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Chapter One
James Simpson Lee Hastings Jr. was a chunk of the nineteenth century that had been vomited into the lap of the twenty-first. Simp Hastings, as he'd been known since his days at an East Coast boarding school, had been a moderately competent Boston accountant who had put himself on the mainstream media's map by becoming the social arbiter of modern Negro society. His gossipy history of same, Chosen People, had briefly been on the New York Times bestseller list. Since then, Hastings had all but quit his day job to make the circuit, describing to innocent and unknowing white people who counts -- and who doesn't -- in black communities across the country. Apparently, they found him fascinating, because he kept a full lecture calendar: the Junior League, the Kiwanis, the alumni associations of various colleges and universities that were underrepresented in the diversity department were all avid customers.
His West Coast part of a speaking tour had landed him here in Los Angeles, at Eso Won, one of the country's biggest and best black bookstores. I'd dropped by to see, firsthand, what all the fuss was about, and perhaps to get a column out of it.
My name is Alex Powell, and I am a journalist. I write a column for the Los Angeles Standard that runs in the metro section on Thursdays and Sundays, and I'm always looking for good ideas.
This, however, might not have been one of them. Simp Hastings's book had been the cause of considerable ire in several black communities across the country. He'd been able to write it despite the fact that many of the upper-crust black folks about whom Simp had chosen to write had resolutely refused to talk to him. "If we keep quiet," one Philadelphia doyenne had sniffed, "perhaps he'll just go away."
A few had cooperated, though, and, augmented by a raft of eager wannabes, given him interviews. As a result, Chosen People spent several hundred pages chronicling the "I-gots" of a certain kind of black person, and listing the Right Clubs and Organizations to which strivers would strive to belong.
Some of the Negro Old Guard thought Simp suspect as well as traitorous. "Really," grumbled one Chicago doctor, "who is he, anyway? I've never heard of him. My children have never heard of him." A Charleston socialite from a family that had been living in that city for over one hundred and fifty years simply sighed. "The bad part is, they get it wrong and we -- myself included, I'm sorry to say -- don't speak up and correct them when they do."
Black activists who'd struggled for decades to minimize class differences among us in the interest of developing a more progressive social agenda that would benefit us all were furious. They felt that Simp was ripping the scab off old hurts covering touchy issues such as skin color, hair texture, and the keenness of one's features. They bitterly mocked his now-trademark inquiry to every new acquaintance: "Do I know your people?"
So here I was, at seven P.M. on a rainy April evening, crowded into a standing-room-only group of people who'd come to be given The Word from J.S.L. Hastings Jr., as he was listed on the book's cover.
The room seemed to be about equally divided between business-suited professionals and Afrocentrically dressed people in cowrie-tipped dreadlocks and clothes from (or inspired by) the Motherland. The room quieted as Hastings stepped to the podium.
"Good evening," he began.
His voice was high-pitched and boyish, like Mike Tyson's. But unlike Tyson's Bronx accent, Simpson's was a carefully aped Locust Valley lockjaw, a nasal, almost whiny voice, kind of like Thurston Howell III's had been on Gilligan's Island.
And unlike the onetime heavyweight champ's massive body, James Simpson Lee Hastings Jr.'s was tiny, almost elfin. His skin was a deep, unattractive yellow -- almost orange, as if he'd just recovered from a severe case of jaundice. His dark hair was crunched in poorly suppressed waves all about his head. There was less of his, chin than there should have been, proportionately speaking, and his nose stuck out of his flat-cheeked face like Pinocchio's.
Hastings did possess two saving graces, however: he had a magnificent set of teeth -- white, even, and natural -- and beautiful eyes that seemed to change color from bright green to gold to light brown, depending on the light.
At the moment, they were greenish, and fairly snapping with excitement -- and maybe just a little malice. Hastings shot his cuffs, straightened his tie, took a drink from the glass of flat mineral water that had been placed at his elbow, and smiled out at the assembled.
"Good evening," he cooed to the audience, again.
"Good evening," the audience dutifully responded.
"Wassup?" yelled some wag from the back.
When the laughter subsided, Simp Hastings continued.
"What's up, indeed? That's why we're here tonight, isn't it, to discuss what is up with the depiction of black people in this country. For too long, the only images of us have been of happy slaves, buffoons, or gangbangers. Today, when the media writes about 'real black life,' it's always welfare mothers with eight children -- Baby Daddy ladies -- gangbangers, and crack addicts."
There were murmurs of assent from some in the audience.
"Well, I'm sure those people exist -- I know they do -- but those people are not my people. My people get up and go to work every day, and they are successful at what they do. . ."
"Urn-hum." A fiftyish lady in a burgundy tweed suit nodded.
"My people live in lovely homes, with original art on the walls and inherited silver in their sideboard drawers. . ."
Two women my mother's age nudged each other as if to say "finally," while a young woman with expensively monogrammed everythings -- purse, tote bag, shoes, and earrings -- waved her hand as if she were in church, not Eso Won, and shouted, "Tell it!"
"My people have been summering with other people like them, in the same places, for decades. . ."
Chosen People. Copyright © by Karen Bates. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Chosen People by Karen Grigsby Bates
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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