Together, you and I planned a great deal, arrived at some remarkable conclusions about things—I thank you for your part in all this—and I hoped we could use these together to lead our peoples to the things we felt were right for them, but now you will not be with me. The enthusiasm we shared for our futures can no longer be shared. One of the important touchstones of our friendship has disappeared! All this is to say that I cannot see any reason for us to communicate with each other from this day on. This will certainly be my loss.

Of course, I will never forget you completely. You may not be a part of my future, but you will remain a part of my past.

Good-by, David, and Luck to you,

Bennett

Monday, August 15, 1938:

We moved to the Swells. My family is understanding. But I know they are patronizing me. All of them! Camille too.

Thursday, September 1, 1938:

I collected rents for my father.

Wednesday, October 20, 1954:

I clipped this article from a national magazine today:

RELIGION

“Jesus is Black!”

As the torchlight glinted off his six-inch, watch-fob crucifix, and cries of “Jesus is black!” died in the packed hall, The Rev. Bennett T. Bradshaw, founder of the Resurrected Church of the Black Jesus Christ of America, Inc., harangued his flock in a not quite legitimate English accent: “We have declared war on the white man! To the white world and all it stands for, we vow death!”

The group, known as the Black Jesuits, founded in 1951 by New York-born, Ivy-educated, red-dipped Bradshaw, claims 20,000 members. (“And growing all the time.”)

The Man…

Bitten by a Redhumbug early in his dear, old, incomplete (he left after 3½ years) college days, Bradshaw joined the staff of the National Society for Colored Affairs in 1935, was purged from that organization in 1950 when his communist affiliations hustled him before various congressional committees.

After the NSCA gave him the gate, finding all other gates closed to him, Bradshaw decided to sneak in by the back door of race relations: religion. Says he: “It’s true that I received my calling soon after my forced resignation from the Society, but I assure you, one thing has nothing to do with the other.”

Bradshaw, a bachelor, lives alone on the top floor of the Harlem building which houses his church, prowls the area in a new, black, chauffeur-driven limousine donated by a devout, brick-laying follower. (“I couldn’t very well refuse it; the man saved three years to give it to me.”)

…And the Movement