IMPORTANT NEW BOOK:

Dis//Integration: 2 Novelas & 3 Stories & a Little Play
by William Melvin Kelley
Vintage, 2024

[Publication date: October 22, 2024]

 

An odyssey through time in which past and future combine and re-combine to give the arc of a full life, by the "brilliant" (The New Yorker) author of A Different Drummer.


"[A] lost giant of American literature." —The New Yorker


The linked "2 novelas, 3 stories, and a little play" that make up DIS//INTEGRATION follow the life journeys of Charles "Chig" Dunford from his Nanny Eva sermonizing from her front porch, when he is only seventeen, to his peripatetic studies in Reupeo (an anagram of Europe) as a college student, to his unsettled bachelorhood as an English professor at a small Vermont college, where he continues to struggle to finish his life-long study of the Reupeonese author Dupukshamin and find true love.


Along the way, as Chig's sentimental education unfolds, we meet an array of memorable characters: John Hoenir, the Hemingway-esque expatriate novelist who takes Chig under his wing; Wendy Whitman, an actress passing for white, who breaks Chig's heart; Merry, his troubled teen-age niece who Chig, in middle-age, agrees to look after; Raymond Winograd, the villainous department chair; Renka Bravo, the alluring dancer who might just make Chig an honest man; and one hundred Africans mysteriously chained together in the lower decks of Chig's homeward-bound transatlantic liner.

 

REVIEW:

 

"A posthumously published work by a major (if unsung) Black novelist reminds readers of his imaginative brio, verbal ingenuity, and abrasive wit. . . . All you can do is marvel at Kelley’s arresting collage-like portrait of the artist as an intellectual nomad, clinging to the core of what makes him human—and humane. There’s cleverness and craft in abundance here. Also, wisdom and even warmth." --Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



WILLIAM MELVIN KELLEY was born in New York City in 1937 and attended the Fieldston School and Harvard. The author of four novels and a short story collection, he was a writer in residence at the State University of New York at Geneseo and taught at The New School and Sarah Lawrence College. He was awarded the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award for lifetime achievement and the Dana Reed Prize for creative writing. He died in 2017.

 
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

June 1952

time I surprise people who don’t know me very well by calling myself a feminassist. They wonder how an old bachelor literary historian can espouse such radical views as equal pay for equal work, and even equal pay for comparable work, though occasionally I have trouble with the comparable part. But I more surprise them by assuring them that my feminassistism runs deeper than even money. I genuinely believe that in any way men care to define it, women bear half the responsibility for everything that humankind has destroyed or accomplished.

I didn’t always feel that way. I had a good traditional education. So naturally I started out believing in the superiority of men and never thought to look behind any of the renowned men of history to see if any female lurked there, exerting strong influence. Now I know better. Whether or not we know their names, and even though they themselves don’t always know it, women stand there behind or beside men, contributing equally to humankind’s development.


I owe credit for sowing the first seeds of my feminassistism to my paternal grandmother, Nanny Eva Dunford, whom I met for the first time at seventeen years of age in 1952. We never had any hard evidence establishing her date of birth. She maintained that missionaries had brought her from Africa in 1866 at the age of four. But we always suspected that an 1872 birth date seemed more likely. Still, she could have come from Africa. She seemed to have no European ancestry: both my father (years ago) and myself (more recently) have searched unsuccessfully for a record of her parents. And she did give us the name of the missionaries, a couple named Willson (with two l’s). I had an exchange of letters with the Willson family, but they didn’t give much help. All to say that Nanny Eva knew her Bible as well as any scholar. She knew it cold and hot, Pentateuch and Revelation. Quote a phrase from the Bible and she could cite chapter and verse. If it had multiple citations, she would know that too. “Isaiah quotin David, son,” she would say, amazing me.

Nanny Eva Dunford lived with my uncle GL and his wife Rose in a near mansion high up on a hill in New Marsails. Segregation and all! With little education but with an engaging personality, Uncle GL had already made and lost three fortunes. In 1952, he owned a bar, a record store and a taxi service. So they lived well, even though they could not sip from certain drinking fountains. Irony.

A few days after my father and I had arrived from New York, Nanny Eva and I found ourselves out on the verandah overlooking New Marsails and the Gulf beyond. She looked clean and crisp, chocolate brown and shiny skinned with kinky white hair like a cloud framing her fierce-eyed face. I felt moved to take some photos of her with my little Argoflex box camera. I excused myself and went inside to get it, then returned to the verandah.

“Now, son, Nanny don’want no pictures! Just take that box camera right back inside!”


I told her she looked extremely photogenic and begged her to let me take some pictures, thinking that I might not have too many more chances. She looked strong, but had lived at least eighty years.

“Don’want no pictures took I tell you.” She pursed her lips, squinted. “Don’need none.”

But I needed them, I insisted. Her two other grandchildren, my brother Peter and my sister Connie, had only one faded snapshot of her, taken in the 1930s. We needed something more recent.

“Might break yo camera,” she warned. “Busted every camera ever took a picture o me. Ugly like mud. No Lena Vaughn. So ’less you don’plan on takin pictures afta this . . .” She held the s, hissing.

I promised her I’d only take a few, though I wanted to take a whole roll of twelve. I asked her to sit up straight and smooth her skirt over her lap.

She shot me a fiery glance. “Makin’ me look like a glamour girl? Easy to see you don’have no respect for no women cept as glamour girls.”

I protested, asking her if I’d disrespected her since meeting her.

“Not me, you better not, but our kind, womankind. I done hear what you said last night afta supper. Didn’think Rose n me could hear, but we could hear you bold.” Nanny Eva sucked her tongue. “Bout them five Jewish men startin everythin.”

It hit me. After supper the night before, while the women cleared the table and washed the dishes, pretty-faced Aunt Rose bustling, Nanny Eva doing what she could at a slower pace, the men, Uncle GL and my father and I sitting at the dining room table, had conducted wide-ranging intrafamilial and intergenerational discussions, during the course of which the subject of the Jews came up. Uncle GL stood opposed. I doubt if he’d even met a Jew in his largely segregated life, but he blamed the Jews for the recent World War II. My father objected strenuously. He’d lived in New York City for a quarter century, coming to the conclusion that the Jews meant no harm, and occasionally helped Africamerica. Seventeen years old and snotty-nosed, I ventured an opinion expressed in the hallways of my private school, by students if not faculty, that all Western thought had evolved out of the philosophies of five Jewish men: Moses-Jesus-Marx-Freud-and-Einstein. Now Nanny Eva had taken offense.

“Five Jewish men startin everythin! Zifwomen didn’have no say in the world. What bout blessed Jesus Mama Mary? What the Catholics do widout her? Bet you never wonder why Creator God want to bring in Jesus by Mary, stead o just make him wid mud like he done Adam. Cos it done need a woman. N done forget bout sis Jochebed.”

I had followed her until the last. Lost a moment, my nervous index finger had squeezed off a shot, the first of the roll, which developed slightly blurred, her eyes wide open and eyebrows raised.

“Moses Mama. Saved the world n didn’get no credit fo it. Know why?” Some ideas take time to get through to me. Others come like lightning. Jokerbed (later I learned the correct spelling), mother of Moses, saved the world? Inwardly I scoffed as only a private school brat can scoff.

“Cos men write the story when it all said n done did. So they make it look like men save the day. Women steppin in when the goin get so bad only a woman can save it. Nobody thinkin bout writin it down when Hard Times holdin court. Everybody too busy scramblin. N women the best scramblers, eggs n otherwise. Cos women the first n best experimenters. Now put that box camera away n tell Nanny Eva what you want fo yo dinner!”

I tried to divert her, pointing out that I’d thought she wanted to tell me about Jochebed, the mother of Moses, unless perhaps Nanny Eva really had nothing worthwhile to say about this little-known woman.

Well, I shouldn’t have said that. The heat coming out of her eyes seemed to jelly the air between us. “Nothin worth sayin? Bout Moses Mama? Why son, what the most hard times you ever know?” While I thought of an answer, I took a second shot, the old lady glaring at me, really the top of my head as I bent looking into the viewfinder.

“Ever been a slave? Well, I never did actually be one, but did know plenty was as a girl n they told me all bout it. First off they buyin n sellin you like bulls and cows. Workin a place twenty years n have some roots, a good man n some chilren, then the owner dyin on you n the greedy relations come swoopin down sayin, I want the strong one n I want the cook n I will take that little cutie over there. Now who you think done have the hardest time in slavery? Why the women, son. A man, cept fo the few has some backbone, just thinkin bout keepin self alive. A woman thinkin bout keeping chilren n self alive. Double duty n please her owner too!

“Folks talk bout the driver lash, but Nanny Eva consider the pain to the soul. Livin in the tornado n keepin yo fear n heat inside. Get beat but forbid to cry. Some folks raise they chilren that way. Bad business! Least when I done wail my chilren I let them wail.” She fell silent, studying a spot on the verandah floor, her hands folded. I snapped photo no. three, an image I’ve treasured ever since.

The click broke her reverie. “Better pack that thing away.” But a droll smile disrupted her stern face. “Got me good, didn’you?”

I wound forward to no. four, saying probably condescendingly that I found her analysis of slavery illuminating. Most commentators emphasized the abstract concept of freedom and the physical pain. But they would’ve loved slavery as a soul-distorting experience in ethics class at the Shaddy Bend School.

“I done miss some o that comin over in 1866 wid the Reverend Willson, but I done catch hell in the Reconstruction. Not to say the Willsons didn’beat me regular, but like parents. Least they done say so n I believe them cos they give me Creator God, n the Bible n teach me to read.”

Her face went quiet and peaceful, her gaze tender under still black eyebrows, looking straight at me. I took photo no. four and wound forward to no. five.

“Sis Jochebed had Creator God too. Cos remember she be raise up in the tribe o Levi, tribe all the priests come from. Back befo Moses invent Hebrew n write anythin down, when the Hebrew chilren talkin they religion. Didn’have no time to read n write. Just be workin is all, makin n haulin brick fo the pyramids. Cos the Hebrew chilren be brought real low from Joseph time. Now Pharoah purely want to kill they boy babies. Even we didn’have it that bad in slavery times, when a baby boy o good stock worth much as sixty dollars. Killin boy babies be like burnin money. So you see how desperate be those times fo the Hebrew chilren. Worth not a thing!

“Now here be Jochebed wid two chilren n a new one comin. Already had a boy, Aaron, workin at the pyramids. The girl Miriam safe fo now cos she hasn’reach breedin age yet. Now Jochebed pregnant n tryin not to look it, hidin her belly under dresses n skirts. Didn’want the Egyptian baby police to stop her on the street n give her a belly check. If they find she carryin they watch her n send somebody round to see if it come out a boy n kill it.”

Her face looked grim as she leaned forward, whispering, conspiring with Jochebed and me to see the baby born and spared. I wanted to take photo no. five but didn’t want the thunder of the shutter to break her spell. “She give birth quiet like a cat, get the baby to cry, then get it to stop. Didn’want nobody to hear. She done have a midwife she could trust to keep her secret, probably old Auntie Shiphrah know her from a girl. Wouldn’betray her no matta how much they pay. Look in they faces n flat-out lie. No sir, I never hear bout no boy baby born down our lane. Anyway the Hebrew women has they babies n hide them befo we even get there.”

Photo no. five captured the look of a righteous woman lying through her teeth, back straight, lips tight, above reproach.

“Then she had to hide him fo three months. Had a little crawl space she stuff him into whenever anybody she couldn’trust come to visit. Dress him like a girl when she have to take him out. Told his sister Miriam to call him Dinah afta Jacob daughter whenever anybody spicious come snoopin.

“When he reach three months old n start to gettin rambunctious, she had one of them dreams biblical folks has when Creator God want to tell them somethin.

“She dream she walkin down to the river Nile wid a load o clo’es fo washin when she come up on two women wid they feet dangling in the water. One she done know right away as Sarah, wife o Abraham. Other one she didn’know at first. Well findin herself in the company o holy women, Jochebed fall on her knees n worship. But pretty quick they pull her up n make her sit down beside them, all three wid they feet in the water. Told her to cool her feet cos her line would do a heap o walkin. Then they tells her to build a little boat. Round this time Jochebed realize she dreamin, knowin how you know sometime, n she say to herself, That sound ridicalous! Must be dreamin. O course you dreamin, Sarah say, how else you ever get to meet me? But you still needin a little boat. Real fancy, painted colorful wid interestin designs all over it, the other holy woman say. Take a little time wid it but you hasn’got much time. Jochebed couldn’make no sense o it. Why she needin a fancy little boat?”

Nanny Eva hardly noticed me squeezing off photo no. six, giving me an exasperated fleeting smile.

“Build it to see what’ll happen, say the other holy woman, who Jochebed reco’nize as Mama Eve, wife o Adam. Got to take a chance like Noah wife, specially when Hard Times holdin court. Sometimes even when you livin in Paradise. So build the boat n make it fancy. But then what? Jochebed aksin but wakin up befo Mama Sarah even give a answer.

“So she commence to buildin a little boat, like a big covered basket, weavin it from grasses. Now the Bible say she done smear it wid slime, which could be mud or tar, to make it watertight. Then she paint it, red-yellow-blue-purple, rainbow colors, n stud it wid pretty stones, so a body could see it glitterin n twinklin a long way off.”

Her face turned thoughtful, a woman at her crafts, in the concentration of creation, deciding just where to put a stone or bit of glass; I squeezed off no. seven.

“But she still didn’know why she possess a fancy little boat n the baby police be getting mo spicious every day.

“Now Miriam big sister to Moses one o them wanderin chilren. No fence or chain keep them from wanderin. Had two such girls as that myself. Then they get marry n settle right down, never leave the house. Anyway in her wanderin, Miriam done go down to the river Nile, Main Street to Egypt in those times, to watch the fishermen mendin they nets n sellin they fish n all the other activities on the riverside. Since no fence could keep her from wanderin where her heart want to wander, she have adventure through reeds to a beautiful cove where Pharoah daughter had a little swimmin pool builded right into the riverbank n would swim butt nekid wid a gang o her women.

“Miriam done get home late that evenin. Jochebed meetin her at the door wid a strap in her hand, aksin her where she been. Pretty quick Miriam tellin her mama all bout Pharoah daughter swimmin butt nekid in the river Nile n Jochebed forget whippin on her, cos soon as she done hear bout Pharoah daughter, a whole plan come to her. Cos the thing bout rich folks you can never get to see them less you work fo them. So she thankin the holy women o her dreams cos they done look into the future n give Jochebed a glimpse too.”

Nanny Eva’s face relaxed into the contentment of a woman who feels herself at one with universal forces. She hardly noticed or cared that I took photo no. eight.

“So now Moses Mama have a plan n the next day she start to make it real. She put her baby boy in his best little outfit, combin his hair n all. Then she take him n put him into the fancy little boat the holy women done have her build, tied him into it case it tip over. Then she took Miriam n tie a long leather tether to her wrist n tie the other end to the little boat. Miriam would steer it down the river Nile n into the cove where Pharoah daughter swimmin butt nekid.

“She kiss them both n bless them n send them down the river Nile, Miriam on the shore holdin the leather tether n the baby Moses in his fancy little boat. From the riverbank, Miriam coaxin the little boat into the cove where Pharoah daughter did her swimmin butt nekid. Then Miriam loose the leather tether n hide n watch the little boat drift into Pharoah daughter cove.”

She fell silent, staring out at the Gulf. I took no. nine, and it did not disturb her. I leaned forward to see if she had fallen asleep.

“Plan went pretty well afta that. The glittery little boat done catch Pharoah daughter eye n she fetch it to her n see the baby Moses n fell right on in love. Even though she know by his little circumcize peepee that he come from the Hebrews. Must o been a cute healthy little baby boy, considerin what he to become. Dazzled her wid his big smile n bright face, Moses aft’all.

“Round this time in the general hustle n bustle made by the fancy boat n bright little boy, baby Moses get hungry n commence to cry. Miriam pop up n get him to quiet down n smile his big smile, which impress Pharoah daughter. Right then n there, she offer Miriam a job takin care o her new adopted son. Jochebed had done told Miriam what to say next. Say she know a woman who just lost her child to the baby police n she still have milk n maybe she would wet nurse this baby til he old enough to eat solid food. Pharoah daughter like the plan.”


Nanny Eva sat up straight and eager, the girl Miriam doing as her mother had instructed; I snapped no. ten.


“So home they all went, the baby Moses n sister Miriam n some palace guards to get them there, back to they very own house. At first, Jochebed pretend like she didn’want Pharoah daughter baby to suck the milk o the baby she lost to the baby police. But afta while, the palace guards talk her into it, tell her Pharoah daughter command it. So she give in. The palace guards left her wid her baby Moses, now Pharoah daughter son, n Miriam along wid a wagonload o food n new clo’es. Right back home where they start out from that mornin. Protected from the baby police!” She leaned back, laughed, and patted her thighs with her hands, which seemed carved from baker’s chocolate. I clicked no. eleven. “So if five Jewish men start everythin you got to put a Hebrew woman Jochebed in there wid them, cos she begat Moses n save him a couple times, startin wid gettin him safe n protected inside Pharoah palace. Now what man would make up a plan like that?”

From that moment on, though I did not always know or act it, I surrendered to feminassistism. Since then the concept of female historical equality has never strayed far from my consciousness, though in my personal relationships I’ve done as many stupid-ass things as any man.

I took no. twelve, the last of the roll, the next day. Nanny Eva and I found ourselves on the verandah again. She had a lot of energy that morning and I ran to get my camera. When I returned, she pointed her finger at me. “She save him another time when he kill that man. Had two such hot-blooded sons as that myself. Shoot men over somethin foolish! But they yo boys n you got to save them. So how you think Moses get away when he kill that man?” She raised her finger beside her twinkling eye; I clicked no. twelve and told her I did not know.

“Cos you didn’listen, son. Moses Mama dress him like a woman!” So from that time . . .