NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2014 | Page 12

10

For his part, Arthur Duncan was the
perfect colleague-in-recreation for
Father. Duncan was a pure country boy
from Brenham, Texas, who’d fine-tuned
his championship bull-riding mastery
in the Texas Prison Rodeo, where he
served seven years for cracking his first
wife’s skull after she commented on his
complexion. Duncan was dark, very
dark, and didn’t take too kindly to
disparaging remarks about what the
good Lord gave him. You didn’t talk
about Arthur Duncan’s complexion or
his pride and joy—his signature white
cowboy boots. When Duncan walked
out of the Huntsville prison, in 1969,
he became a black revolutionary but
not with black berets, leather jackets,
and propoganda. He carried his protest
to the rodeo arenas. The white rodeo
arenas. Besides his entrance fee, he
typically had to pay much more to
enter the events, which were basically
white-only affairs in huge arenas
constructed of steel and tin. Normally
after he’d win an event he’d either have
to fight envious cowboys or hightail
it back to Brenham, usually both, in
that order. But as the years passed and
the number of championship buckles
and subsequent fights grew, the white
pro rodeo circuit accepted him—the
man who fought for civil rights on the
back of a bull with glowing lily-white
cowboy boots.
Arthur Duncan and John Frenchy—
the dangerous men—wrapped in a
titan aura, a glow that gave them an air
of nobility among derelicts, pleasure
seekers, and good ole country boys—
were royalty on the black rodeo circuit.
And for two country boys that was a
mighty fine accomplishment. Mighty
fine, indeed.

Blues and country music blasted from
the scratchy pa in between events.
A fight broke out here and there.
Somebody had a knife. Another had
a gun. Men and women would make
eyes and lurid whispers in ears for
romps later, when it got dark.

The back of my neck got hot as a
toaster, and it wasn’t because I was
John Frenchy’s son, oh no, although
that did have its benefits. I was the
light-skinned dude in the room and,
brother, the letters and notes started
coming like I was the postman.

Some were ex-cons like Father’s friend
Butterfield, who was a known rapist
and car thief. Others were educators
like Dr. Poindexter, the veterinarian
who taught at Prairie View A&M. He’d
give discounted horse vaccinations to
these cowboys, most of whom were
cowboying on a budget. The Fifth
Ward golden boy Mickey Leland kissed
babies and provided photo ops for his
next bid for Congress. Ntozake Shange
sat sidesad F