“That’s just what it was, too,” Smitty said. “A plantation. Black people in the worst jobs. The worst housing. Police
brutality rampant. But when the so-called black committeemen came around election time, we’d all line up and vote the
straight Democratic ticket. Sell our soul for a Christmas turkey. White folks spitting in our faces, and we’d reward ’em
with the vote.”
Clumps of hair fell into my lap as I listened to the men recall Harold’s rise. He had run for mayor once before, shortly
after the elder Daley died, but the candidacy had faltered-a source of shame, the men told me, the lack of unity within
the black community, the doubts that had to be overcome. But Harold had tried again, and this time the people were
ready. They had stuck with him when the press played up the income taxes he’d failed to pay (“Like the white cats
don’t cheat on every damn thing every minute of their lives”). They had rallied behind him when white Democratic
committeemen, Vrdolyak and others, announced their support for the Republican candidate, saying that the city would
go to hell if it had a black mayor. They had turned out in record numbers on election night, ministers and gang-bangers,
young and old.
And their faith had been rewarded. Smitty said, “The night Harold won, let me tell you, people just ran the streets. It
was like the day Joe Louis knocked out Schmeling. Same feeling. People weren’t just proud of Harold. They were
proud of themselves. I stayed inside, but my wife and I, we couldn’t get to bed until three, we were so excited. When I
woke up the next morning, it seemed like the most beautiful day of my life....”
Smitty’s voice had fallen to a whisper, and everyone in the room began to smile. From a distance, reading the
newspapers back in New York, I had shared in their pride, the same sort of pride that made me root for any pro football
team that fielded a black quarterback. But something was different about what I was now hearing; there was a fervor in
Smitty’s voice that seemed to go beyond politics. “Had to be here to understand,” he had said. He’d meant here in
Chicago; but he could also have meant here in my shoes, an older black man who still burns from a lifetime of insults,
of foiled ambitions, of ambitions abandoned before they’ve been tried. I asked myself if I could truly understand that. I
assumed, took for granted, that I could. Seeing me, these men had made the same assumption. Would they feel the
same way if they knew more about me? I wondered. I tried to imagine what would happen if Gramps walked into the
barbershop at that moment, how the talk would stop, how the spell would be broken; the different assumptions at work.
Smitty handed me the mirror to check his handiwork, then pulled off my smock and brushed off the back of my shirt.
“Thanks for the history lesson,” I said, standing up.
“Hey, that part’s free. Haircut’s ten dollars. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Barack.”
“Barack, huh. You a Muslim?”
“Grandfather was.”
He took the money and shook my hand. “Well, Barack, you should come back a little sooner next time. Your hair was
looking awful raggedy when you walked in.”
Late that afternoon, Marty picked me up in front of my new address and we headed south on the Skyway. After
several miles, we took an exit leading into the southeast side, past rows of small houses made of gray clapboard or
brick, until we arrived at a massive old factory that stretched out over several blocks.