I Am Not Sidney Poitier: A Novel

“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.”

“Why are people so fucked up?”

Young man, let me just say this, I’m one-sixteenth black, an eighth Irish, two-fifths Choctaw, one-thirty-second Dutch, a quarter English, and a ninth German.”

“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.

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

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

“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.”

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.

The one matter that was not confusing to me, but seemed to escape all others, was the fact that the only thing that was certain to become obsolete, would necessarily become wearied and worn, was the truth.