the steps of the stoop, rang the bell, and were
admitted without any delay. From the outside the house bore a rather
gloomy aspect, the windows being absolutely dark, but within, it was a
veritable house of mirth. When we had passed through a small vestibule
and reached the hallway, we heard mingled sounds of music and
laughter, the clink of glasses, and the pop of bottles. We went into
the main room and I was little prepared for what I saw. The brilliancy
of the place, the display of diamond rings, scarf-pins, ear-rings, and
breast-pins, the big rolls of money that were brought into evidence
when drinks were paid for, and the air of gaiety that pervaded the
place, all completely dazzled and dazed me. I felt positively giddy,
and it was several minutes before I was able to make any clear and
definite observations.

We at length secured places at a table in a corner of the room and,
as soon as we could attract the attention of one of the busy waiters,
ordered a round of drinks. When I had somewhat collected my senses, I
realized that in a large back room into which the main room opened,
there was a young fellow singing a song, accompanied on the piano by a
short, thickset, dark man. After each verse he did some dance steps,
which brought forth great applause and a shower of small coins at his
feet. After the singer had responded to a rousing encore, the stout
man at the piano began to run his fingers up and down the keyboard.
This he did in a manner which indicated that he was master of a good
deal of technique. Then he began to play; and such playing! I stopped
talking to listen. It was music of a kind I had never heard before.
It was music that demanded physical response, patting of the feet,
drumming of the fingers, or nodding of the head in time with the beat.
The barbaric harmonies, the audacious resolutions, often consisting of
an abrupt jump from one key to another, the intricate rhythms in which
the accents fell in the most unexpected places, but in which the
beat was never lost, produced a most curious effect. And, too, the
player--the dexterity of his left hand in making rapid octave runs
and jumps was little short of marvelous; and with his right hand he
frequently swept half the keyboard with clean-cut chromatics which he
fitted in so nicely as never to fail to arouse in his listeners a sort
of pleasant surprise at the accomplishment of the feat.

This was ragtime music, then a novelty in New York, and just growing
to be a rage, which has not yet subsided. It was originated in the
questionable resorts about Memphis and St. Louis by Negro piano
players who knew no more of the theory of music than they did of the
theory of the universe, but were guided by natural musical instinct
and talent. It made its way to Chicago, where it was popular some time
before it reached New York. These players often improvised crude and,
at times, vulgar words to fit the melodies. This was the beginning of
the ragtime song. Several of these improvisations were taken down by
white men, the words slightly altered, and published under the names
of the arrangers. They sprang into immediate popularity and earned
small fortunes, of which the Negro originators got only a few dollars.
But I have learned that since that time a number of colored men, of
not only musical talent, but training, are writing out their own
melodies and words and reaping the reward of their work. I have
learned also that they have a large number of white imitators and
adulterators.

American musicians, instead of investigating ragtime, attempt to
ignore it, or dismiss it with a contemptuous word. But that has always
been the course of scholasticism in every branch of art. Whatever new
thing the people like is pooh-poohed; whatever is popular is spoken
of as not worth the while. The fact is, nothing great or enduring,
especially in music, has ever sprung full-fledged and unprecedented
from the brain of any master; the best that he gives to the world he
gathers from the hearts of the people, and runs it through the alembic
of his genius. In spite of the bans which musicians and music teachers
have placed upon it, the people still demand and enjoy ragtime. One
thing cannot be denied; it is music which possesses at least one
strong element of greatness: it appeals universally; not only the
American, but the English, the French, and even the German people find
delight in it. In fact, there is not a corner of the civilized world
in which it is not known, and this proves its originality; for if it
were an imitation, the people of Europe, anyhow, would not have
found it a novelty. Anyone who doubts that there is a peculiar
heel-tickling, smile-provoking, joy-awakening charm in ragtime needs
only to hear a skillful performer play the genuine article to be
convinced. I believe that it has its place as well as the music which
draws from us sighs and tears.

I became so interested in both the music and the player that I left
the table where I was sitting, and made my way through the hall into
the back room, where I could see as well as hear. I talked to the
piano-player between the musical numbers and found out that he was
just a natural musician, never having taken a lesson in his life. Not
only could he play almost anything he heard, but he could accompany
singers in songs he had never heard. He had, by ear alone, composed
some pieces, several of which he played over for me; each of them was
properly proportioned and balanced. I began to wonder what this man
with such a lavish natural endowment would have done had he been
trained. Perhaps he wouldn't have done anything at all; he might have
become, at best, a mediocre imitator of the great masters in what they
have already done to a finish, or one of the modern innovators who
strive after originality by seeing how cleverly they can dodge about
through the rules of harmony and at the same time avoid melody. It
is certain that he would not have been so delightful as he was in
ragtime.

I sat by, watching and listening to this man until I was dragged
away by my friends. The place was now almost deserted; only a few
stragglers hung on, and they were all the, worse for drink. My friends
were well up in this class. We passed into the street; the lamps were
pale against the sky; day was just breaking. We went home and got into
bed. I fell into a fitful sort of sleep, with ragtime music ringing
continually in my ears.




Chapters V-VI
The next morning, the narrator alights in Jacksonville, tired and achy from his train journey. He asks a kind-looking man whom he assumes to be a preacher for lodging recommendations. The preacher tells the narrator where to go and the narrator finds the the accommodations "neat and not uncomfortable". At the breakfast table, he meets his fellow boarders and learns that they are all cigar makers. The landlords are Cuban, and there are several black boarders, but they all speak Spanish, leaving the narrator unable to understand their conversations. Nevertheless, he does enjoy listening to his companions argue animatedly, gesticulating wildly. The landlords inform the narrator that the winter hotels will not open for two months and suggest that he get a job as a "stripper", someone who strips the the leaves of tobacco from their stems in the cigar factory. The narrator is energized by this new prospect because he will be able to overcome his financial troubles and is generally "eager and curious over the new experience". After speaking with his well-educated and intelligent Cuban landlord at the table for some time, he goes to bed excited for his new job. The narrator quickly becomes the fastest stripper at the factory and takes on a few young African American pupils for music lessons at night. He picks up Spanish and learns that he has a gift for languages as well as music. He is soon is selected to be a "reader" in the cigar factory, which is a coveted and respectable position in factories with Spanish-speaking employees. The reader sits on a stool in the middle of the factory and reads from the Spanish papers, works of literature, etc. Readers are always highly intelligent and are well respected by their co-workers, and the narrator is honored to take on this new role and leave the tedious job of cigar-rolling behind. Soon, the narrator is making enough money that he gives up teaching his sporadic music lessons, but he keeps his rented piano. The narrator takes this opportunity to ruminate on the race question, as he feels that his new life in Jacksonville has given him his first major initiation into "the freemasonry of the race". He observes that the black man does struggle, though passively, against the race divide in America. He believes that the "Negro question" is ever-present, and finds it puzzling how obsessed white men are with the race question. If "colored" men see the world through the lens of their race, white men seem to do so as well. He feels it a shame that white men, descended from "the great historic Americans from Washington to Lincoln... are now forced to use up energies in a conflict as lamentable as it is violent." The narrator then divides "colored" people into three categories. The first category is the "desperate class", which includes ex-convicts, drunks, and loafers. They are full of rage and hate white people, who in turn are afraid of them. While small in number, the narrator thinks these "desperates" give the race a bad reputation. The second class is made up of domestic servants, who are generally "simple, kind-hearted, and faithful"; they tend to love and respect their white employers who, in turn, become fond of them. The third class is the most complex, and is made up of well-to-do and educated African-Americans. They are almost solely concerned with the race question. White people are suspicious of them. When "colored" people are ambitious and successful, their white neighbors often think they are putting on airs. While educated "colored" people may feel some kinship with white Americans, they also feel the brunt of prejudice and discrimination, which inspires resentment. However, the narrator makes it a point to note that this class of "colored" people joyfully engages in American social gatherings, like dances and society dinners, even though they are segregated from their lighter-skinned counterparts. While there are not too many of this third, educated class of "colored" people in Jacksonville, the narrator notes, he finds the few that are there and joins a literary society. His also enjoys spending time with his co-workers and, like them, starts becoming careless with his money - indulging himself in public balls and weekend excursions. He eventually abandons the idea of going back to Atlanta University. At one of the public balls he attends, the narrator encounters the young Pullman porter who brought him down to Jacksonville. Curiously, the porter is wearing a tie very similar to the one that was stolen from the narrator's trunk in the Atlanta boarding house along with all his money. The narrator decides not to vocalize his suspicion. At another public ball, the narrator observes the "cake-walk" for the first time. Couples dance elegantly in front of judges, who eliminate the teams one by one based on their skill and performance. The last couple standing receives a "highly-decorated cake" as a prize. The narrator is bemused that some "colored" people are ashamed of the cake-walk, because he considers it an important ritual, and a major contribution to American culture. He claims that "some Parisian critics pronounce an acme of poetic motion" . Meanwhile, the narrator is happy with his life and is toying with idea of marrying a girl in Jacksonville when he learns that the cigar factory is closing down. He spontaneously decides to move to New York with a few of his ex-colleagues, who think they will able to find more work up north. Steaming into the New York Harbor, the narrator waxes poetic on the beauty, glamour, and brutality of the "fatally fascinating" city. He falls under its spell almost immediately. When the narrator and his companions arrive, they go to a lodging house on 27th street and 6th Avenue. That evening, they meet some acquaintances who take them to a house which has been converted into a bar. The party is loud and the narrator marvels at how the men call each other "nigger" in a casual way, as a substitute for "fellow". He observes a poker game and then a boisterous game of craps. He joins the craps table and immediately experiences a hot winning streak, capturing the attention of everyone in the bar. He is energized by the experience, reveling in his fellow players' envy. He is fully seduced by the rush of gambling. While observing the men around him who have not been so lucky, however, the narrator alludes to a future phase of his life in which he becomes an inveterate gambler. Leaving the party, the narrator is too excited to go to sleep, so he and his friends go to a place called "The Club". It is also a three-story home, this time with a Chop Suey restaurant in the basement. Inside, the narrator describes the clink of glasses and laughter; the place is alive and full of "brilliancy". The group orders drinks and listens to the piano player. The narrator has never heard ragtime music before, as it has just started to become popular in New York. He is transfixed by the pianist's dexterity, and the music inspires a physical response in him. He notes that ragtime music is so influential that white men often copy the improvisations, publish them, and collect small fortunes because of their popularity. The narrator includes an aside on the merits of popular music, which some cultural elites deplore but which he claims has the seeds of greatness and universal appeal. After the ragtime piano-player finishes his tune, the narrator makes a point to speak to him and is surprised that the man has had no formal training. He wonders if the man would have been a musical genius if he had been trained, but supposes that such an innovator would have difficulty excelling as an "imitator of the great masters" . By the time the narrator and his friends stumble home and go to bed, daylight is breaking.
After having survived the loss of his savings and the terrible train journey south, the narrator achieves a great deal of success at the cigar factory and further impresses the reader with his seemingly endless skills, this time at rolling cigars and learning foreign languages. He also makes the fateful decision to travel to the North -New York- and enters yet another new world filled with ragtime music, gambling, and parties. Each of the steps on his journey allows him to explore different aspects of racial identity in America, and through the narrator, the reader becomes tuned into the cultural landscape at the time. His views on race noticeably evolve. In these chapters, the narrator criticizes white people for being too consumed by the race question and defends African Americans for their major contributions to the American culture, like the cake-walk, a dance with roots in plantation slavery. However, his rumination on the three different types of "colored" people in Jacksonville is matter-of-fact to the point of being reductive. He exhibits the "white gaze" again as he dispassionately excoriates the shiftless "desperate class" and the "simple, kind-hearted, and faithful" domestic class ; his words mirror the racism, sexism, and classism that racist white Americans expressed at the turn of the century. The narrator clearly categorizes himself in third group that is made up of the wealthy, educated African Americans; a group that W.E.B. Du Bois called "the Talented Tenth". During the Harlem Renaissance, this "third group" set out to be an example for the race and to create a paradigm shift towards the social and political equality of African Americans. However, just as Johnson details in Autobiography, there were certainly tensions between this "third group" and other African Americans. One crucial aspect of understanding the context of Autobiography is figuring out which of the narrator's observations match the views of James Weldon Johnson himself. Johnson specifically chose to tell his protagonist's story in the structure of an autobiography; it fit into a long tradition of slave narratives, and was also the preferred format amongst African American writers to depict self-fashioning and demystify the "other" for white American readers. Johnson's narrator, however, does not have such a clear agenda, as he often exhibits harsh opinions when describing the American race divide, revealing the complexities of identity formation. The character's eventual decision to pass as white was potentially dangerous for Johnson when the novel was published, because African American authors were expected to create characters who would present positive portrayals of African Americans and help to facilitate the progress and integration of the race. Johnson deals with this expectation by including several authorial intrusions and expressing a variety of viewpoints outside of the narrator's. The critic Heather Russell Andrade has noted several instances in Autobiography where Johnson appears to be revealing his own views. The first example is when the narrator finds out that he is biracial and ruminates on the idea that a "colored" man must view the world exclusively through that lens. In the next paragraph, however, a different voice comes forth to champion "the powerful inscrutability of blackness", reflecting Du Bois's theory of double consciousness. The second example is when Johnson expresses his views through the narrator's millionaire patron instead of the narrator himself. The millionaire tells the narrator that race has to be "acted" out and that it is a construct; he also describes the dispossession of African Americans. The millionaire, who says little up until that point, suddenly becomes a spokesman for the race. The third example of Johnson expressing his own views is also through a supporting character - the old Union soldier on the train, who expatiates on the great contributions of other non-white races to the progress of mankind. Johnson believed that many traditional aspects of African American culture should be regarded as true American art forms, such as the Uncle Remus stories, the cake-walk, and spiritual hymns. The narrator shares these views as well, noting that these creative modes of expression "have originality and artistic conception" and African Americans have "the power of creating that which can influence and appeal universally" . An embodiment of this sentiment is the passage where the narrator discovers ragtime. He muses, "one thing cannot be denied; it is music which possesses at least one strong element of greatness: it appeals universally" .