Monday, August 31, 2020

the last book I ever read (Amiable with Big Teeth by Claude McKay, excerpt one)

from Amiable with Big Teeth by Claude McKay:

Lij Alamaya resided in a downtown hotel. But he was a special guest in Harlem, where his headquarters was established in the residence of Pablo Peixota, chairman of the Hands to Ethiopia, in 138th Street. He was treated as a royal guest. The entire first floor of the Peixota residence was placed at the envoy’s disposal and served the purpose of reception room and office. The arms of Ethiopia, with the symbol of the lion carrying a cross, was affixed to the street door of the house, a green canopy extended from the entrance to the curb and under its full length was unrolled a red carpet. Peixota insisted upon according his guest all the respect and dignity of an imperial envoy. He wanted the envoy’s visit and contemplated tour to pass off without drawing the ridicule of the powerful white world. And for that reason he had at first regretted the irruption of Professor Koazhy and his fantastic exhibition, even though his resentment was softened by the extra avalanche of dollars.

Lij Alamaya had arrived prepared for simplicity and the democratic way of doing things. He had experienced enough of the routine of ceremony abroad, and here in America, he felt, there was a chance of escape; he would be taking a holiday away from it. And he had thought that of all Americans, the Aframericans would be less interested in the formalities of titles and courts. Evidently he was not conversant with the pomp and splendor of titles and uniforms that glittered in Harlem in the heyday of the Pan-African movement.

Sunday, August 30, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt fourteen)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

And now the same guy, named Junto, was sitting outside on a sofa, just a few feet away from this door, and she thought, I would like to kill him. Not just because he happens to be named Junto, but because I can’t even think straight about him or anybody else any more. It is as though he were a piece of that dirty street itself, tangible, close at hand, within reach.

She could still hear that floating, drifting tune. It was inside her head and she couldn’t get it out. Boots was staring at her, waiting for her to say something, waiting for her answer. He and Junto thought they knew what she would say. If she hummed that fragment of melody aloud, she would get rid of it. It was the only way to make it disappear; otherwise it would keep going around and around in her head. And she thought, I must be losing my mind, wanting to hum a tune and at the same time thinking about killing that man who is sitting, waiting, outside.

Saturday, August 29, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt thirteen)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

She had been wrong. There were some white mothers, too—three foreign-looking women near the door; a gray-haired woman just two seats ahead, her hair hanging in a lank curtain about the sides of her face; a tall, bony woman up near the front who kept clutching at the arms of her fur coat, a coat shiny from wear; and over on the side a young, too thin blond girl holding a small baby in her arms.

They were sitting in the same shrinking, huddled positions. Perhaps, she thought, we’re all here because we’re all poor. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with color.

Friday, August 28, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt twelve)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

On Saturdays and Sundays she dreamed of the day when she would be transferred to a school where the children were blond, blue-eyed little girls who arrived on time in the morning filled with orange juice, cereal and cream, properly cooked eggs, and tall glasses of milk. They would sit perfectly still until school was out; they would wear starched pink dresses and smell faintly of lavender soap; and they would look at her with adoration.

These children were impudent. They were ill-clad, dirty. They wriggled about like worms, moving their arms and legs in endless, intricate patterns, and they frightened her. Their parents and Harlem itself frightened her.

Thursday, August 27, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt eleven)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

She boarded a Sixth Avenue train at Forty-Second Street. It was crowded with passengers. She closed her eyes to shut them out, gripping the overhead strap tightly. She welcomed the roar of the train as it sped toward Fifty-Ninth Street, welcomed its lurching, swaying motion. She wished that it would go faster, make more noise, rock more wildly, because the tumultuous anger in her could only be quelled by violence.

She sought release from the urgency of her rage by deliberately picturing the train plunging suddenly off the track in a fury of sound—the metal coaches rushing headlong on top of each other in a whole series of thunderous explosions.

Wednesday, August 26, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt ten)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

“You know a good-looking girl like you shouldn’t have to worry about money,” he said softly. She didn’t say anything and he continued, “In fact, if you and me can get together a couple nights a week in Harlem, those lessons won’t cost you a cent. No sir, not a cent.”

Yes, she thought, if you were born black and not too ugly, this is what you get, this is what you find. It was a pity he hadn’t lived back in the days of slavery, so he could have raided the slave quarters for a likely wench any hour of the day or night. This is the superior race, she said to herself, take a good long look at him: black, oily hair; slack, gross body; grease spots on his vest; wrinkled shirt collar; cigar ashes on his suit; small pig eyes engulfed in the fat of his face.

Tuesday, August 25, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt nine)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

Jones, the super, closed the door of his apartment behind him. He was clenching and unclenching his fists in a slow, pulsating movement that corresponded with the ebb and flow of the rage that was sweeping through him.

At first it was rage toward Mrs. Hedges and her barging into the hall, shoving her hard hands against his chest, ordering him about, threatening him. If she hadn’t been so enormous and so venomous, he would have knocked her down.

Monday, August 24, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt eight)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

After Min hung the cross over the bed, Jones took to sleeping in the living room. He could no longer see the cross, but he knew it was there and it made him restless, uneasy.

Finally it seemed to him that he met it at every turn. Wherever he looked, he saw a suggestion of its outline. His eyes added a horizontal line to the long cord that hung from the ceiling light and instantly the cross was dangling in front of him. He sought and found the shape of a cross in the window panes, in chairs, in the bars on the canary’s cage. When he looked at Min, he could see its outline as sharply as though it had been superimposed on her shapeless, flabby body.

He drew an imaginary line from her head to her feet and added another crosswise line, and thus, whenever he glanced in her direction, he saw the cross again. When she spoke to him, he no longer looked at her for fear he would see, not her, but the great golden cross she had hung over the bed.

Sunday, August 23, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt seven)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

The next day’s papers said that a “burly Negro” had failed in his effort to hold up a bakery shop, for the proprietor had surprised him by resisting and stabbed him with a bread knife. She held the paper in her hand for a long time, trying to follow the reasoning by which that thin ragged boy had become in the eyes of a reporter a “burly Negro.” And she decided that it all depended on where you sat how these things looked. If you looked at them from inside the framework of a fat weekly salary, and you thought of colored people as naturally criminal, then you didn’t really see what any Negro looked like. You couldn’t, because the Negro was never an individual. He was a threat, or an animal, or a curse, or a blight, or a joke.

Saturday, August 22, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt six)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

Because in that one moment of passing a white man in a car they could feel good and the good feeling would last long enough so that they could hold their heads up the next day and the day after that. And the white people hated it because—and her mind stumbled over the thought and then went on—because possibly they, too, needed to go on feeling superior. Because if they didn’t, it upset the delicate balance of the world they moved in when they could see for themselves that a black man in a ratclap car could overtake and pass them on a hill. Because if there was nothing left for them but that business of feeling superior to black people, and that was taken away even for the split second of one car going ahead of another, it left them with nothing.

She stopped staring at the road ahead to look at Boots. He was leaning over the steering wheel, his hands cupped close on the sides of it. Yes, she thought, at this moment he has forgotten he’s black. At this moment and in the act of sending this car hurtling through the night, he is making up for a lot of the things that have happened to him to make him what he is. He is proving all kinds of things to himself.

Friday, August 21, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt five)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

Everything was fine until that young Mrs. Johnson moved in. Then Jones changed so that he stayed mean and sullen all the time. Kicking at Buddy, snarling at her, slapping her. Only last night when she leaned over to take some beans out of the oven, he kicked her just like she was the dog. She had managed to hold on to the pan of beans, not saying anything, swallowing the hurt cry that rose in her throat, because she knew what was the matter with him. He had been comparing the way she looked from behind with the way young Mrs. Johnson would look if she should stoop over.

So the false teeth would just have to wait awhile longer, because she was going to spend her teeth money in order to stay in this apartment. She closed the door behind her gently. “Bless that table,” she said aloud, and went outside to stand under Mrs. Hedges’ window.

Thursday, August 20, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt four)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

She walked on, thinking, That’s another thing. These kids should have some better way of earning money than by shining shoes. It was all wrong. It was like conditioning them beforehand for the role they were supposed to play. If they start out young like this shining shoes, they’ll take it for granted they’ve got to sweep floors and mop stairs the rest of their lives.

Just before she reached her own door, she heard the question again, “Shine, Miss?” And then a giggle. “Gosh, Mom, you didn’t even know me.”

Wednesday, August 19, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt three)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

She got off the train, thinking that she never felt really human until she reached Harlem and thus got away from the hostility in the eyes of the white women who stared at her on the downtown streets and in the subway. Escaped from the openly appraising looks of the white men whose eyes seemed to go through her clothing to her long brown legs. On the trains their eyes came at her furtively from behind newspapers, or half-concealed under hatbrims or partly shielded by their hands. And there was a warm, moist look about their eyes that made her want to run.

These other folks feel the same way, she thought—that once they are freed from the contempt in the eyes of the downtown world, they instantly become individuals. Up here they are no long creatures labeled simply “colored” and therefore all alike. She noticed that once the crowd walked the length of the platform and started up the stairs towards the street, it expanded in size. The same people who had made themselves small on the train, even on the platform, suddenly grew so large they could hardly get up the stairs to the street together. She reached the street at the very end of the crowd and stood watching them as they scattered in all directions, laughing and talking to each other.

Tuesday, August 18, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt two)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

Whenever she entered a room where they were, they stared at her with a queer, speculative look. Sometimes she caught snatches of their conversation about her. “Sure, she’s a wonderful cook. But I wouldn’t have any good-looking colored wench in my house. Not with John. You know they’re always making passes at men. Especially white men.” And then, “Now I wonder---”

After that she continued to wait on them quietly, efficiently, but she wouldn’t look at them—she looked all around them. I didn’t make her angry at first. Just contemptuous. They didn’t know she had a big handomse husband of her own; that she didn’t want any of their thin unhappy husbands. But she wondered why they all had the idea that colored girls were whores.

Monday, August 17, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Street by Ann Petry, excerpt one)

from The Street by Ann Petry:

Respectable tenants in these houses where colored people were allowed to live included anyone who could pay the rent, so some of them would be drunk and loud-mouthed and quarrelsome; given to fits of depression when they would curse and cry violently, given to fits of equally violent elation. And, she thought, because the walls would be flimsy, why, the good people, the bad people, the children, the dogs, and the godawful smells would all be wrapped up together in one big package—the package that was called respectable tenants.

Sunday, August 16, 2020

Saturday, August 15, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt thirteen)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

In the living room after dinner, high above Park Avenue with the lights of Manhattan shining below us, my hostess asked me about my plans for the future, my hopes, my ambitions, and my dreams. I told her I wanted to write a novel. She told me she would make it possible for me to write that novel. And she did by covering the expenses of my summer, so that I need do no other work during vacation.

That was the summer when I wrote a draft of Not Without Laughter. Then I went for a short vacation at Provincetown, where I saw the Wharf Players performing a version of Donald Ogden Stewart’s Parody Outline of History. I liked the wide sandy beaches of Cape Cod, but I did not like Provincetown very much, because it was hard for a Negro to find a place to sleep, and at night the mosquitoes were vicious.

Friday, August 14, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt twelve)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

The Florence Mills funeral was on a Sunday afternoon, and it was a beautiful procession, with the chorus girls from her show marching all in gray, and an airplane releasing flocks of blackbirds overhead.

The Countee Cullen wedding was another spectacle that had Harlem talking for a long time—the wedding of the leading lyric poet of the Negro Renaissance to Yolande DuBois, the daughter, and only child, of the leading old-guard Negro writer, Dr. W. E. B. DuBois. It was the social-literary event of the season, and very society. I was an usher—by virtue of being a poet. It was an Easter-time wedding, held at dusk in the church pastored by Countee Cullen’s father, one of the largest Negro churches in the world, but it didn’t begin to hold the crowd. The first floor was given over to holders of engraved invitations, and the balcony to the general public, and both were packed to capacity.

The bride had been teaching in Baltimore, and her bridesmaids all came from Maryland in a special car, looking very charning and pretty. We held a rehearsal of the wedding on Good Friday and it was my job to escort the bride’s mother to her seat. Unfortunately, I didn’t own a pair of tails, so I had to rent a set. In the rental shop the suit looked black, but once outside, it looked rusty green. It was one of those cheap, dull blacks that had faded with time, and the trousers were stove-piped. I felt very self-conscious in a green, rented pawnshop dress suit, so I said to myself: “I will never go into society again if I have to rent my clothes.” But, nevertheless, I enjoyed being in the wedding.

Thursday, August 13, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt eleven)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

That was really the end of the gay times of the New Negro era in Harlem, the period that had begun to reach its end when the crash came in 1929 and the white people had much less money to spend on themselves, and practically none to spend on Negroes, for the depression brought everybody down a peg or two. And the Negroes had but few pegs to fall.

But in those pre-crash days there were parties and parties. At the novelist, Jessie Fauset’s, parties there was always quite a different atmosphere from that at most other Harlem good-time gatherings. At Miss Fauset’s, a good time was shared by talking literature and reading poetry aloud and perhaps enjoying some conversation in French. White people were seldom present there unless they were very distinguished white people, because Jessie Fauset did not feel like opening her home to mere sightseers, or faddists momentarily in love with Negro life. At her house one would usually meet editors and students, writers and social workers, and serious people who liked book and the British Museum, and had perhaps been to Florence. (Italy, not Alabama.)

Wednesday, August 12, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt ten)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

White people began to come to Harlem in droves. For several years they packed the expensive Cotton Club on Lenox Avenue. But I was never there, because the Cotton Club was a Jim Crow club for gangsters and monied whites. They were not cordial to Negro patronage, unless you were a celebrity like Bojangles. So Harlem Negroes did not like the Cotton Club and never appreciated its Jim Crow policy in the very heart of their dark community. Nor did ordinary Negroes like the growing influx of whites toward Harlem after sundown, flooding the little cabarets and bars where formerly only colored people laughed and sang, and where now the strangers were given the best ringside tables to sit and stare at the Negro customers—like amusing animals in a zoo.

The Negroes said: “We can’t go downtown and sit and stare at you in your clubs. You won’t even let us in your clubs.” Buit they didn’t say it out loud—for Negroes are practically never rude to white people. So thousands of whites came to Harlem night after night, thinking the Negroes loved to have them there, and firmly believing that all Harlemites left their houses at sundown to sing and dance in cabarets, because most of the whites saw nothing but the cabarets, not the houses.

Tuesday, August 11, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt nine)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

The steward began to scrape the bottom of barrels and boxes. For breakfast we had musty oatmeal, full of little worms, hundreds of them, too many to pick out, so we ate them. The sailors went to mob the steward one morning, and chased him from the galley with knives. For once, the Captain sided with the men, and gave the steward an awful bawling out in front of the crew. For by that time the food shortage had reached the saloon where the Captain and the passengers ate, so the Captain was mad himself. The day we pulled into port in the Virgin Islands, all that the passengers had had for dinner the night before was canned sardines.

I felt sorry for Manuel, the Filipino boy from Mindanao, who served the passengers. He had worked hard the whole trip waiting on them, keeping their rooms spotlessly clean, preparing their baths, and even going to prayer meetings to sing hymns with the missionaries, because he was hoping they would tip him well when the boat got to New York. Manuel wanted to marry a Mexican girl in Fourteenth Street, and put a big payment down on new furniture for their flat. Now, the passengers were in an ungrateful mood, angrily pushing their plates away, and calling down the wrath of God on the owners of any steamship line that would send out a boat with such a crew and such a larger, blaming everybody from the mess boy to the Captain for it all. Sardines for dinner! Bah! They were certainly in no mood for tipping generously.

Monday, August 10, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt eight)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

At that time, 1923, the name of Marcus Garvey was known the length and breadth of the West Coast of Africa. And the Africans did not laugh at Marcus Garvey, as so many people laughed in New York. They hoped what they had heard about him was true—that he really would unify the black world, and free and exalt Africa. They did not understand the terrific complications of the Colonial Problem. They only knew the white man was there in Africa, heavy and oppressive on their backs. And they wanted him to go away.

“Our problems in America are very much like yours,” I told the Africans, “especially in the South. I am a Negro, too.”

Sunday, August 9, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt seven)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

The first day out of New York harbor, the sailors began to clean up the ship. All the filth and garbage that had accumulated in the harbor was dumped into the ocean, and the limpid blue-green of the sea received the garbage and swill, and didn’t seem to be dirtied at all. That is one of the many wonders of the sea—that the garbage and bilge water of ten thousand ships is dumped into it every day, and the sea is never dirty.

Soon our ship became bright and shining, the brass all polished, the decks chipped, and the bulkheads painted. And the crew became rested and clean, sleep all caught up after nights ashore in New York. The sun was very bright, a brisk breeze was blowing, the spray salt and cool, the waves foany-white, and the air like a tonic in the lungs. And nobody was afraid of being hungry or homeless or out of work or not needed in the scheme of things for six months as we headed toward Africa.

Saturday, August 8, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt six)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

Like the bullfights, I can never put on paper the thrill of that underground ride to Harlem. I had never been in a subway before and it fascinated me—the noise, the speed, the green lights ahead. At every station I kept watching for the sign: 135TH STREET. When I saw it, I held my breath. I came out onto the platform with two heavy bags and looked around. It was still early morning and people were going to work. Hundreds of colored people! I wanted to shake hands with them, speak to them. I hadn’t seen any colored people for so long—that is, any Negro colored people.

I went up the steps and out into the bright September sunlight. Harlem! I stood there, dropped my bags, took a deep breath and felt happy again. I registered at the Y.

Friday, August 7, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt five)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

My mother let me go to the station alone, and I felt pretty bad when I got on the train. I felt bad for the next three or four years, to tell the truth, and those were the years when I wrote most of my poetry. (For my best poems were all written when I felt the worst. When I was happy, I didn’t write anything.)

Thursday, August 6, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt four)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

That November the First World War ended. In Cleveland, everybody poured into the streets to celebrate the Armistice. Negroes, too, although Negroes were increasingly beginning to wonder where, for them, was that democracy they had fought to preserve. In Cleveland, a liberal city, the color line began to be drawn tighter and tighter. Theaters and restaurants in the downtown area began to refuse to accommodate colored people. Landlords doubled and tripled the rents at the approach of a dark tenant. And when the white soldiers came back from the war, Negroes were often discharged from their jobs and white men hired in their places.

Wednesday, August 5, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt three)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

I was reading Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, and Edna Ferber and Dreiser, and de Maupassant in French. I never will forget the thrill of first understanding the French of de Maupassant. The soft snow was falling through one of his stories in the little book we used in school, and that I had worked over so long, before I really felt the snow falling there. Then all of a sudden one night the beauty and the meaning of the words in which he made the snow fall, came to me. I think it was de Maupassant who made me really want to be a writer and write stories about Negroes, so true that people in far-away lands would read them—even after I was dead.

But I did not dare write stories yet, although poems came to me now spontaneously, from somewhere inside. But there were no stories in my mind. I put the poems down quickly on anything I had at hand when they came into my head, and later I copied them in a notebook. But I began to be afraid to show my poems to anybody, because they had become very serious and very much a part of me. And I was afraid other people might not like them or understand them.

Tuesday, August 4, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt two)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

I was the Class Poet. It happened like this. They had elected all the class officers, but there was no one in our class who looked like a poet, or had ever written a poem. There were two Negro children in the class, myself and a girl. In America most white people think, of course, that all Negroes can sing and dance, and have a sense of rhythm. So my classmates, knowing that a poem had to have rhythm, elected me unanimously—thinking, no doubt, that I had some, being a Negro.

The day I was elected, I went home and wondered what I should write. Since we had eight teachers in our school, I thought there should be one verse for each teacher, with an especially good one for my favorite teacher, Miss Ethel Welsh. And since the teachers were to have eight verses, I felt the class should have eight, too. So my first poem was about the longest poem I ever wrote—sixteen verses, which were later cut down. In the first half of the poem, I said that our school had the finest teacher there ever were. And in the latter half, I said our class was the greatest class ever graduated. So at graduation, when I read the poem, naturally everybody applauded loudly.

That was the way I began to write poetry.

Monday, August 3, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes, excerpt one)

from The Big Sea: An Autobiography by Langston Hughes:

I am brown. My father was a darker brown. My mother an olive-yellow. On my father’s side, the white blood in his family came from a Jewish slave trader in Kentucky, Silas Cushenberry, of Clark County, who was his mother’s father; and Sam Clay, a distiller of Scotch descent, living in Henry County, who was his father’s father. So on my father’s side both male great-grandparents were white, and Sam Clay was said to be a relative of the great statesman, Henry Clay, his contemporary.

On my mother’s side, I had a paternal great-grandfather named Quarles—Captain Ralph Quarles—who was white and who lived in Louisa County, Virginia, before the Civil War, and who had several colored children by a colored housekeeper, who was his slave. The Quarles traced their ancestry back to Francis Quarles, famous Jacobean poet, who wrote A Feast for Worms.

Saturday, August 1, 2020

the last book I ever read (The Lynching: The Epic Courtroom Battle That Brought Down the Klan, excerpt eleven)

from The Lynching: The Epic Courtroom Battle That Brought Down the Klan by Laurence Leamer:

The UKA was full of know-nothing, low-life types who cared little about the philosophy that Shelton espoused. He didn’t like spending much time with them, for they compromised his vision. Now that he had no more contact with Wallace, he needed new excitements, new possibilities for action, and sophisticated new contacts. In 1972 an informant told the FBI that Shelton had met with Dr. Sallah El Dareer, an Arab-American leader in Birmingham, who wanted Shelton to help establish a camp to train anti-Israel insurgents. El Dareer told the informant “due to a lack of funds and his inability to satisfy the KKK’s material demands, he had not been able to start the training camp.”

Another informant told the FBI that Shelton confided to an associate that he planned to turn the UKA into an “out-in-the-open paramilitary organization and would, if necessary, be patterned after the German Gestapo.” He met with a group of Arab-American activists and told them that American Jews needed to have “fear put in them by the killing of a few Jewish leaders.” The Klan leader agreed to show an anti-Israel film at a Klan meeting and “distribute any available Arab literature.”