Can Change Black to White in Three Days.
Max went into Jimmy Johnson's restaurant and greedily read the account
while awaiting his breakfast. Yes, it must be true. To think of old
Crookman being able to do that! Only a few years ago he'd been just a
hungry medical student around Harlem. Max put down the paper and stared
vacantly out of the window. Gee, Crookman would be a millionaire in no
time. He'd even be a multi-millionaire. It looked as though science
was to succeed where the Civil War had failed. But how could it be
possible? He looked at his hands and felt at the back of his head where
the straightening lotion had failed to conquer some of the knots. He
toyed with his ham and eggs as he envisioned the possibilities of the
discovery.
Then a sudden resolution seized him. He looked at the newspaper account
again. Yes, Crookman was staying at the Phyllis Wheatley Hotel. Why not
go and see what there was to this? Why not be the first Negro to try
it out? Sure, it was taking a chance, but think of getting white in
three days! No more jim crow. No more insults. As a white man he could
go anywhere, be anything he wanted to be, do most anything he wanted
to do, be a free man at last ... and probably be able to meet the girl
from Atlanta. What a vision!
He rose hurriedly, paid for his breakfast, rushed out of the door,
almost ran into an aged white man carrying a sign advertising a Negro
fraternity dance, and strode, almost ran, to the Phyllis Wheatley
Hotel.
He tore up the steps two at a time and into the sitting room. It was
crowded with white reporters from the daily newspapers and black
reporters from the Negro weeklies. In their midst he recognized Dr.
Junius Crookman, tall, wiry, ebony black, with a studious and polished
manner. Flanking him on either side were Henry ("Hank") Johnson, the
"Numbers" banker and Charlie ("Chuck") Foster, the realtor, looking
very grave, important and possessive in the midst of all the hullabaloo.
"Yes," Dr. Crookman was telling the reporters while they eagerly took
down his statements, "during my first year at college I noticed a black
girl on the street one day who had several irregular white patches on
her face and hands. That intrigued me. I began to study up on skin
diseases and found out that the girl was evidently suffering from a
nervous disease known as vitiligo. It is a very rare disease. Both
Negroes and Caucasians occasionally have it, but it is naturally more
conspicuous on blacks than whites. It absolutely removes skin pigment
and sometimes it turns a Negro completely white but only after a period
of thirty or forty years. It occurred to me that if one could discover
some means of artificially inducing and stimulating this nervous
disease at will, one might possibly solve the American race problem.
My sociology teacher had once said that there were but three ways for
the Negro to solve his problem in America," he gestured with his long
slender fingers, "'To either get out, get white or get along.' Since he
wouldn't and couldn't get out and was getting along only indifferently,
it seemed to me that the only thing for him was to get white." For a
moment his teeth gleamed beneath his smartly waxed mustache, then he
sobered and went on:
"I began to give a great deal of study to the problem during my spare
time. Unfortunately there was very little information on the subject in
this country. I decided to go to Germany but I didn't have the money.
Just when I despaired of getting the funds to carry out my experiments
and studies abroad, Mr. Johnson and Mr. Foster," he indicated the two
men with a graceful wave of his hand, "came to my rescue. I naturally
attribute a great deal of my success to them."
"But how is it done?" asked a reporter.
"Well," smiled Crookman, "I naturally cannot divulge the secret any
more than to say that it is accomplished by electrical nutrition and
glandular control. Certain gland secretions are greatly stimulated
while others are considerably diminished. It is a powerful and
dangerous treatment but harmless when properly done."
"How about the hair and features?" asked a Negro reporter.
"They are also changed in the process," answered the biologist. "In
three days the Negro becomes to all appearances a Caucasian."
"But is the transformation transferred to the offspring?" persisted the
Negro newspaperman.
"As yet," replied Crookman, "I have discovered no way to accomplish
anything so revolutionary but I am able to transform a black infant to
a white one in twenty-four hours."
"Have you tried it on any Negroes yet?" queried a sceptical white
journalist.
"Why of course I have," said the Doctor, slightly nettled. "I would not
have made my announcement if I had not done so. Come here, Sandol," he
called, turning to a pale white youth standing on the outskirts of the
crowd, who was the most Nordic looking person in the room. "This man is
a Senegalese, a former aviator in the French Army. He is living proof
that what I claim is true."
Dr. Crookman then displayed a photograph of a very black man, somewhat
resembling Sandol but with bushy Negro hair, flat nose and full lips.
"This," he announced proudly, "is Sandol as he looked before taking my
treatment. What I have done to him I can do to any Negro. He is in good
physical and mental condition as you all can see."
The assemblage was properly awed. After taking a few more notes and a
number of photographs of Dr. Crookman, his associates and of Sandol,
the newspapermen retired. Only the dapper Max Disher remained.
"Hello, Doc!" he said, coming forward and extending his hand. "Don't
you remember me? I'm Max Disher."
"Why certainly I remember you, Max," replied the biologist rising
cordially. "Been a long time since we've seen each other but you're
looking as sharp as ever. How's things?"
The two men shook hands.
"Oh, pretty good. Say, Doc, how's chances to get you to try that thing
on me? You must be looking for volunteers."
"Yes, I am, but not just yet. I've got to get my equipment set up
first. I think now I'll be ready for business in a couple of weeks."
Henry Johnson, the beefy, sleek-jowled, mulatto "Numbers" banker,
chuckled and nudged Dr. Crookman. "Old Max ain't losin' no time, Doc.
When that niggah gits white Ah bet he'll make up fo' los' time with
these ofay girls."
Charlie Foster, small, slender, grave, amber-colored, and laconic,
finally spoke up: "Seems all right, Junius, but there'll be hell to
pay when you whiten up a lot o' these darkies and them mulatto babies
start appearing here and there. Watcha gonna do then?"
"Oh, quit singin' th' blues, Chuck," boomed Johnson. "Don't cross
bridges 'til yuh come tuh 'em. Doc'll fix that okeh. Besides, we'll
have mo' money'n Henry Ford by that time."
"There'll be no difficulties whatever," assured Crookman rather
impatiently.
"Let's hope not."
* * * * *
Next day the newspapers carried a long account of the interview with
Dr. Junius Crookman interspersed with photographs of him, his backers
and of the Senegalese who had been turned white. It was the talk of the
town and was soon the talk of the country. Long editorials were written
about the discovery, learned societies besieged the Negro biologist
with offers of lecture engagements, magazines begged him for articles,
but he turned down all offers and refused to explain his treatment.
This attitude was decried as unbecoming a scientist and it was
insinuated and even openly stated that nothing more could be expected
from a Negro.
But Crookman ignored the clamor of the public, and with the financial
help of his associates planned the great and lucrative experiment of
turning Negroes into Caucasians.
The impatient Max Disher saw him as often as possible and kept track
of developments. He yearned to be the first treated and didn't want
to be caught napping. Two objects were uppermost in his mind: To get
white and to Atlanta. The statuesque and haughty blonde was ever in
his thoughts. He was head over heels in love with her and realized
there was no hope for him to ever win her as long as he was brown. Each
day he would walk past the tall building that was to be the Crookman
Sanitarium, watching the workmen and delivery trucks; wondering how
much longer he would have to wait before entering upon the great
adventure.
At last the sanitarium was ready for business. Huge advertisements
appeared in the local Negro weeklies. Black Harlem was on its toes.
Curious throngs of Negroes and whites stood in front of the austere
six-story building gazing up at its windows.
Inside, Crookman, Johnson and Foster stood nervously about while
hustling attendants got everything in readiness. Outside they could
hear the murmur of the crowd.
"That means money, Chuck," boomed Johnson, rubbing his beefsteak hands
together.
"Yeh," replied the realtor, "but there's one more thing I wanna get
straight: How about that darky dialect? You can't change that."
"It isn't necessary, my dear Foster," explained the physician,
patiently. "There is no such thing as Negro dialect, except in
literature and drama. It is a well-known fact among informed persons
that a Negro from a given section speaks the same dialect as his white
neighbors. In the South you can't tell over the telephone whether you
are talking to a white man or a Negro. The same is true in New York
when a Northern Negro speaks into the receiver. I have noticed the same
thing in the hills of West Virginia and Tennessee. The educated Haitian
speaks the purest French and the Jamaican Negro sounds exactly like
an Englishman. There are no racial or color dialects; only sectional
dialects."
"Guess you're right," agreed Foster, grudgingly.
"I know I'm right. Moreover, even if my treatment did not change the
so-called Negro lips, even that would prove to be no obstacle."
"How come, Doc," asked Johnson.
"Well, there are plenty of Caucasians who have lips quite as thick and
noses quite as broad as any of us. As a matter of fact there has been
considerable exaggeration about the contrast between Caucasian and
Negro features. The cartoonists and minstrel men have been responsible
for it very largely. Some Negroes like the Somalis, Filanis, Egyptians,
Hausas and Abyssinians have very thin lips and nostrils. So also
have the Malagasys of Madagascar. Only in certain small sections of
Africa do the Negroes possess extremely pendulous lips and very broad
nostrils. On the other hand, many so-called Caucasians, particularly
the Latins, Jews and South Irish, and frequently the most Nordic of
peoples like the Swedes, show almost Negroid lips and noses. Black up
some white folks and they could deceive a resident of Benin. Then when
you consider that less than twenty per cent of our Negroes are without
Caucasian ancestry and that close to thirty per cent have American
Indian ancestry, it is readily seen that there cannot be the wide
difference in Caucasian and Afro-American facial characteristics that
most people imagine."
"Doc, you sho' knows yo' onions," said Johnson, admiringly. "Doan pay
no 'tenshun to that ole Doubtin' Thomas. He'd holler starvation in a
pie shop."
* * * * *
There was a commotion outside and an angry voice was heard above the
hum of low conversation. Then Max Disher burst in the door with a guard
hanging onto his coat tail.
"Let loose o' me, Boy," he quarreled. "I got an engagement here. Doc,
tell this man something, will you."
Crookman nodded to the guard to release the insurance man. "Well, I see
you're right on time, Max."
"I told you I'd be Johnny-on-the-spot, didn't I?" said Disher,
inspecting his clothes to see if they had been wrinkled.
"Well, if you're all ready, go into the receiving room there, sign the
register and get into one of those bathrobes. You're first on the list."
The three partners looked at each other and grinned as Max disappeared
into a small room at the end of the corridor. Dr. Crookman went into
his office to don his white trousers, shoes and smock; Johnson and
Foster entered the business office to supervise the clerical staff,
while white-coated figures darted back and forth through the corridors.
Outside, the murmuring of the vast throng grew more audible.
Johnson showed all of his many gold teeth in a wide grin as he glanced
out the window and saw the queue of Negroes already extending around
the corner. "Man, man, man!" he chuckled to Foster, "at fifty dollars a
th'ow this thing's gonna have th' numbah business beat all hollow."
"Hope so," said Foster, gravely.
* * * * *
Max Disher, arrayed only in a hospital bathrobe and a pair of slippers,
was escorted to the elevator by two white-coated attendants. They got
off on the sixth floor and walked to the end of the corridor. Max was
trembling with excitement and anxiety. Suppose something should go
wrong? Suppose Doc should make a mistake? He thought of the Elks'
excursion every summer to Bear Mountain, the high yellow Minnie and
her colorful apartment, the pleasant evenings at the Dahomey Casino
doing the latest dances with the brown belles of Harlem, the prancing
choruses at the Lafayette Theater, the hours he had whiled away at
Boogie's and the Honky Tonk Club, and he hesitated. Then he envisioned
his future as a white man, probably as the husband of the tall blonde
from Atlanta, and with firm resolve, he entered the door of the
mysterious chamber.
He quailed as he saw the formidable apparatus of sparkling nickel. It
resembled a cross between a dentist's chair and an electric chair.
Wires and straps, bars and levers protruded from it and a great nickel
headpiece, like the helmet of a knight, hung over it. The room had only
a skylight and no sound entered it from the outside. Around the walls
were cases of instruments and shelves of bottles filled with strangely
colored fluids. He gasped with fright and would have made for the door
but the two husky attendants held him firmly, stripped off his robe
and bound him in the chair. There was no retreat. It was either the
beginning or the end.