Chapters (76)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Foreword: Who Is Simple?
- Feet Live Their Own Life
- Landladies
- Simple Prays A Prayer
- Conversation on the Corner
- Simple on Indian Blood
- A Toast to Harlem
- Simple and His Sins
- Temptation
- Wooing the Muse
- Vacation
- Letting off Steam
- Jealousy
- Banquet in Honor
- A Veteran Falls
- High Bed
- Final Fear
- There Ought to be a Law
- Income Tax
- No Alternative
- Springtime
- Last Whipping
- Seeing Double
- Simple on Military Integration
- Blue Evening
- A Letter from Baltimore
- Seven Rings
- What Can a Man Say?
- Empty Room
- Picture for Her Dresser
- Cocktail Sip
- Apple Strudel
- Bop
- Formals and Funerals
- Fancy Free
- Midsummer Madness
- Morals Is Her Middle Name
- They Come and They Go
- A Million—and One
- Two Loving Arms
- All in the Family
- Kick for Punt
- Subway to Jamaica
- No Tea for the Fever
- Boys, Birds, and Bees
- On the Warpath
- A Hearty Amen
- Must Have a Seal
- Shadow of the Blues
- Once in a Wife-time
- Present for Joyce
- Christmas Song
- Tied in a Bow
- Sometimes I Wonder
- Four Rings
- Simply Love
- Bang-up Big End
- Duty Is Not Snooty
- Bones, Bombs, Chicken Necks
- A Dog Named Trilby
- Enter Cousin Minnie
- Radioactive Red Caps
- Two Sides Not Enough
- Puerto Ricans
- Minnie Again
- Vicious Circle
- Again Cousin Minnie
- Name in Print
- Minnie One More Time
- An Auto-Obituary
- Jazz, Jive, and Jam
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
“What does I do?”
“I say your semantics make things too simple.”
“My which?”
“Your verbiage.”
“My what?”
“Your words, man, your words.”
“Oh,” said Simple. “Well, anyhow, to get back to eggs—which is a simple word. For breakfast I wish some other birds besides chickens laid eggs for eating, with a different kind of flavor than just a hen flavor. Whatever you are talking about with your see-antics, Jack, at my age a man gets tired of the same kind of eggs each and every day—just like you get tired of the race problem. I would like to have an egg some morning that tastes like a pork chop.”
“In that case, why don’t you have pork chops for breakfast instead of eggs?”
“Because there is never no pork chops in my icebox in the morning.”
“There would be if you would put them there the night before.”
“No,” said Simple, “I would eat them up the night before—which is always the trouble with the morning after—you have practically nothing left from the night before—except the race problem.”
Puerto Ricans
Puerto Ricans
I WAS rushing past the newsstand at 125th and Lenox on the way to work this morning when I bought a comic book to read in the subway. When I got on the train and opened it, that book were in some kind of foreign language. I said to the guy beside me, “What’s this?”
He said, “Español!”
I said, “What?”
He said, “Spanish—for Puerto Ricans.”
I said, “Puerto Ricans? Are you one?”
He said, “Sí, are you one, too?”
I said, “I am not! I am just plain old American.”
He said, “You—Negro American.”
I said, “You look just like me, don’t you? Who’s the darkest, me or you?”
He said, “You, darkest.”
I said, “I admit I have an edge on almost anybody. But you are colored, too, daddy-o, don’t forget, Puerto Rican or not.”
He said, “In my country, no.”
“In my country, yes,” I said. “Here in the U.S.A. you, me—all colored folks—are colored.”
He said, “No entiendo. Don’t understand.”
I said, “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t understand color either if I could talk Spanish. Here, take this comic book in your language which, me—no entiendo.”