Charles Lund Black, Jr. (1915-2001) was a constitutional law expert who taught at Columbia and Yale Universities for more than fifty years, author of more than twenty books and hundreds of articles on law, and a jazz aficionado. In 1954, he wrote the legal brief for Linda Brown, the 10-year-old student whose landmark case
"Brown v. Board of Education" (1954) - in which the Supreme Court ruled that ethnic segregation of children in public schools was unconstitutional - became a cornerstone of the civil rights movement (
via and
via).
Professor Black -- who taught his students that being a good lawyer in an era of increasing specialization required that they broaden their horizons through interests outside the law -- was something of a renaissance man himself. He published three volumes of poetry; he painted landscapes in oil; and he played the trumpet and what he called a cowboy harmonica. (via)
On 12th October 1931, aged 16, Charles Black heard Louis Armstrong play in Austin and was
"dumbstuck by the genius of the performance" (
via).
Among those who paid 75 cents to get in that night was a freshman at the University of Texas named Charlie Black. He knew nothing of Jazz. Had never even heard of Armstrong. Who was already considered at the top of the list of famous jazz musicians. Charlie just knew there were likely to be "lots of girls to dance with." Then, Armstrong began to play. (via)
Later, Black wrote about Louis Armstrong's impact on his life. Here are some excerpts of
"My World With Louis Armstrong", by
Charles L. Black, Jr.
(...) I ever met Louis, except for a couple of handshakes at the bandstand. Yet
no first meeting in my life ever had the impact on me of my first encounter
with him.
In September 1931, posters appeared in Austin advertising four dances,
October 12 through 15, to be played by one “Louis Armstrong, King of
the Trumpet, and His Orchestra,” at the old Driskill Hotel. I was entirely
ignorant of jazz, and had no idea who this King might be; hyperbole is the
small coin of billboards. But a dance at the Driskill, with lots of girls there,
was usually worth the seventy-five cents, so I went to the first one.
Memory is splotchy. I don’t remember the moment or exactly the process
of realization. But since that evening, October 12,1931, Louis Armstrong
has been a continuing presence in my life. (...)
He was the first genius I had ever seen. That may be a structurable part
of the process that led me to the Brown case. The moment of first being,
and knowing oneself to be, in the presence of genius, is a solemn moment;
it is perhaps the moment of final and indelible perception of man’s utter
transcendence of all else created. It is impossible to overstate the significance
of a sixteen-year-old Southern boy’s seeing genius, for the first time,
in a black. We literally never saw a black man, then, in any but a servant’s
capacity. There were of course black professionals in Austin, as one later
learned, but they kept to themselves, out back of town, no doubt shunning
humiliation. I liked most of the blacks I knew; I loved a few of them—
like old Buck Green, born and raised a slave, who still plays the harmonica
through my mouth, having taught me when he was seventy-five and I was
ten. Some were honored and venerated, in that paradoxical white-Southern
way—Buck Green again comes to mind. But genius—fine control over total
power, all height and depth, forever and ever? It had simply never entered
my mind, for confirming or denying in conjecture, that I would see this
for the first time in a black man. You don’t get over that. You stay young
awhile longer, with the hesitations, the incertitudes, the half-obediences to
crowd-pressure, of the young. But you don’t forget. The lies reel, and contradict
one another, and simper in silliness, and fade into shadow. But the
seen truth remains. And if this was true, what happened to the rest of it?
That October night, I was standing in the crowd with a “good old boy”
from Austin High. We listened together for a long time. Then he turned to me, shook his head as if clearing it—as I’m sure he was—of an unacceptable
though vague thought, and pronounced the judgment of the time and
place: “After all, he’s nothing but a God damn nigger!”
The good old boy did not await, perhaps fearing, reply. He walked one
way and I the other. Through many years now, I have felt that it was just
then that I started walking toward the Brown case, where I belonged. I
realized what it was that was being denied and rejected in the utterance
I have quoted, and I realized, repeatedly and with growingly solid conviction
through the next few years, that the rejection was inevitable, if the
premises of my childhood world were to be seen as right, and that, for me,
this must mean that those premises were wrong, because I could not and
would not make the rejection. Every person of decency in the South of
those days must have had some doubts about racism, and I had mine even
then—perhaps more than most others. But Louis opened my eyes wide,
and put to me a choice. Blacks, the saying went, were “all right in their
place.” What was the “place” of such a man, and of the people from which
he sprung? (...)
There have been many—well, a good
many—great artists in my time. But it just happened that the one who
said the most to me—the most of gaiety, the most of sadness, the most of
high nervous excitement, the most of religion-in-art, the most of home, the
most of that strange square-root-of-minus-one world of emotions without
name—was and is Louis. The artist who has played this role in my life was
black.
In 1957, in the early days after the Brown case, when the South was still
resisting, I wrote out and published my deepest thought on the nature of
the agony as it presented itself:
I’m going to close by telling of a dream that has formed itself
through the years as I, a Southern white by birth and training,
have pondered my relations with the many Negroes of Southern
origin that I have known, both in the North and at home.
I have noted again and again how often we laugh at the
same things, how often we pronounce the same words the same
way to the amusement of our hearers, judge character in the
same frame of reference, mist up at the same kinds of music.
I have exchanged “good evening” with a Negro stranger on a
New Haven street, and then realized (from the way he said the
words) that he and I derived this universal small-town custom
from the same culture. I have seen my father standing at the
window of his office with a Negro he had known for a long time, while they looked out on the town below and talked of
buildings that used to be here and there when they were young.
These and thousands of other such things have brought me
to see the whole caste system of the South, the whole complex
net of its senseless cruelties and cripplings, as no mere accidental
grotesquerie of history, but rather as that most hideous of
errors, that prima materia of tragedy, the failure to recognize kinship.
All men, to be sure, are kin, but Southern whites and
Negroes are bound in a special bond. In a peculiar way, they
are the same kind of people. They are happy alike, they are
poor alike. Their strife is fratricidal, born of ignorance. And the
tragedy itself has, of course, deepened the kinship; indeed, it
created it.
My dream is simply that sight will one day clear and that
each of the participants will recognize the other.
(...) But Louis has the special place of the artist of my time who uniquely
instructed me, as only high art can instruct, on all the matters I have written
of above, and who was black.
How could I have been anywhere else when the Brown case was moving
up? By the time I got there, I had left behind the feeling that I was struggling
for justice for somebody else. I was, in my own heart, in an army for
and with my own. (...)
- - - - - - -
photographs of Louis Armstrong (1901-1971) in his mirrored bathroom (1971)
via and
via
