Free Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone by James Baldwin Page A

him.
    We were in our own block, approaching our stoop. “Well. We certainly have a good excuse for being late,” he said. He grinned. Then he said, “Leo, I’ll tell you something. I’m glad this happened. It had to happen one day and I’m glad it happened now. I’m glad it happened while I was with you—of course, I’m glad you were with
me,
too, dig, because if it hadn’t been for you, they’d have pulled my ass in and given me a licking just as sure as shit—”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œBecause I’m black,” Caleb said. “That’s what for. Because I’m black and they
paid
to beat on black asses. But, with a kid your size, they just
might
get into trouble. So they let us go.
They
knew you weren’t nothing but a kid. They knew it. But they didn’t care. All black people are shit to them. You remember that. You black like me and they going to hate you as long as you live just because you’re black. There’s something wrong with them. They got some kind of disease. I hope to God it kills them soon.” We started up the steps to our house. “But it’s liable to kill us before it kills them.”
    I said nothing. I said nothing because what he said was true, and I knew it. It seemed, now, that I had always known it, though I had never been able to say it. But I did not understand it. I was filled with an awful wonder, it hurt my chest and paralyzed my tongue.
Because you’re black.
I tried to think, but I couldn’t. I only saw the policemen, those murderous eyes again, those hands, with a touch like the touch of vermin. Were they people?
    â€œCaleb,” I asked, “are white people people?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about, Leo?”
    â€œI mean—are white people—
people?
People like us?”
    He looked down at me. His face was very strange and sad. It was a face I had never seen before. We climbed a few more stairs, very slowly. Then, “All I can tell you, Leo, is—well,
they
don’t think they are.”
    I thought of Mr. Rabinowitz and Mr. Shapiro. Then I thought of my schoolteacher, a lady named Mrs. Nelson. I liked her very much. I thought she was very pretty. She had long, yellow hair, like someone I had seen in the movies, and a nice laugh, and we all liked her, all the kids I knew. The kids who were not in her class wished they were. I liked to write compositions for her because sheseemed really interested and always asked questions. But she was white. Would she hate me all my life because I was black? It didn’t seem possible. She didn’t hate me now; I was pretty sure of that. And yet, what Caleb had said was true.
    â€œCaleb,” I asked, “are all white people the same?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, the same?”
    â€œI mean—you know—are they all the
same?
”
    And Caleb said, “I never met a good one.”
    I asked, “Not even when you were little? in school?”
    Caleb said, “Maybe. I don’t remember.” He smiled at me. “I never met a good one, Leo. But that’s not saying that
you
won’t. Don’t look so frightened.”
    We were in front of our door. Caleb raised his hand to knock. I held his hand.
    â€œCaleb,” I whispered, “what about Mama?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, what about Mama?”
    â€œWell, Mama”—I stared at him; he watched me very gravely. “Mama—Mama’s almost white—”
    â€œAlmost don’t get it,” Caleb said.
    I stared at him.
    â€œOur mama is
almost
white,” Caleb said, “but that don’t make her white. You got to be
all
white to be white.” He laughed; inside, we heard our father cough. “Poor Leo. Don’t feel bad. I know you don’t understand it now. I’ll try to explain it to you, little by little.” He paused. “But our mama is a colored woman. You can tell she’s a colored