The Man Called Brown Condor Read Online Free PDF

old alike.
    During the summers, John worked for Mr. Simpson at the ship chandlery and saved his pay to help his parents with his next year’s school expenses. Still, he wasn’t all work. There were social activities and dances where the young people got together. One girl in particular caught Johnny’s eye. Her name was Janette Sullivan. She was a pretty Creole young lady from Pass Christian. Janette played jazz piano so well she became a member of the Tuxedo Band, which performed along the coast and even in New Orleans. She and John would remain friends throughout his life. On his occasional trips home, she always brought him a chocolate cake, his favorite.
    On a wonderful day in 1924, a proud Celeste and Charles Cobb sat in the audience to watch their boy graduate from Tuskegee. They had worked hard for this day and John knew it. His mother cried happy tears. His daddy felt a little taller and limped a little less when he walked up to John, put his arm around him, and said, “Son, no man has ever been more proud of his boy than I am of you today.” His parents had every reason to be proud. What they didn’t know was that there were very few men, young or old, white or black, who knew more about the workings and intricacies of automobiles and internal combustion engines than their son.
    They all returned to Gulfport that summer of 1924. John was glad to be home. His mother’s gumbo, pies, collard greens, and ham tasted even better than he remembered. It was good to see his friends, including Janette, but the longer he stayed, the more restless he became. He would leave the house in the morning, come home for lunch, and leave again in the afternoon. Charles Cobb could see that something was troubling him; John talked less and less.
    One day Charles asked his son to sit with him out on the porch. Celeste brought out two big glasses of sweet iced tea and then returned to her kitchen. Charles took a sip of tea and opened the conversation.“You did so fine at school and now you’re sitting in the right seat. The streets are beginning to fill up with automobiles, especially those Model T Fords. There’s gonna be plenty of work for an automobile mechanic.”
    â€œThat’s right, Daddy, but not for me, not here in Mississippi.”
    Charles glanced up quickly. “Why, son, there’s more than three garages here in town.”
    â€œAnd I’ve talked to every one of ’em and to the ones in Biloxi, too. That’s what I’ve been doing all day every day: going up and down the whole coast looking for a job. They’ll give me a job sweeping, filling gas tanks, changing tires, or washing, but I’m an engine man. All the automobiles belong to white folks. When I talk to the garage owners about automotive science they smile, look at each other, and then look at me like I belong behind a mule with a plow. The last thing they want is a black man knowing more ’bout automobiles than they do. I just don’t think I’m gonna get the chance here at home to do what I know I can do.” He spoke quietly, telling the facts as he saw them, the truth as he understood it. “I could work full time for Mr. Simpson, but that’s not what I went to school for.”
    â€œSon,” Charles replied, “me and you are colored, can’t change that, but there are some good white folks here that will give you a chance if you’ll just give ’em a little time to recognize what you know, what you can do. I don’t exactly sweep floors over at the railroad shop. You know that. And your Momma and I haven’t done too bad. We own this house, don’t owe but a little on it. We educated you and your sister.”
    John’s sister was now a well-regarded teacher.
    â€œI know, Daddy. I’m grateful to you, and more proud of you and Momma than you can ever know. But I want my own business one day, and I can’t do it down here. How many blacks