I Am Not Sidney Poitier: A Novel

Money be green, we be black, and the devil be white.

“You want to know why people are so fucked up? Son, that’s about the only question I can answer with even a small measure of authority. It’s because they’re people. People, my friend, are worse than anybody.”

Jane waved her hand in the air in a way that could have meant yes or no or my nails are perfect.

If I wasn’t digging myself deeper, I was certainly lengthening the trench.

“Don’t be a sheep, Mr. Poitier. Be anything, be a deer or a squirrel, a beaver or a gnu, but don’t be a sheep.” “Okay.” “Be a gecko or a platypus. Be a panther or a sparrow, but not a sheep. Promise me that.” “Okay.”

My stomach felt empty and icy and hot and crowded all at once.

“Read. Always read. No one can take that from you. The evil picture box [her name for the television] won’t make you smarter, but books will.

Who would want to own Peckerwood County? The reason it was what it was was because there was absolutely nothing and no one there of any value. It was a terrestrial black hole, rather white hole, a kind of giant Caucasian anus that only sucked, yet smelled like a fart.

And so I was in a bad mood when we landed at National Airport, though, as was my wont, I did not let on to Maggie. One might ask then what was the point of the bad mood, and I can only answer, the satisfaction of personal suffering.