The Problem with Autobiographies………(a rant on historiography) by Push Nevahda

As writers, we are sometimes required to do research for our books. Whether it is for purposes of character, plot development, or to write about a particular place that one has never actually visited, or – as with my case – conducting research on a Detroit community that does not exist anymore. Whatever the case, we rely on research to help us construct an idea of how an individual may have lived, or how a small town emerged out of the clank and boom of a burgeoning industrial movement. But sometimes our research endeavors can leave us weary, exhausted, and mystified.

For example, with Evidence of things Not Seen, James Baldwin spent a considerable amount of time in Atlanta conducting extensive research which included innumerable interviews with various people connected to the Atlanta child murders, sifting through documents, photos, taking copious notes. Likewise, Truman Capote’s critical investigative researching of a small town murder in Kansas led to the critically acclaimed magnum opus, In Cold Blood. Yet, both authors would later lament over the difficult process of securing reliable source material necessary to complete their work and present an honest and factual documentation of that particular historical moment or event. This is not to even remotely suggest that I have endured the kind of intellectual turbulence experienced by Baldwin or Capote, yet, with the writing and researching of my current book project – Detroit’s Black Bottom Community – I have learned how difficult the collection and interrogation of critical documents can become when one is left to analyze that which suspiciously amounts to little more than historical sophistry.

While searching for any piece of biographical material related to Black Bottom, I was happy to come across Toast of The Town: The Life and Times of Sunnie Wilson. However, after reading the book I felt that much of his story was fabricated and embellished, leaving me to figure out how I could situate his narrative in the larger context of my collected Black Bottom research.

Wilson lived in Black Bottom during the 1930s and the 1940s, became a businessman and entrepreneur who owned many successful businesses and certainly enjoyed the economic prosperity Black Bottom offered. Wilson’s story of a young industrious teenager who comes to Detroit in 1927 looking for a way to finance his college tuition is reminiscent of many young black males drawn to Henry Ford’s five-dollar-a-day offer. But the deeper I delved into the life and times of Wilson I quickly realized that his story is mostly grandiose, narcissistic and more fairytale than factual.

For instance, although we have no way of disproving Wilson’s allegation that he prophesied the infamous 1943 Detroit riot, it is unlikely that he was “one of the only black men who worked with the police to quell the riotous community.” (Dominic Capeci and Martha Wilkerson’s researched study, Layered Violence: The Detroit Rioters of 1943 never mentions Wilson.) He also states that he was one of few people who voiced opposition of police brutality during the race riots while, having no previous legal experience or credentials, he claims to have defended himself in a courtroom style that rivals the legal genius of Clarence Darrow’s brilliant Ossian Sweet defense. Nor should we believe believe that he “helped coordinate [President Harry Truman's famous 1948 visit to Detroit] from a car phone in my convertible Pontiac.” Where is the evidence to support these wild claims?

Furthermore, after having read Paul Robeson’s majestic autobiography, as well as other historical primary sources, I refused to believe that Wilson single-handedly rescued Paul Robeson from a violent anti-communist protest – essentially upstaging the courageous work of Erma Henderson. Wilson even wants us to believe that he was the nuts and bolts of black economic progress in Black Bottom and Paradise Valley, yet, he makes no mention of the ubiquitous Housewives League of Detroit or the dynamic Booker T. Washington Trade Association, nor does he discuss other key influential leaders that rallied for black economic independence.

On the other hand, Wilson’s book provides somewhat of a birdseye view into the complex hierarchy of skin color within the black community. From the moment that Wilson begins his story, he is pathologically color-conscious and hell-bent on puerile distinctions and classifications of black folk, black status, black behavior, and black beauty – in terms of skin tone. Interestingly, most of the “light-skinned” people in Wilson’s book are often characterized as “pretty”, “beautiful”, “good-looking”, “handsome”, and/or mentioned in some other favorable way, such as being “high-class,” “high-society,” “well-educated,” “aristocratic-looking,” “fine-looking,” “professional,” “attractive,” while the “dark-skinned” folk mostly have negative qualities associative with thieves, rioters, prostitutes, etc. For example, Wilson’s sister, “Irene, had pretty light skin,” while, “my grandfather, Dr. Butler had jet-black skin…he was a mean man.” Wilson’s childhood nemesis, Willie White, “was very black…and every time we met, we got into a fight.”

In addition, Wilson always seems to recall favorable memories of his “light-complected” acquaintances. The “high-yellow” chorus girls are constantly referred to as “pretty,” while the darker skinned women Wilson condescendingly mentions with disguised pity and disgust. The following passage bears this out:

“The night of the performance at the Harlem Cave, Ella Lee became very nervous. I had everything set for the show. We were all well rehearsed. As emcee I stood in front of the crowd and announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I want to introduce one of the finest stars in the country, just from New York City, Ella ‘Black Beauty’ Lee. She is so pretty, folks, I named her Black Beauty.’ The band started and I announced her entrance, but the stage remained empty. I tried once more, but she did not appear. I told the band to keep playing while I went backstage. Back in the dressing room I found her crying. She was very upset with me. ‘Don’t you call me black, goddamn you!’ she yelled. ‘I’m no Black Ella.’”

At first reading, I could not understand Wilson’s point for including this scenario in the book. When Wilson introduces Ella Lee as “Black Beauty…. She is so pretty, folks,” it seems as though he is insinuating that, although Ella Lee was dark-complexioned, she is still beautiful, possibly because Wilson had “worked with her” and fixed her up to make her presentable (in the same manner that a circus-owner would dress up a monkey in pretty clothes and put the animal on public display for entertainment and amusement).

For the record, we must certainly consider Wilson’s book in the larger context of Black Bottom historiography because “he was there!” (as one historian friend argued). But as to whether it is a trustworthy and factual account, I wouldn’t count on it. But if anyone is really interested in early Black Detroit history check out Elaine Latzman Moon’s Untold tales, unsung heroes: an oral history of Detroit’s African American community, 1918-1967, or Victoria Wolcott’s Remaking Respectability: African American in Interwar Detroit, or David M. Katzman’s Before the Ghetto, or Richard W. Thomas’s Life For Us Is What We Make It. Or my book, Detroit’s Black Bottom Community due out Fall 2009