A few of the white men around Harlem, younger ones whom we called "hippies," acted more Negro than Negroes. This particular one talked more "hip" talk than we did. He would have fought anyone who suggested he felt any race difference. Musicians around the Braddock could hardly move without falling over him. Every time I saw him, it was "Daddy! Come on, let's get our heads tight!" Sammy couldn't stand him; he was under-foot wherever you went. He even wore a wild zoot suit, used a heavy grease in his hair to make it look like a conk, and he wore the knob-toed shoes, the long, swinging chain -- everything. And he not only wouldn't be seen with any woman but a black one, but in fact he lived with two of them in the same little apartment. I never was sure how they worked that one out, but I had my idea.
About three or four o'clock one morning, we ran into this white boy, in Creole Bill's speakeasy. He was high -- in that marijuana glow where the world relaxes. I introduced Sophia; I went away to say hello to someone else. When I returned, Sophia looked peculiar -- but she wouldn't tell me until we left. He had asked her, "Why is a white girl like you throwing yourself away with a spade?"
--Autobiography of Malcolm X
@havoc00 @H@LLOW @Luchini @Slystallion
Last edited by a moderator: