“Come on, cocksucker—” Hogg glanced at me again. Then a frown tried to fight its way in among the lines in his three-day stubble, into the lines around his close, green eyes. But a bigger smile kept it out. “Hey . . . is everything all right?” He looked at the road. “What’s the matter?”
I turned to watch the fleeing trees. “Nothin’.”
Often times when we think of black expressivity we think of one pole of it, like Coltrane, Jimi Hendrix … We do somersaults and then we dunk the ball; you know that kind of stuff. I call it “speaking in tongues,” but there’s this other pole that’s the opposite of that I term “holding your tongue.” My grandfather was very much a person who held his tongue, and it elicits a certain kind of power.