Appearances

When we mock what we see, what if we became what we mocked?

With great hesitation, the frowsy looking blonde clunked her way to the nearby bench and sat down, passing gas as she did so. Those in observance laughed and snickered. Her vision was nearly obscured by the large unkempt blonde curls falling from her forehead. She sniffed and let out a rather disdainful sigh. Again, the onlookers snickered at her behavior. 

When the extremely dark black figure with a fantastically  huge grin upon his face slowly approached from behind her, all the spectators could do was laugh more. Someone actually did call out 'look out' but the blonde seemed to not hear them. 

It was then the black man drew so near to the white woman, she finally turned and gave a horrendous shriek, causing all around them to laugh out loud. 

The woman stomped away with the noise of a horse, the black man snatching at her wrinkled dress. That caused some watchers to groan disapprovingly. The woman raced behind the bush where the black man had actually emerged and he then followed her. She gave her horrendous scream once more. Some of the on-lookers gave shouts of unpleasantness then. 

Finally, the woman staggered back out from behind the bush, still clomping in her large shoes, but now adorned in large frilly bloomers. There were whistles, cat-calls at her predicament, and still others all but booing now, insisting someone come to her defense. 

Then the black man slowly emerged from behind the bush as well, now clutching the dress previously worn by the woman. The woman had made her way back to the bench and sat once more, now pushing her scraggly blonde hair back into place upon her head. 

Slowly the black man, still holding the dress, made his way up behind her, but now when she saw him, she swung her fist right toward him, hitting him in the face. The black turned and looked forward, his big eyes crossed, his mouth construed in an odd shape with his tongue sticking out. The woman hit him again and he sprawled across the ground. Now there were people cheering for her, with lots of applause. 

The woman made her way to the figure prone on the ground and took her dress from him once more, giving a false sense of modesty as she covered herself. 

Then she traipsed off back behind the shrubbery once more. 

The black man stood to his feet again and now bowed forward. There was applause. He bowed again. More applause. 

The woman, now back in the dress, came out from behind the bush and likewise bowed, then gave a mock curtsy with the dress, getting laughter from the audience. 

The black man looked upon her in a stern manner. 

The audience began to depart the theatre. 

There were those who now gathered around the black man. The white woman quietly made her way out a back door and slowly vanished into the dark outside. 

"Great performance tonight, Chester," someone said to the black man. "Where will you be appearing tomorrow night?"

"I'm moving on to Hayesville, then to Gibbs for two nights," the man answered as he removed his curly black hair. 

"Mr. Holmes," a woman called out, "do you feel your performance offers a bit more than the usual minstrel acts of this kind?" 

There was shushing to hear his answer, then he replied, "I like to think my depiction gives women an idea of how to react in a similar situation if there wasn't a man around to assist them." 

"And yet you portray villain. Why is that?" 

"I feel it helps me better to expand as a performer. Now if you will all excuse me, I have to get out of costume so I can catch my coach when it departs," and with that, Chester Holmes exited the door his co-star had used earlier. 

Chester entered the storage shed the traveling actors were using as their changing room. The other figure was already seated, but sat staring at the mirror. 

"You need to hurry up and change, Harry, or you'll have to get on the coach like that," Holmes stated as he sat opposite the blonde. 

Harry removed the wig and set it beside him on the table. 

"That fart you made almost upstaged me," Holmes commented. "Try not to do it again." 

"Well, I was supposed to be an unaware white woman," Harry said, picking up a cloth and holding it to his face. "I figured that best conveyed how unaware I was." 

"Don't do it again. Remember, I'm the star. People want to boo me, to see the black boy defeated." 

"I was thinking if the white woman was a bit undignified, the audience would understand, . . . . " Harry began before Chester interrupted him. 

"Harry, you're not in this act to think. You're not here to understand. You're here for nothing else but to be an unwitting prop for my cruelty. Got that?"

"Yessir, Mr. Holmes," Harry answered quietly. 

"If you don't like it, I can find another black boy to replace you, and send you back to the fields to work. Would you like that?" 

"No, sir." 

"Your people were freed, but there's still nothing else for you to do but work in the crops. This is about the best money you're going to make right here, as my patsy. Understand?"

This time, Harry nodded. 

"I said, understand?" Holmes spoke louder. 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes." Harry turned back to the mirror. 

"Then let's hear no more about it. Hurry up and get ready before the stagecoach leaves."

Holmes turned back to the mirror provided for him as well. He began mumbling under his breath, "might just as well replace you anyway. Causing all this commotion. Got better things to do than worry over him."

Holmes began brought the cloth up underneath his chin and proceeded to remove the blackface. 

Harry sat motionless, slowly reached to get a rag to likewise remove his white countenance. He looked at himself in the small mirror, face exaggeratedly white and most comical of all, big red lips. 

He thought about the money he was saving, to one day go back and get his parents to a better setting than still working on the plantation that they were doing. He was struggling between the two, wanting to do more as this performer, but being stifled by Holmes and with no way to expand. 

He simply must bide his time, as his parents and brother grow older and older with each passing year. 

"Hurry up, Harry! I mean it!" 

Harry shuffled quickly in his chair and brought his hand to his face, the rag ready to begin wiping off the crude makeup, when he closed his eyes, completely overwhelmed and one lone tear trickled down the white painted cheek to strike the similarly painted hand. He began wiping at his face with his eyes still closed, running the cloth across his mouth to remove as much of the makeup as possible. He lowered his hand to dab the rag to get the substance for removing the makeup and brought it up to his face once more. He stopped. 

Harry looked at the crudely applied white makeup on his face and noticed the application didn't appear quite the same. There was some consistency to it. He licked his lips and turned his head slightly to one side.  All about his ear was now white. He reached his hand  other hand up to touch his face and rubbed as hard as he could. There was no smear. There was no exposed color. 

He turned back to the mirror and now he noticed his hair, pulled back into a bun. Harry reached behind his head to unsecure whatever hair he now had, finding the hairclip, he pulled it out and blonde tresses bounced around his face. 

He looked at his face once more. He still saw the man he was, but now it was lost under all appearances of Caucasian. He felt the gruffness of his voice, saw knife scars still on his hand and arm. It was then he looked at that one spot where his tear had struck his hand. He examined it and wiped the tear away with a finger. Everything was white. 

And Harry became aware of the next aspect. By all perception, he was a woman. He brought a hand to his chest to feel not the biggest of breasts, but there was a sensation. He wasn't sure where to go with that. He was about to venture further when there was suddenly a monstrous scream behind him, that caused him to jump in his seat. 

"What's going on?" Holmes bellowed. "What's wrong? Someone help!" 

Harry turned to look at his fellow performer and now saw a raging, overwhelmed figure of a black man. Chester was stripped to the waist and his entire torso was as dark as the African warrior Harry heard stories about as a child.  

"What's in that cleanser? it's not working! Where did you get it?"

"I didn't get it. You did. Remember?" 

"We used it yesterday. It's the same stuff, isn't it?"

"Yes, sire, it's the same stuff we've always used."

"Well, what's wrong now? I've got to catch my coach! I can't go like this!" 

Holmes grabbed the pitcher of water and splashed it about himself. All that resulted was fantastically black skin now had a watery glow upon it. He grabbed his shirt and used it to wipe at his arms, clenching his teeth as he did so. The black arm was now dry. Nothing else. Holmes all but snarled as he pulled the shirt across his arm. 

"Why won't it come off? Why won't it come off?" he yelled at Harry. 

"I don't know," Harry answered weakly. "Mine won't come off either."

Maybe that wasn't the best thing to say as now Harry definitely had Holmes' attention. 

"What have you done?" Holmes asked angrily. "You've caused this!" 

"No, I didn't do it." Harry stood from the chair and moved away from the slowly approaching Holmes, with Holmes all the while moving closer. 

"You've caused this somehow! Well, you're going to fix it now, or so help me, you're going to need some serious help!" 

"I haven't done it. It must be the makeup," Harry said, moving further way with Holmes still getting nearer. 

And that was when Harry remembered their performance, that they gave on stage numerous times, and how Harry was instructed to do the same thing, never altering from Chester Holmes' direction. 

Harry screamed. He didn't manage a high-pitched scream, but it was loud, sufficiently so. It was indeed of sound of distress, and as was its purpose, it was heard.  Persons mulling outside the shed suddenly drew nearer. 

Harry heard their voices and now he called out for help. The door was pulled open and various individuals entered the small room to see a white woman moving away from one of the darkest black man some of them had ever seen. 

"Hey, get away from her! Get away!" came the shouts as the crowd moved in unison to overwhelm the dark figure. Holmes was pushed against the wall, his protests became unheard by the intruders. 

Harry followed suit with the depiction and held his head down to conceal his face with the blonde hair. He hiked up the skirt and made his way to the door. His rescuers proceeded to move out of his way so he could escape to freedom. 

Harry made his way outside the building and heard inquiries from within. 

"That actor fellow, Holmes, was in here. Where did he go?"

"He must have already gotten to the stagecoach. This guy must be mad because of Holmes' performance. That right, fella?"

"You fools! I am Chester Holmes! I am . . . . . " and then he was hit across the face into silence. 

Harry stood at the door and watched the hit as the crowd mulled about Holmes, and he made his destination away from the area. All he had on him was the garish gown of his costume and the ridiculous bloomers and shoes which now seemed to be too large. He had his rolled up savings, which he kept with him, no matter what, tucked into a pouch securely tied at his waist. 

The large homely white woman now made her way down the dirt path outside the evening establishments. 

"Evening, ma'm. Evening."

He was rather startled by all the friendly greetings, knowing he was a very unattractive woman, black or white. There was the post where the stagecoach would depart, so he was departing. He entered the building, bought a ticket and walked outside to wait for the coach. 

"Are you allright, dear?" a white woman asked. 

Harry nervously nodded. 

"Why don't you come here and sit down?" she said, motioning to the spot beside her. Harry slowly made his way over there and did so. He was tired. 

The coach was viewed in the distance and Harry stood to get on board. So did the white woman and a couple others. 

Harry didn't know how long this depiction of his would last. He hoped just long enough to get him somewhere closer to home, if nothing else. 

The coach departed and as it ventured out of town, Harry looked out the window to see a noisy mob had surrounded a most unfortunate black man. Harry looked at Chester Holmes in the center of the mob. 

Then Holmes spied the unmistakable appearance of Harry in the white attire. 

"Harry! Harry! Help me, Harry! Help me!" came Holmes' cries. 

But Harry knew better. He was still the same person within, and so was Chester Holmes. If Chester was such a clever man, he should be able to sort out how to get himself away from such a disapproving audience.