Summary: From the war-torn rice fields of Vietnam to the riot-filled streets of Birmingham, Alabama, Bombingham is the affecting story of a middle-class black family riven by its personal chaos. When Walter Burke is faced with writing a letter to the parents of a fallen friend and fellow soldier, he is taken back to his childhood amidst the Civil Rights Movement. From it, he recalls the segregated city, the fledgling movement, and the momentous responsibility to act. Walt
er reflects on how he and his family were challenged by the swelling resistance to the horrific realities of segregation in a city where little girls could be bombed in church and their fathers jailed for just looking at a white person in the wrong way. The parents' sense of security is increasingly threatened, while the children are forced to make moral decisions that portend grave consequences. As Walter struggles to make sense of his presence in Vietnam, he wonders if the victory of the movement meant nothing more than being sent into a battlefield of another kind. Joining two pivotal periods in the American experience, this beautifully written novel from the winner of the 1996 Lillian Smith Award for Fiction makes an important contribution to our understanding of the period. With wry humor and haunting description, it is a portrait of the wonder and the terror of childhood in a time when ordinary citizens risked their lives to change America. By turns both reflective and dramatic, Grooms chronicles the events of the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War through the heightened perspective of a narrator who struggles to find the meaning of his role in both events. Bombingham is a moving testament to the power of responsibility and faith in the face of tragedy.
Summary: From the war-torn rice fields of Vietnam to the riot-filled streets of Birmingham, Alabama, Bombingham is the affecting story of a middle-class black family riven by its personal chaos. When Walter Burke is faced with writing a letter to the parents of a fallen friend and fellow soldier, he is taken back to his childhood amidst the Civil Rights Movement. From it, he recalls the segregated city, the fledgling movement, and the momentous responsibility to act. Walter reflects on how he and his family were challenged by the swelling resistance to the horrific realities of segregation in a city where little girls could be bombed in church and their fathers jailed for just looking at a white person in the wrong way. The parents' sense of security is increasingly threatened, while the children are forced to make moral decisions that portend grave consequences. As Walter struggles to make sense of his presence in Vietnam, he wonders if the victory of the movement meant nothing more than being sent into a battlefield of another kind. Joining two pivotal periods in the American experience, this beautifully written novel from the winner of the 1996 Lillian Smith Award for Fiction makes an important contribution to our understanding of the period. With wry humor and haunting description, it is a portrait of the wonder and the terror of childhood in a time when ordinary citizens risked their lives to change America. By turns both reflective and dramatic, Grooms chronicles the events of the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War through the heightened perspective of a narrator who struggles to find the meaning of his role in both events. Bombingham is a moving testament to the power of responsibility and faith in the face of tragedy. ...show less
Edition/Copyright:01 Cover: Hardback Publisher:Free Press Published: 09/25/2001 International: No
View Author Bio
Grooms, Anthony : Kennesaw State University
Anthony Grooms was educated at the College of William and Mary and at George Mason University. He is the author of Ice Poems and Trouble No More: Stories and winner of the 1996 Lillian Smith Award. As a writer, teacher, and arts administrator, he has won awards from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, and the City of Atlanta Bureau of Cultural Affairs. He is currently the Professor of Creative Writing at Kennesaw State University in Georgia, and lives in Atlanta with his wife, Pamela B. Jackson.
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In front of us, about a quarter mile, was Thoybu, a complex of straw houses among the palms. Like so many of the villages we had run through, it looked tranquil at a distance, with felicific fronds waving above the thatch roofs. The silence, though, ought to have been a warning, but my head throbbed, a lump the size of a potato pressed against my anus, and I wanted to sleep more than anything. I didn't like being in the open, and the two platoons were strung out across the paddies. The sunlight hurt my eyes and made me dizzy, so I looked down and followed Haywood. He was over six foot and two hundred pounds. His deep tracks filled with brown water.
Vester walked beside me, elbow to elbow. His face was pearled with sweat. "Goddamn hot," he said. I didn't say anything. Maybe I gave him a half smile. "Okay, cool. Be that way if you want. Your 'Bama ass gone get plenty hot before this day is over."
"It's all a matter of mind over matter," I said.
"You full of shit."
"I don't mind and you don't matter."
"You tell 'im, Tibbs." Bright Eyes walked on my left. My name was Walter Burke, but I let them call me "Mr. Tibbs" after a character Sidney Poitier played in the movies.
"You don't matter, neither," Vester said. "That's why your black ass is here. And that rabbit over there?" He referred to Bright Eyes. "I wouldn't even bother scraping his pale-face ass off the sole of my shoe."
"I'm just on a Sunday stroll," Bright Eyes said. "Just like going to church on revival Sunday. Picnic on the grounds. Ham and chicken. Macaroni and cheese -- "
"What the hell is he talking about?"
"Cakes and pies. Grandma makes this caramel cake and Aunt Claudia, she makes a squash pie. Ever heard of that?"
"Shut the fuck up, you Bugs Bunny-looking motherfucker. What the fuck you talking about, anyway? You see any goddamn squash pie out here?"
RTO's radio crackled and the squad leader talked into it. They were just on the other side of Bright Eyes. I looked at Bright Eyes. He smiled and pushed at his helmet.
"It's A-okay, a cruise," he reported.
"There no such thing as a cruise," I said.
"You've just got to put an edge on everything."
"He's just a edgy brother," Vester said.
"Hard-edged," Bright Eyes said. "Wouldn't you say, Tibbs? I mean, there's a difference. Edgy is jumpy like. But hard-edged is cool like."
"Cold-edged. Like a mama-san's tit," Vester said.
I didn't say anything. Mr. Tibbs would have found the conversation contemptible.
"What mama-san's tit have you been sucking?"
"The same damn one as you."
"Then you must have been sucking it the wrong way. Remind me to show you some technique. Tibbs got technique. Tibbs, you need to give your brother man a lesson in tit sucking."
"Keep cool, Harvey." I quoted a line from the movie, mimicking Mr. Tibbs's exacting elocution.
Haywood let us catch up to him. He squeezed in between Vester and me. "I got a uptight feeling about this one," he whispered. "There's got to be a Betty out here somewhere. I just feel it." The lump in my stomach turned over. Haywood was usually right about these things.
I slowed down and it seemed that everyone did, as if the line had run up against an unseen tension. I squinted and surveyed the flood plain, puzzled with paddies. The river was behind and to the left of us. Haywood pointed to a figure running away. "Who want this one?" he asked.
"Looks like a papa-san," Bright Eyes said. "I ain't for capping papa-sans."
"He's legal," Haywood said.
"Legal, my ass." Bright Eyes looked at me for support. "Fugazi! That's fucked up."
I lifted my rifle and sighted along the barrel. The man was dressed in the loose-fitting outfit we called black pajamas. We had been told it was okay to shoot anyone in black pajamas who ran because he was VC, running to give warning. The figure made slow progress across the paddies, fighting the suction of the mud with each leap. It appeared to be an old man, though from the distance it could easily have been an old woman with her hair up. I followed the figure with the point of the barrel.
"You got 'im, Waltie?" Haywood asked. There were perhaps thirty GIs closer to the figure than us.
"I got 'im." My heart fluttered and I squeezed off a round. Sporadic popping came from up and down the line, but I was first. The figure tripped and went down.
"What that make? Four or five for you?" asked Haywood.
"You are counting. But I wouldn't count that one," Bright Eyes said. "I wouldn't count that one if I were you, Tibbs."
"You are not me," I said.
"Lord a mighty, don't get so testy about it. I'm not saying you did something wrong. I'm just saying I wouldn't count that one."
"Count what you want to count," Haywood said. "It doesn't change anything. The way it is, is the way it is."
"But the brother got style," Vester said. "He so cool, he scare me. A hundred degrees out here and he ain't even sweating. Just pick 'em off like -- pow!"
Haywood looked at me and snorted. He and I knew better. He was my age, but seemed older. He already had his short-timer's stick. He knew how important it was to do what you had to do to get by.
"But I wouldn't have capped a papa-san," Bright Eyes said. "Not an old man."
"It wasn't an old man."
"What was it then? Looked like papa-san to me."
"It wasn't your papa," I said and moved ahead.
"Least you could have let somebody down the line do it. Maybe they could have seen it better."
"Whose conscience are you? You out of everybody," Haywood said to Bright Eyes. "You ain't got no room to talk with that ring of baby fingers hanging around your neck."
"Ain't no baby fingers on my chain." Bright Eyes pulled a chain out of his shirt. It had an ear on it from a kill he had made earlier in the week. The ear was beginning to mold.
"Goddamn," said Vester. "Throw that goddamn shit away. Walking around like a goddamn cannibal with that goddamn thing on your neck. It stinks."
"It's my power."
"Fuck your power. It stinks. This ain't Africa or something; we ain't no goddamn cannibals. It stinks."
"Y'all ease up," Haywood said, authoritatively. "Keep alert. I think we're in for some action."
Just then a snake shimmied across my path. I froze and held my breath. It was one of the slender, green, quick kind we often encountered in the bamboo thickets. A kind of cobra. It skimmed across a puddle and disappeared into the spring green shoots.
That's an omen, I thought, but I did not say it. I looked into the blue sky, and for a moment felt its weight. "We'll get through. We'll get through, all right," I heard Haywood saying. He had seen the snake, too. "Oh, Lord," I heard Bright Eyes say. "Goddamn, here we go," Vester said. Then I heard popping coming from out of the trees in the village. The men in formation closest to the village fell into the mud, and like a row of dominoes the line went down.
I threw myself into the mud and tried to spot the snipers through the sight of my rifle. The fire got heavy. GIs groaned and cried out. The radio crackled and word came down the line to dig in, but it was all I could do to lie still and hope to stay clear of the rounds patting the mud all around me.
The fire slackened after ten minutes, and we were ordered to move forward. By now I was not thinking about my head or my stomach. My senses were outside of me like the feelers of an insect, aware of every movement, every sound, and every smell. We all were insects, ground beetles testing the mud with each step lest we set off a mine. We gained a couple of hundred feet before we fell back in heavy fire. Haywood spotted an area in the trees just in front of the village. "Bust caps right along in there," he directed, and the four of us burned up a lot of ammunition concentrating on the one clump of trees. After ten or fifteen minutes, the fronds were dangling from the trees and our fire received no answer from that clump. I couldn't see our line anymore because the men were low, digging shallow holes in the mud into which to slap their bodies. Smoke wafted across the fields. After a while, a Chinook came across, headed toward a Medevac flare, but the chopper drew so much fire, it couldn't land.
"We need some air. Why don't they send us some air?" Vester asked.
"It won't be long," Haywood assured him. "Lieutenant's called for it by now. Just lay flat and we'll get through this."
"We need some air," Vester yelled across to the squad leader.
"It's on the way," the squad leader said. He was from Boston, and he sounded like it.
"When? Next Christmas?" Bright Eyes yelled.
"Be easy. Be easy," Haywood said. His voice was resonant, and Bright Eyes squeaked. Their voices reminded me of the drones and chirps of crickets. Vester whined. They were a jazz trio of insects. And I...I was the singer. I was Nat "King" Cole. Cool and mellow. Only I hadn't begun to sing yet.
The VC opened up with thirty-caliber guns, twenty or thirty of them, and jackhammered all around us. I looked at Haywood, and he raised his head and looked back. His eyes were round and bright. He opened his mouth to say something when a round peeled his head open just above the brow.
"Goddamn," Vester said, "goddamn, goddamn."
I closed my eyes and put my face down in the mud. For what seemed like a long time, I didn't think about anything, but felt myself loosen and drain over the paddies. Then a familiar uneasiness came to me as I began to pull together again. For a second I allowed myself to hope that Haywood was alive. I had seen the bullet catch him, but maybe it was only a flesh wound, the kind that cowboys get on TV.
I raised my head and looked again. Haywood was dead, as dead as any dead man I had seen. I tried to swallow what that meant; it meant nothing to me. I gripped tighter on my rifle and tried to crawl ahead, away from Haywood, but the firefight kept me in place. I put the mud-slicked rifle stock against my shoulder and sighted at Thoybu. They kill us; we kill them. The sight passed over the place where the papa-san had fallen, and I thought that if I hadn't shot at the papa-san, then Haywood would be alive. It should have been me, since I shot at the papa-san, since I felt dead already, it should have been me. I had imagined that it would be me before Haywood. After all, he was the one who dreamed about what he would do back in the world. He was going to go to college, to make something of himself.
I had promised Haywood that if I survived him, that I would write a letter to his mother and father. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, I was with your beloved Haywood at the end, and I can assure you that it came quickly and without any pain. In his last breath he whispered about you, about home, about home sweet home....He had said he would write one for me, too. I told him not to trouble himself.
When the fire slackened, I slithered over to Haywood. Bright Eyes was already beside him.
"He's gone," Bright Eyes said.
Haywood didn't look too bad. Part of his head had broken open, but had fallen back into place, held by a flap of skin. They could have a funeral with him.
"Medic!" Vester screamed.
"Are you hit? Are you hit?" I screamed back.
He was crawling to Haywood. "Goddamn. Goddamn."
"Quit your damning," Bright Eyes said. "It's over. He's gone."
I looked where the RTO and the squad leader had been. They weren't there. Our line was still. "Just be quiet," I said. "Just be real quiet for a while." For a moment it seemed like a beautiful summer day. Blue sky. White billows of cloud. The rustle of a light breeze. It could have been Alabama. Alabama was "the Beautiful State." That is what the word meant. Haywood knew this. He knew a lot of what I knew. He was from Eufaula. I was from Birmingham. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jackson...Dear Haywood's Mother and Father...Dear Haywood....I closed his eyes, and now I had his blood on my hands. "Let's be quiet for a while."
The thirty-calibers picked up again; the mud became soupy with blood and piss; the sun became hotter, and the air filled with biting flies. There was the smell of open bowels, smoke, and oil. The guns whined and popped incessantly. I lay beside Haywood and nestled my face in the mud beside his torso. The mud was warm and smelled faintly of manure.
About three weeks earlier, the four of us were in our hooch at base camp near Da Nang, when Haywood asked me to tell him about Birmingham. He had grown up not one hundred and fifty miles away, he said, and yet, Birmingham could have been in another country. He had heard it was almost as big as New York City and had buildings fifty stories high. His father called it the Pittsburgh of the South because of the steel mills. From twenty miles out, you could see flares rising from a forest of smokestacks. And on a mountain overlooking the city was a giant statue, taller than the Statue of Liberty. "All that right in Alabama."
I lay on my bunk with my head and shoulders propped on my duffel bag and studied the dust and gnats that swam in a swath of daylight coming in through the door. We had our shirts and boots off, and were trying to relax and stay cool. Bright Eyes rolled a huge joint and passed it my way. Arm Forces Radio was playing Motown.
I toked on the joint and then sucked quickly at the burning end before I passed it on to Vester. When I exhaled, I told Haywood that I didn't want to talk about Birmingham.
"It's not as cool as you think."
"But that's all I've heard. I mean, it's supposed to be the Magic City, and it's the cradle of the movement. That's all I ever heard about it. What a beautiful place it was and how we won our rights there. Did you ever see Martin Luther King?"
"You did?" Haywood sat on the corner of my bunk. "Man, that must have been something. I mean, a man like that."
"It's a shame what happened to him," Bright Eyes offered. King had been killed two years earlier.
"Did you march?" Haywood continued. "I heard children marched, too. I would have marched."
I put my hands behind my head.
Vester sang along with the radio; a cloud of cigarette smoke came from his mouth. In the middle of singing he said, "He won't talk because of that rabbit over there. You afraid of that rabbit? You don't have to be scared no more, brother. We free now." He opened his mouth wide and laughed.
I looked at Bright Eyes without laughing.
"Hey Tibbs, you full of shit," Vester continued. "You trying to come off like a goddamn cool cat. You know Mr. Tibbs ain't nothing but the Man, a bona fide pig." Bright Eyes passed me a bottle of bourbon and I swigged. "How come you can't talk in front of a white rabbit? You scared you gone get him nervous talking about black revolution?"
"What fucking black revolution?" Bright Eyes said. "Your ass the same place as mine."
Vester slapped his thigh and laughed. "Black power, Mr. Charlie. Black revolutionary power à la my brother El Hajj Malik Al Shabazz..."
Bright Eyes had heard it before. "You mean the late El Hog deBuzz -- "
"I mean I'm gonna knock you upside your knotty country-ass head, white boy. Don't speak ill of the great man."
"Shut up, Vester," Haywood said. "Can't we have just an hour without your motor mouth?"
"I was just trying to inform my white brother here about some of our black history since it's obvious he ain't never been in contact with no deep soul brother like myself. He's been hanging too close with you half-white colored brothers -- "
I took a deep breath and began to mimic some Negro historians I had heard. "From the swamps of great Luxor, a mighty people arose -- "
"Shut up, Tibbs -- "
"Building the great pyramids and the city of Timbuktu -- "
"Shut the fuck up! Over there pretending you be somebody. You ain't nobody." Vester began a bad imitation of Mr. Tibbs. "'They call me Mister Tibbs.' Who Mr. Tibbs but somebody's flunky-ass cop?"
"Shut up," Haywood said.
"Mr. Tibbs be a cherry-assed motherfucker and you a cherry, too. All y'all."
"Be quiet," Haywood said. We were quiet for a moment. Haywood had played football; he had been good enough to play in college but hadn't gotten a scholarship. When he was back in the world, he said, he was going to study engineering, maybe Alabama State. He had expressed this wish to me many times because he thought I was serious about school, too.
After a silent round of joint and bottle, Bright Eyes put on his boots. "I'm going out to the gate to look for girls."
"Wait up," said Vester. He scrambled to put on his boots.
"Hey, now. What's all this white rabbit shit? Now, you want to hang with the rabbits, my black-colored brother man?"
"You know I dig you. I mean, you more like a brother than a rabbit. Any motherfucker can see that. Look at them lips. Look at that nose. You got soul wrote all over you."
A breeze stirred and dust blew into the hooch. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the tingle of evaporation from my chest and stomach. For a moment, I was not in Da Nang, but in Birmingham. Haywood was not Haywood, but Lamar. I wanted to call Haywood, "Lamar" and hear him answer, giggling.
"They are gone now," Haywood said. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
I sighed. "Why? Why is it important?"
"It changed things."
"It changed the fucking world, didn't it?"
I heard Haywood fidget. I knew he was getting angry.
"I didn't march," I lied. I heard a gecko scuttling along the roof beam. It was hunting insects. "I didn't see King, okay? I might have seen him from a distance, but I didn't really see him, okay?"
"I thought I heard you had."
"No. But I did have a friend named Lamar. He was my best friend, like a brother. He was in the march." I swallowed. "It's not like one day you wake up and go downtown and march. You get pulled into it, or pushed into it."
"What pushed your friend to it? Freedom? I mean, he wanted his rights?"
I opened my eyes. Haywood still sat on the edge of his bunk, his knees a few inches from me. He looked eager for the story.
"Freedom? He's free as hell, now. And so are you."
Haywood looked disappointed. For all of his big frame and sinew and fuzzy hair around his collarbone, he looked like a baby. He could take a football team, or a fire team, into the field. He could fend off a tackle or lay an ambush for the VC. But he was still a baby.
"Man," I said, "you had better be careful."
"The way you think. It'll get you hurt."
"What? What about the way I think?"
I heard the lizard pounce and looked up at the rafters. I couldn't see the lizard, but I heard it tearing and crunching its prey.
"I'll tell you, later."
With the nightfall, the tracers lit up the sky, leaving trails like slow meteors or momentary comets. "Make a wish on it, Waltie," a voice in my head said. The constellation of Scorpio lay peacefully, curled against the Milky Way. With the darkness, I knew the battle would get very close. Either we would move on them or they on us. Haywood had become swollen from lying in the sun all day. His skin was tight and his joints stiff. In the colored glow of the tracers, his face looked pleasant, though like a fat version of himself. I was ready to move away from him, but the mud cradled my body, and I was afraid to move. I wanted to be away, and I thought about Birmingham. "Make a wish on it." All of my time in Birmingham, I had been wishing, dreaming, and then I stopped...I let go of dreams. I became loose. So loose that I seemed to go in all directions at once, and nowhere at all. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, There is a tracer in the sky over Birmingham. Dear Haywood...Dear Lamar....
"I think Anthony Grooms is one of our finest younger writers, and this powerful, involving first novel about the single thing most obsessively wrong with this country, and the one thing that can defeat it, ought to earn him the wide readership he deserves."
--Richard Bausch, author of Someone to Watch Over Me
"Too many of our younger generation know nothing at all about the struggle, the sacrifices, the dying of our people during those demonstrations of the fifties and sixties. And older people too should be reminded, so that they'll never forget....[Bombingham] is about a subject and a time we should never forget."
--Ernest Gaines, author of A Lesson Before Dying
"Bombingham is an ambitious, unsentimental novel. It opens intimate perspectives on the violent history of racial segregation and human destruction. Here the American national traumatic experiences are vividly presented through the material sensation and the personal drama. Tony Grooms has written a rich book that has a big heart."
--Ha Jin, author of Waiting, winner of the National Book Award
"In its insistence that "the world is a tumultuous place and every soul in it suffers," this powerful, resonant novel offers no consolation. Grooms offers consolation, however, in allowing us to be present at the emergence of a brave and promising talent, fully equipped to take on the writer's task of confronting chaos and wrestling it into form. Bombingham is a considerable achievement."
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