Helene Johnson, "Regalia" (1929)
Emptin' garbage,
Fillin' ash cans,
Fixin' drain pipes,
Washin' stairs,
Answerin' a million calls,
Answerin' a million bells,
All day, half the night—
The yassuhs, the nosuhs,
The grins, the nods, the bowin'—
It sure wasn't no picnic
Bein' a janitor in a big apartment house in Harlem.
But, say, it was better than bein' back down home
Scrapin' to the buchra. And he made good money, too,
With tips, now and then, for extra. His wife didn't have
To go out to do day's work any more, and Sammy, his only child,
Went to school and learned readin' and writin'. And he,
Big Sam, had been able to join the local lodge.
He would have rather gone without his vittles
Than not pay his lodge dues,
Than not march in the lodge parade,
Than not wear his uniform of blue and gold and orange,
And high white plumes and yellow braid and gold epaulets,
And snow-white gloves and shining black shoes and tassels,
And silk ribbons and feathers and big bright buttons and
Color, color, color.
God, how he loved it! He loved it better than food and drink,—
Better than Love itself.
Every night after work, after
The stove stokin'
The garbage slingin',
The ashcan fillin',
The stair washin',
The yassuhs and nosuhs and the grins and nods and bowin',
He'd go downstairs to his basement flat and put it on. And stand in front of his crazy old mirror and make funny
Gestures and military signs and talk to himself and click
His heels together and curse and swear like a major or a
General. And always he'd be the leader, the head, and
The others, the make-believe others, would say yassuh and nosuh,
And grin and nod and bow. Gold and yellow and blue--
God, how he loved it!
That old Rev. Giddings was a fool, telling him it was a sin
To dress up and have music and march when somebody died.
"God don't like that," he said. "God, He wants mourning
And wailing and dark clothes. He don't want all that worldly Music and color for his dead children. He don't want all that
Regalia. It hurts Him, Brother, it hurts Him. It's vanity,
That's all. You don't know, Brother, that blue and gold
You wear—the flames of Hell; that red—the blood of His
Crucified Son, those plumes and feathers—they mocked Christ
With them once. God don't like that regalia, son. God don't
Like it. I got to stay in the lodge or I'd lose my flock.
You know that, Brother. But dress in black when I die, Brother,
And beat your breast. I don't want no regalia."
But Sam couldn't understand. He loved it so, that uniform.
What had it to do with God?
Nights when the lodge went on parade. Nights when there was
A funeral and they had to march in a long, beautiful procession.
His wife was proud of him, and so was Sammy, his son,
Who wanted to be a general in the army.
If only there might be a funeral . . .
And then one night Rev. Giddings died
And Sam had a chance to wear his uniform —
His uniform of blue and gold and orange—
And high white plumes and yellow braid and gold epaulets,
And snow-white gloves and shining black shoes and tassels,
And silk ribbons and feathers and big bright buttons,
And color, color, color.
But it was different. Reverend Giddings must have conjured him.
He was scared. His plumes bent him over and the color before
Him was like Hell fire. And there was Rev. Giddings
Smiling at him. "God don't like all that regalia, Brother,
God don't like it." The blue and gold flames leaped up
And burned him. Red swarmed before him, banners,
Ribbons. He saw strips of blood, streams of blood flowing
About him—"The blood of His Crucified Son." And the music,
The drums, the bugles —The little red devils dancing before
His eyes—The flames lapping up the blood—Red, blue, gold.
God, how he hated it!
He snatched off his plumes, tore off his colors, beat his breast.
It was hard to make him out in all that flood of color.
He seemed so little and tired and bent and dark and humble.
He looked so funny, beating his breast that way.
In fact, he looked more like the little colored janitor
Who stoked stoves,
And emptied garbage,
And piled ashcans,
And scrubbed stairs
In a big apartment house in Harlem,
Than anything else.
Published in Saturday Evening Quill, 1929