McCall - Makes me wanna holler: a young Black man in America

So honest, so well-written, so powerful that it will leave you shaken and educated. The book belongs in every prison library and affluent country club. No oneblack or white, rich or poorwill come away unrewarded.

USA Today

Not since Claude Browns Manchild in the Promised Land has there been such an honest and searching look at the perils of growing up a black male in urban America a compelling depiction of the toll that racism and misguided notions of manhood have taken in the life of one black manand, by implication, many others.

San Francisco Chronicle

Soul-searing an unsettling account of the human consequences of an American tragedy.

Time

Both poignant and disturbing Makes Me Wanna Holler has the feel of a classic. There is value and depth to what [McCall] reveals. And, above all, there is a two-fisted honesty, unflinching in its recognition of the multifaceted dynamic of Americas unmitigated neurosis. Obscene, fiery, in-your-face [and] utterly believable.

St Louis Post-Dispatch

With great technical skill and insight, McCall shows the humanity of a population commonly perceived as menacing. And he offers sane, well-reasoned explanations for why that group seems to be at the center of so much urban distress. Required reading for anyone interested in American race relations.

Philadelphia Inquirer

Makes Me Wanna Holler will become a modern classic. It is Manchild in the Promised Land for a new generation.

Claude Brown

Nathan McCall grew up in Portsmouth, Virginia. He studied journalism at Norfolk State University after serving three years in prison. He reported for the Virginian Pilot-Ledger Star and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution before moving to The Washington Post in 1989.

FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, FEBRUARY 1995

Copyright 1994 by Nathan McCall

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc, New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto Originally published in hardcover by Random House, a division of Random House, Inc, New York, in 1994.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

JOBETE MUSIC CO., INC .: Excerpts from lyrics of Inner City Blues by Marvin Gaye and James Nyx and title use of one line of Inner City Blues by Marvin Gaye and James Nyx. Copyright 1971 by Jobete Music Co, Inc Reprinted and used by permission of Jobete Music Co, Inc.

JOBETE MUSIC CO , INC, AND STONE AGATE MUSIC : Excerpt from lyrics of Whats Going On by Renaldo Benson, Marvin Gaye, and Al Cleveland Copyright 1970 by Stone Agate Music and Jobete Music Co., Inc Reprinted by permission of Jobete Music Co, Inc, and Stone Agate Music

RONDOR MUSIC INTERNATIONAL : Excerpts from Weve Only Just Begun by Paul Williams and Roger Nichols Copyright 1970 by Irving Music, Inc (BMI) All rights reserved. International copyright secured Reprinted by permission of Rondor Music International

WARNER/CHAPPELL MUSIC, INC .: Excerpts from Pusher Man by Curtis Mayfield Copyright 1972 by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp All rights reserved Reprinted by permission of Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McCall, Nathan
Makes me wanna holler : a young black man in America / Nathan
McCall
p cm
eISBN: 978-0-307-78768-2
1. McCall, Nathan 2 Afro-AmericansBiography
3. JournalistsUnited StatesBiography. 4 Afro-American youth.
5. Afro-American men I Title
E185 97.M12A3 1994
305.3896073092dc20

[B] 93-30654

v3.1

I have ridden the shoulders of my mother and my father to arrive at my today.

I hold their hands as I test the strength of my legs to climb into my tomorrow.

(taken from an African rite-of-passage ceremony)

To my parents, Lenora and Bonnie Alvin

T he fellas and I were hanging out on our corner one afternoon when the strangest thing happened. A white boy, who appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years old, came pedaling a bicycle casually through the neighborhood. I dont know if he was lost or just confused, but he was definitely in the wrong place to be doing the tourist bit. Somebody spotted him and pointed him out to the rest of us. Look! Whats that motherfucka doin ridin through here?! Is he crraaaazy?!

It was automatic. We all took off after him. We caught him on Cavalier Boulevard and knocked him off the bike. He fell to the ground and it was all over. We were on him like white on rice. Ignoring the passing cars, we stomped him and kicked him. My stick partners kicked him in the head and face and watched the blood gush from his mouth. I kicked him in the stomach and nuts, where I knew it would hurt. Every time I drove my foot into his balls, I felt better; with each blow delivered, I gritted my teeth as I remembered some recent racial slight:

THIS is for all the times you followed me round in stores.

And THIS is for the times you treated me like a nigger.

And THIS is for G.P.General Principlejust cause you white.

While we kicked, he lay there, curled up in the fetal position, trying to use his hands to cover his head. We bloodied him so badly that I got a little scared and backed off. The others, seeing how badly he was messed up, moved away too. But one dude kept stomping, like hed gone berserk. He seemed crazed and consumed in the pleasure of kicking that white boys ass. When he finished, he reached down and picked up the white dudes bike, lifted it as high as he could above his head, and slammed it down on him hard. The white guy didnt even flinch. He was out cold. I feared he might be dead until I saw him breathing.

We walked away, laughing, boasting, competing for bragging rights about whod done the most damage. Man, did you see how red that crackers face turned when I busted his lip? I almost broke my hand on that ugly motherfucka!

Fucking up white boys like that made us feel good inside. I guess we must have been fourteen or fifteen by then, and it felt so good that we stumbled over each other sometimes trying to get in extra kicks and punches. When we bum-rushed white boys, it made me feel like we were beating all white people on behalf of all blacks. We called it gettin some get-back, securing revenge for all the shit theyd heaped on blacks all these years. They were still heaping hell on us, and especially on our parents. The difference was, cats in my generation werent taking it lying down.

After my older brother Dwight got his drivers license, a group of us would pile into my stepfathers car some evenings and cruise through a nearby white neighborhood, searching for people walking the streets. Wed spot some whites, get out, rush over, and, using sticks and fists, try to beat them to within an inch of their lives.

Sometimes, when I sit back and think about the crazy things the fellas and I did and remember the hate and violence that we unleashed, its hard to believe I was once part of all thatI feel so removed from it now that Ive left the streets. Yet when I consider white America and the way its treated blacks, our random rage in the old days makes perfect sense to me. Looking back, its easy to understand how it all got started.