NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2014 | Page 11

Father lit a cigarette, then made a
clicking sound. We headed out. He
liked to take a spin around the arena
when he’d first arrive to see his friends
and let everybody know he was there.
An impresario of the highest caliber.
And off we’d go for our presentation lap.
John Frenchy and Lil’ Frenchy. That’s
what they called me, and I can’t say
that I minded it much. It carried some
weight with the rough kids of these
rough people, because you sure as hell
didn’t fuck with John Frenchy’s son.
Now imagine a black carnival where
the smells of BBQ, cigarette smoke,
and manure mixed into a delightful
rustic aroma and nobody held their
nose. All around us, black people of
all ages in cowboy attire. Hats and
boots. If your clothes were too clean
then they’d assume you weren’t a real
cowboy . As we moved slowly through
the crowd on high atop our steeds,
smiles and waves and whispers and
nods confirmed Father’s status. He was
a rock star and I was his son.
In the 1970s and early ’80s, Father
competed in “breakaway” calf roping,
where the roper flies out of the shoot
after a calf that’s given a bit of a lead.
The roper must rope the calf, jump
off the horse, slam the calf on its side,
then quickly tie down all four legs with
a smaller rope called a “pinky string.”
The roper who can manage that in the
shortest amount of time wins. That was
Father’s money event. He was going to
win that.

Grown men would tease and pander to
get Father to partner with them. They
wanted the money and a chance for the
buckle. Father enjoyed the attention
and admiration with gibes and good
humor, a subtle coaxing for side bets
and lofty wagers. And while rodeoing
is about athletic prowess and skill with
the animal, it was also an occasion
for good ole signifying, drinking, and
gambling. This was outlaw business,
and those who attended knew very well
that only one or two constables might
be present and, if so, probably drunk.
So you had to watch your mouth and
your stuff because anything could
happen inside or outside the arena.
Father spotted his close friend, the bull
rider Arthur Duncan, who would later
become the first black man inducted
into the Professional Bull Riding Hall
of Fame.
“Eh, John Frenchy, who ya team-roping
with?” Arthur Duncan said while
helping me off the horse.

“Awh, none of these niggas can rope.
Hell, I might have to carry me two
ropes and work that steer by my damn
self,” Father boasted as Arthur Duncan
handed him a bottle of Wild Turkey for
a hearty swig.
Father turned the bottle up, then
chased it back with a Schlitz. A few
slutty-looking rodeo bunnies eyed him
from afar with suggestive gestures—
batting fake eyelashes with overapplied
eye shadow and nail-matching lipstick
wet as water, exaggerated leans and
bends to highlight skintight Gloria
Vanderbilt jeans and danty snakeskin
boots, and a “Hey, John Frenchy,” or a
“You ropin’ today?” and almost always
a “Where’s Mrs. Frenchy?” Answer?
Mrs. Frenchy was at home asking the
Blessed Mother to watch over her child
and make certain Mr. Frenchy didn’t
bring home anything she couldn’t wash
out with Tide.
Of course, these rodeo bunnies found
me absolutely adorable as it was
Father’s habit to dress me in the same
clothes that he wore when we’d go to
rodeos. Strangely, only a few knew of
John Frenchy’s affinity for dolls. I was a
miniature version of him, I guess. And
what greater trophy for a man than an
actual living and breathing doll that
looks just like you. But these women
fawned over Father incessantly, which
only emboldened his hubris as we
circulated around the arena before his
events.

BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE

I did, but Black Jack kept moving so I
had to mount in motion. Bastard.

But he’d also compete in “team roping,”
which involves two ropers who chase
a steer out of a chute. One roper must
lasso the steer’s horns (called “head”),
and the other must lasso both back feet
(called “tails”) for time. This required
a different type of finesse because the
head roper must swing the steer to
make the back legs more available. This
was John Frenchy’s big question as we
rode around the arena. Who was going
to be his partner for team roping?

9

“Yank the reins, Ti’ John.”