The name is Feuilleton Jones. It’s of French origin. Like New Orleans. Like Le Roi. It’s of black origin, like Jenkins and Jefferson. Yeah, my mama named me funny. Leastwise I don’t look funny. What’s your excuse? Don’t talk about my mama.
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We used to live in Third Ward, Houston, Texas, on North MacGregor, right by the bayou. One time in spring 1985, my mother was really in a mood. Somebody had told her something that pissed her off, and she was going on and on about pride in your heritage. I said something or other, I don’t remember what, and she said, “Boy! Don’t you ever forget that your people come from kings and queens of great and glorious kingdoms! Don’t you ever let anybody disrespect you!”
I took this firmly to my 11-year-old heart.
Later that summer, I was outside playing, and somebody said something about my hair, which was probably nappy. I think it was Pumpkin, this meathead cock-diesel high-yellow football-playing kid who was always trying to pick a fight with me. He had a fresh skin fade cut with a sharp part in the side, and he was fondling his natural-lacquer-finish wood natural-bristle brush, which had been specially treated with a bleach and hot water bath to make it soft so he could brush his fuzzy scalp all summer and have slick waves by the start of the school year. I never got a stylish haircut in those days, and I was kinda jealous, so I got up on my high horse. I had been thinking about what my mother said, and on the basis of my last name and what I knew about word origin, I said,
“Shut up nigger! My people were kings and queens back in Scotland!”